Mock Trial Report 2006: They Call Him “Cappy”

NOTICE: I have been told that the following article seems to indicate that I am somehow “miffed” at the Cibola High School Mock Trial Team. I am certainly not (I did not work eight hours a week with them for nothing), and I sincerely hope them the best at nationals, where (hopefully) all the other teams die of some horrible disease.

So I have finally decided to write for you my Mock Trial Report 2006. This is the first report, and probably the last one as well, because Mock Trial is the nerdiest hobby on planet Earth. I, of course, know this. The only thing even close to this hobby, in terms of overall nerdiness, is cup-stacking, which I might write about next week if you are lucky and don’t have Firefox, which is of Satan, because it won’t work with this site.

We started the way that everything does: In a courtroom. In this case, the County Courthouse, which is known for having a giant statue of something on the front lawn (it appears to be the body of a dead prehistoric animal of some kind, which will some day come back from the dead). But back over here, to the front, we do all the super-secret things lawyers do to get into the courtroom, such as tapping the judge’s gavel to see if anyone gets angry at us. Then we leave the courtroom, to “Quack.” In case you are unaware (I’m sure you know, who doesn’t), this is what my school’s team does. They go into a fire stairwell, and begin their pretrial ritual, as lawyers all do. They yell, and I quote: quack quack quack QUACKQUACK QUAQUAQUAQUAQUA louder and louder until somebody comes over and yells at them that some people are trying to WORK, dammit, so PLEASE be quiet. I did not for a moment say my team is normal.

Then we would go into court, and go up against the whitest people I have ever seen in my entire life, white bread teenagers who I just knew went back home to eat corn and white buttered bread in Nebraska. These were children who I feel go down to the malt shop for a burger after each round, even if there hasn’t been a malt shop around since the Korean War. They were so boring that virtually every team caused the judge to fall asleep, except for one, which had the loudest, most obnoxious Asian (NOT white bread) girl I’ve ever seen, who sounded like she had just taken enormous quantities of steroids. Most, however, basically took the Boring Method, which includes making everybody fall asleep at a murder trial (which is what they were doing). This makes everyone forget the fact that you happen to be the kind of depressing loser who goes to a state Mock Trial tournament, which is an airtight way to win a case.

Then we would go back to the office of the Designated Lawyer Person, and then they would talk about how great the other team was. I am assuming they had fallen asleep. This occured for two days. Then we won (the judges had all died) and went to “State”, much the same way as sports teams go to state, except that sports teams have more dignity. We of course quacked once more before going to work at the next case, which I was intrigued by because we were going up against a team of which the coach happens to be my girl friend (note the space)’s father. I thought they did well. Everyone else was silent, because they thought that the team sucked. So much for my impartiality.

The next day, I went up as a doctor. This is not a good doctor, or even an average one, such as those that work at federal hospitals. This was the kind of doctor who uses a chainsaw for surgery. The attorney, who I’d been told was evil, first asked me: “Do you have a degree in psychiatry?” I told him I did not need one, instead of saying what I was supposed to say, which was “No, but I don’t…” after which he would cut me off, which is one of the important techniques taught at law school to make all the witnesses look like Kato Kaelin. They (which means my team) later told me I was good, except for that part; then they told me they would not let me come to nationals with them (they had won state).

I have been replaced by my alternate, a person who they (meaning my team) call “Cappy”. Cappy is a good person, although he always calls me “Depoy”, my last name. I tried in vain for months trying to find his last name, only to find that it is “Keith.” So it would not work, to call him by his last name (“Wanna go over to the malt shop, Keith?”) because it is like a first name, only like one from Beverly Hills 90210, which is for homosexuals. Ah well.

So I salute my wonderful Mock Trial team, even though I hate them and sincerely hope that they are eaten by canaries taken by bloodlust on their way to Nationals. You say I have “emotional problems”, hmmm? Well, how do you like these CANARIES?!Hahahahahahahahaha…

Excuse me. I have been around too many lawyers recently. Don’t ask.

Using a fire retarder thing to stop the Makeout Kid

I’ve been thinking for the past 25 seconds (by my watch) about how one thing always inevitably leads to another, an example of which is the fact that 95% of you are thinking sexual thoughts right now because I said “One thing leads to another”. I am not. I have no reason to. Please just listen.

Today many things happened which seem to show that phenomenon. For example, today my school caught on fire. Normally you would expect something like this to be caused by a laboratory experiment involving large hamsters or some sort of cherry bomb, but no. Not at MY high school. At my school, these things always happen in the same hall, and always involve either a cigarette or a firecracker. If our schools say they’re so safe, how the hell can somebody carry a firecracker without at least getting yelled at by, for example, one of those strange teachers who walk around halls going “Hey you pervert, what do you think you’re doing!? Do you want to get in trouble for SEXUAL HARASSMENT?!” to the people who are making out in the halls, while others desperately try not to look, because of course when anybody decides to engage in the Intimate Acts of Nature in a public place, naturally everybody else must look away and pretend they are not in fact creeped out, or else the participants will not enjoy sticking their tongues in each others’ mouths.

(Yes, I know that absolutely none of you know what I am talking about. I do not care.)

Anyway, so I saw the fire. There was a massive plume of flame shooting out, like one made by a person who farts into a fireplace (don’t ask) and smoke filled the hall. One guy was desperately trying to pat out the fire with a fire retarder thing. Uh… Right, a fire extinguisher. Sorry, the smoke is still in my head. Perhaps the smoke did not in fact come from a firecracker, but from something else, something… ahem… that is a drug. That would actually explain a lot. So the fire comes down the hall, and naturally, everybody stands still and watches. This is an important emergency procedure, followed by desperate clawing and breathing as smoke fills the hall.

Finally, I’m home after all this. And I get out a bag of vinegar chips. They read: “The flavor will send you back to Jolly Olde England”, which poses the question: If you were making potato chips, or any food substance for that matter, would you seriously admit that they taste like they were made in England? I mean, really.

Ok, so absolutely none of this has to do with one thing leading to another, unless a fire inevitably leads to vinegar potato chips (it very well may). I have done my job: Posted yet another random post onto my website. Isn’t that all that really matters in the end?