"Order, order," the bailiff yelled, his voice firm yet effeminate.  He was successful in both getting the attention of the court audience and drawing attention to the fact that he probably had a live-in boyfriend who he was ashamed of.  "Let there be order.  The court is now in session.  All rise; the honorable Frank Speaker presiding."

A side door opened as Judge Speaker glissaded into the courtroom.  Aside from the fact that no one should ever glissade into a courtroom, his entrance was otherwise unspectacular and hardly worth mentioning.  I can't say that I ever saw anyone glissade prior to that moment and had you told me about it later, I wouldn't have believed you.  Additionally, I may have resorted to violence if you persisted in your lies.

The judge took his seat with a thunderous roar, though that could have also been the fault of the whoopie cushion that someone had jokingly placed on his chair.  I wasn't laughing; I was the one on trial.  Looking as red as a crayon bearing the same name, Judge Speaker tossed the whoopie cushion over his shoulder and tried his best to carry on with the matter at hand.

"Court is in session," the judge boomed accompanied by the sound of his gavel crashing down.  "You can all be seated.  Well, everyone except you in the striped shirt in the back row," he said while pointing his long finger at a gentleman in the back row.  "You stand."

A murmur of shock rippled through the crowd as all eyes turned to face the poor recipient of the judge's pointy finger and critical judgement.  He opened his mouth to speak but the judge cut him off.

"Ha, I'm just fucking with you.  You can sit down too.  Now, let's get on with the matter at hand.  Let's see," Speaker said, his eyes skimming over the docket in front of him.  "The people vs. Randy Pollestad."  His eyes raised slightly at that, glaring at me from above the rim of his glasses.  "Bailiff, do you have the list of charges?"

"I do, your honor."  The bailiff pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and cleared his throat.  "The people hereby wish the defendant to stand trial on the charge of fraud, accused of trying to pass himself off to others as a writer of internet humor.  He also stands trial on one count of murder, guilty for going out of his way to kill every single good joke ever invented."  At the end of his reading, the bailliff once again crumpled the sheet of paper in his hand which he formed into a ball and proceeded to shoot across the courtroom.  As the wad of paper landed in the furthermost wastebasket without a sound, the bailiff raised his hands in triumph and shouted, "Score two for ol' C.J.!"

"Nice shot Ceej," the judge said.  "Maybe I will have to take you up on that one-on-one challenge after all.  What do you say, my office after we wrap this case up?"

The bailiff opted to remain silent but threw up a hand gesture that could have either been an agreement to the challenge or a new method for ordering pizza.  I really wasn't sure.

The judge turned his gaze back on me and continued.  "Does the defendant understand the charges brought against him?"

My defense lawyer stood, preparing to answer.  He smelled like a mixture of spoiled milk and dryer sheets.  It made me feel nauseous, like after that one time I thought that giving the people at the homeless shelter a tongue bath was a good idea.  "Your honor, the defense strenuously objects to the charges brought forth in this courtroom today."

"Oh yeah?  And why is that, counselor?"

"Your honor, none of these charges are even remotely criminal in nature.  Killing jokes?  Faulty internet humor?"  He pauses for a second to glance around the courtroom.  "Seriously, am I the only one that actually attended law school here?"

"Possibly.  I'm probably the only one in this room who still thinks about his mother during intercourse but you don't see me bringing that up all the time and throwing it in everyones face."

At this small revelation, the entire courtroom went silent, save for that one guy who always feels the need to cough whenever quiet blankets a room.

"Your honor," my smelly defense attorney continued after regaining his composure, "I really don't see how that is relevant."

"Well, me either but, you know, I just had to tell someone.  It's really quite a load off my chest."

"Your honor, if I may interject," interrupted the prosecutor calmly.  "Can we move these proceedings along?  I'd really like to be out of here by three and catch the first half of the basketball game."

"Excellent point, counselor.  I'm pretty much ready to find him guilty if no one else objects."

"I object!" my attorney exclaimed.

Judge Speaker looks momentarily startled.  "Oh?  On what grounds?"

"What grounds?  Are you insane?  There has been no evidence provided to prove my client guilty of these charges!"

"Hmm, you're a real stickler for the rules, aren't you?"  The judge sighed and his shoulders stooped slightly.  "Very well,  I ask the prosecution what evidence they have brought forth in order to validate these charges."

