FEDERAL DISTRICT COURT – WASHINGTON, DC
“All rise. Honorable Judge Amy Jackson presiding.”
“Good morning. Let’s get right to it. Mr. Stone, please take the stand.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Are you wearing two monocles?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Why not just wear glasses?”
“Why not just show up in wine-stained pajamas? It’s called fashion, sweetie.”
“Mr Stone, I will warn you that I am in no mood for your nonsense.”
“Sorry, Your Honor.”
“We are here this morning to have a little discussion about your social media post of Monday, February 18th. Instagram, specifically. Do you recall the post I am speaking about?”
“Was it the thinspo one? I know I shared a Rumi Kaur poem about sticking to your diet.”
“No, Mr. Stone. I am referring to the post featuring my picture with a crosshairs right above my head.”
“Oh, thaaaaaat Instagram post.”
“Yes.”
“Your Honor, I have many explanations, several of which contradict both each other and themselves. Which would you like to start with?”
“I’d start with the truth if I were you.”
“Well, I wouldn’t be here if I led with the truth every time, now would I?”
“Mr. Stone.”
“They weren’t crosshairs. What you saw was an X. As in ‘X marks the spot.’ Essentially, I was calling you a treasure, ma’am.”
“Nope.”
“Wouldjabelieve it was a Celtic rune that means ‘Best judge ever?'”
“I would not, no.”
“Good call.”
“It was a crosshairs, wasn’t it?”
“Well, ma’am, I do not know the intentions of the artist who placed that symbol there. I cannot attest positively to what it means.”
“But it certainly looks like a crosshairs, doesn’t it?”
“One can spot a resemblance.”
“And the casual reader who saw it would think it was a crosshairs, yes?”
“Your Honor, no one casual listens to me. It’s only political people and wackos.”
“Notwithstanding. Walk me through your chain of thought when you were posting this.”
“It was morning. My neighbor, Chad Ochocinco, had just stopped by for a cup of sugar and to bang my wife in front of me while I masturbated tearfully.”
“Please confine your account to the Instagram post, sir.”
“Don’t dismiss my cuckoldry, Your Honor. That’s not right. Actually, yes: dismiss it. Call me a sick worm.”
“Mr. Stone.”
“May I petition the court to step on my testicles real hard?”
“You may not. I asked you about the post. What were you thinking, sir?”
“Well, you should be aware that an intern put that particular posting up on Instagram.”
“An intern?”
“Yes.”
“What is the intern’s name?”
“Their name?”
“Is it a he or a she, Mr. Stone?”
“I was led to believe that it’s rude to ask that nowadays.”
“No, sir.”
…
…
…
“Boy.”
“The intern is male. Wonderful. And this male’s name is what?”
…
…
…
“Court.”
“Court? Is that a first or last name?”
“Both. He’s like Cher or Bono”
“Uh-huh. And what does this one-named man look like, Mr. Stone?”
“Look like?”
“Physically. Describe him.”
“Oh, sure. He’s, um, a little on the hefty side. Orange hair. Hates Mondays, loves lasagna.”
“You’re talking about Garfield, Mr. Stone.”
“I don’t think so, ma’am.”
“Mr. Stone, there is no intern, is there?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“You’re just a degenerate liar, aren’t you?”
“Big time.”
“But you are white and of the ruling class, so I’m gonna give you one more chance.”
“Huzzah!”
“I am putting you under a gag order, though.”
“Double huzzah!”
“There’s no actual gag, sir.”
“I thought maybe I would get the ball in my mouth.”
“Like in Pulp Fiction?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“One question, Your Honor.”
“You may buy yourself a ball gag and do whatever you want with it.”
“I’m back to huzzah.”
GAVEL NOISE!
“Get out.”
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