I was on jury duty this week. 'Twas a drunk driving trial.

At one point, the well-dressed but too-smooth for-me-to-not-hate-him attorney said, "Now ladies and gentlemen, why don't we all pretend we're at a baseball game. Since we all have different seats at the stadium, isn't it possible that we would each have a difference perspective on the baseball game?"

He used this analogy, I assume, as a way of warning us that all of his witnesses were going to disagree with each other on everything important. And we would, of course, say to ourselves, "Clearly this is just like a baseball game. I shall ignore the fact that all the witnesses sound as though they are making up testimony off tippy-tops of their not-so-honest heads. After all, they all had different seats in the stadium of life. Our stylish attorney must really know what he's talking about. "

Also, I feel that I must point out that this was, in fact, NOT a baseball trial. It was a drunk-driving trial. Now, if it so happened that the defendant was driving drunk in a baseball stadium, that would make the analogy relevant and also it would be a little bit awesome. I would say, "While you're driving drunk around the stadium, friend, would you mind picking me up one of those expensive hot dogs?"

But as that was not the case, I did wish that the attorney would stop talking about baseball. Luckily I soon discovered that the whole jury selection process was quite a lot easier than I expected.

To my surprise, it turns out you don't need to listen to the lawyers at all.

You see, as soon as the defendant walked out, I knew she was guilty.

This particular defendant had applied copious amounts of blue eyeshadow all the way up to the tippy-tops of her eyebrows, and bright orange lipstick everywhere within a 2 inch radius of her mouth.

It was clear to me that if a person is willing to be raving drunk whilst putting on her makeup, the odds are pretty slim that she will choose to sober up before driving.

Needless to say, I was not chosen for the jury.

Alas.

** No hot dogs were harmed in the making of this blog.

A Conversation With My Grandmother:

Her: How's work going?

Me: It's good. Well, actually I'm mostly doing stand-up comedy nowadays.

Her: Really? That surprises me.

Me: Yeah, I was surprised when I started too. I mean, I never thought I'd have the nerve to actually get up there and try it.

Her: No, that's not it.

Me: Oh.

Her: Really, I just never thought you were funny.

Me: Sigh....

I've been thinking a lot about kangaroos.

Well, not a LOT. Probably not more than say....twenty minutes. Which is not, in the context of the history of my life, a lot. But when you compare it to how much I've ever thought about kangaroos before, well, it's quite lengthy.

I think it's the hopping and the pouch that I just can't get past.

And the kangababies.

And the jostling.

I read here that kangaroos can hop up to thirty feet. For those of you that use the metric system, I will tell you that thirty feet is a lot of feet. It's like having a lot of meters, really. Except with hopping. And feet.

You understand.

And with all the hop-hopping and the baby-having, isn't there a lot of JOSTLING?

I'm pretty sure that one of the main rules of the world is that we, the people of the United States in order to form a more perfect union, are for-sure not supposed to shake babies EVER? That even one little shake, much less a 30-foot-toss-in-the-air, will earn you a STERN TALKING-TO? But with kangababies it's FINE?

I'm just concerned.

I mean, right now at 1:40 in the not-quite-morning, I am concerned about the brain-damaged kangababies of the world. Very likely tomorrow after a solid eight hours of sleep, I shall not be concerned at all.

I shall go on the record as saying that I like my kangababies like I like my martinis.

Not shaken.

(Another thing the website says: "Kangaroos live and travel in organized groups or 'mobs.'" Kangaroo MOBS? I find that terrifying.)

(I also like my martinis with no gin. Or vermouth. And, ideally, with a margarita instead of an olive.)

I was not prepared for this headline when I woke up this morning.

79 YEAR OLD ROMAN-CATHOLIC NUN PLEADS NO CONTEST IN SEX ABUSE CASE

I'm alarmed. Just to be clear. Here's what doesn't alarm me about this headline:

1) Her seventy-nine-ness

2) That Roman-Catholics have sex

3) That the plea was "no contest." I think that that, in any respectable American court, if someone suggested that we hold a sex-abuse contest (would the judging be on speed or accuracy?) certainly "no contest" would be the only appropriate response.

What does alarm me is that, to the best of my understanding of Roman-Catholicism, this woman is married to God.

She's CHEATING on God.

I am not naive. I realize that people cheat on their spouses all the time. But God? Really?

Cheating on God with an altar boy is a bit like cheating on Angelina Jolie with the school lunch lady. I bet God never forgets birthdays or anniversaries. And the water to wine thing has to be a great trick at parties.

At what point do you say, "Sure I'm married to God but he's just not doin' it for me right now? Spends too much time at work. Only takes one day off a week. "

Sigh.....

If God can't keep a spouse faithful, what chance is there for the rest of us?

Why I Think You Should Consider Poaching Eggs Instead of Elephants:

1) Elephants have long memories. Eggs? Very short. Almost as short as goldfish, I'm pretty sure. So if you poach them, they're far less likely to come after you later, angrily tossing peanuts at your head.

2) You can put poached eggs on toast. You could even cut a little hole in the bread and call it "Toad in a Hole." Poached elephants, on the other hand, will take many many loaves of bread. That could turn out to be quite expensive. You can still refer to them as "Toads in a Hole" though. If that's your thing.

3) While both have cholesterol, I'm pretty sure eggs have the "good" kind.

4) Eggs almost never stomp on your face. (To be fair, elephants ALMOST never stomp on your face either. But, comparatively, it's less almosty.)

So there you have it, poachers-of-the-world.

Poach eggs.

Not elephants.

Yes.

I had someone kicked out of a comedy club the other night.

'Twas a new-and-different experience for me.

You see, friends, I thought I had him kicked out of the club because he was a drunken asshole, screaming incoherently at the top of his lungs throughout my (stellar) comedy set.

But in reality, I had him kicked out because he was Jewish.

I am aware of this fact because that was the statement he made after he called the police.

(Just to be clear, he called the NYPD. He did not, in fact, call the 80s rock band, The Police. Although, how awesome would that be? He would say, "She hates Jews!!" and then the band would sing "Roxanne." It would be the best comedy show ever!)

Sigh....

Some nights you start out a comedian and end up an anti-Semite. What can you do?

Some of life's most important lessons are learned whilst eavesdropping on other people's conversations. At least I imagine that's true. Otherwise I am merely nosy.

Just last week I learned a vital lesson about love.

Lessons. Love. And legs.

Lady 1: You know, my first husband was really the love of my life.

Lady 2: Then why aren't you still together?

Lady 1: He hated my legs. I have big, fat legs.

Lady 2: Oh. Well, what's his current wife like?

Lady 1: She's an amputee.

So I think what I'm saying is, there's someone out there for everyone. Don't like your wife's legs? Marry a woman who had them removed. Think your husband talks too much? I bet there's tongue-free man out there just dying to hook up.

I imagine my future husband is currently with a woman who is CONSTANTLY doing the dishes. And he hates it. So I shall be a dish-washing-amputee.

So to speak.