"Well your honor," the prosecution began, reaching for and opening up a manilla folder that was laying on the table in front of him.  "We'd like to point out that the defendant, in addition to being guilty of all the crimes aforementioned here, is also a chronic masturbator."

"OBJECTION!  Your honor, the prosecution can't honestly be serious."

"Oh, we are," the prosecutor said, leveling his gaze at our table.

"And what proof do you bring for this?" asked the judge.

"Well, he's blind in one eye and his vision is degrading in the other.  Clearly this is due to frequent masturbatory activities."

"Hmm," the judge said, pondering the comment as he swiveled his head to face us.  "Is this true?"

By now my smelly defense lawyer was starting to look a little red in the face.  Whether this was from embarrassment or anger I was incapable of knowing.  Funny, I had kind of gotten used to the smell, though.

"Yes, it's true," my attorney said wearily, "but it's not what you think.  It's a medical condi--"

"I think I've heard just about enough on that subject.  Let the record show that the defendant is apparantly addicted to arm wrestling his flesh harpoon.  Also let the record show that the court finds this disgusting yet vaguely intriguing.

"Your honor, this is absurd."  My guy was nearing the end of his rope.  It's tragic yet kind of interesting to watch a man lose every ounce of sanity he has.  "If I may be frank on this matter, I--"

"No!" came the booming reply from up high, followed by a few quick raps of the gavel.  "No, you cannot be frank.  I am Frank, Frank Speaker, judge and jury of this courtroom."

"Sir, that was a figure of--"

"Silence!  You've tired this old man with your wily and conniving ways.  I now sentence you to the ninja star treatment.  Bailiff!"

You wouldn't think much of a 70-year-old black man with graying hair and an above-average wastebasket jumpshot, but before I knew it, three ninja stars were flying through the air.  The destination was pretty obvious and it was also obvious that my attorney didn't stand a chance.  The three stars buried themselves on impact and I'm pretty sure that he was dead before he even hit the floor.  I say "pretty sure" because it wasn't like I rushed over and touched him.  That's just gross.

"Now," the judge continued without missing a beat, "before I have to have C.J. kill someone else in here, can we move this thing along?"

All of the heads in the courtroom nodded in silent agreement.

"Before I carry on with the sentencing, since I have already determined you guilty in my mind and killed your lawyer, is there anything that you'd like to say on your behalf?"

I scooted my chair out and stood up as defiantly as a man with no legs could.  My mind was racing, which is odd because I don't even like Nascar all that much.  I was trying to think of something to say, anything to say that would help my cause.  I was searching my mental archives, trying to come up with something -- anything -- funny.  Unfortunately, all I could come up with was some lame joke about a cow with "mooooooooooood" swings.

Maybe it was true.  Maybe I was guilty of all these charges leveled against me.  Well, aside from the flesh harpoon one.  Ok, sure, maybe I robbed Dick Genitals of his treasure every now and again but I wouldn't go so far as to call that "chronic" or even frequent.  But was I really guilty of murder and fraud?  What could I possibly say to convince this room full of strangers otherwise?  I really had no idea so I decided to simply bust into song.

"Whatcha gonna do with all that junk," I began, "all that junk inside your trunk?  I'ma get get get get you drunk.  Get you love drunk off my hump!"

I paused.  There was nothing.  Silence.  Mouths were agape and even the boisterous judge was at a loss for words.  The rapping of the gavel broke the silence.

"Oh my God, I hate that damn song!" cried the judge.  "You," pointing his finger at me, "get the hell out of my courtroom. Charges be damned.  Now I am going to be up all night singing that crappy song."

I might not be the quickest and sharpest guy on the planet, but I knew when to take my good fortune and run.  I had narrowly escaped jail or, even worse, a stint as a staff writer for cnn.com.  I wasn't going to count my blessings, though.  I'm sure this saga would be far from over.  There will always be someone out to make a name for themselves by going after fish more famous than they.  I'm still not sure why people would go after famous fish but then again, I don't understand the complexities of the world.  I did make a mental note to write the Black Eyed Peas a letter and thank them for all their hard work.  I don't know of any other band that when compared side-to-side would make Clay Aiken appear talented, but that's just how the cookie crumbles sometimes.