Athena so cold was a mystery To a satyr whose letches were blistery So he reached in her cowl And petted her owl He used to be myth. Now he's history Joe Wrobel |
Dying 4 a Smoke
Jason Blurn looks like any other 26 year old American: stupid. Even
with the shackles on his wrists and armed guards next to him, he seems more
like an idiot bagger who mangles your groceries at the local supermarket
than a history-making criminal. But whole world is watching this man as he
sits in the courtroom, alternately picking his nose and studying what comes
out of it. Because if Jason Blurn is found guilty, he'll be the first
person sent to the electric chair for smoking.
How did Jason Blurn find himself poised to be bumped off for butts?
Experts agree that the criminalization of smoking began with the Surgeon
General's report in the early 60's which turned what had an unhealthy,
disgusting habit, into an officially unhealthy, disgusting habit. Smoking
was soon restricted to specific small areas of restaurants, planes and so
forth, the now famous "nicotine ghettos." But even these vanished with the
passage of legislation that made it unlawful to smoke anywhere.
The final nail in the smoker's coffin was the Deedle Act of 2021,
which reasoned that if smoking was so incredibly illegal, anyone doing it
had to be right up there with murderers and rapists in the nastiness
department, and deserved to die. However this the ultimate punishment had
never been asked of anyone until Jason Blurn came along and started puffing
in Paramus.
Too bad the McBlockbuster's on Route 17 in Paramus, New Jersey didn't
have one more copy of " Jurassic Park IV: The Final Feeding" the day Jason
Blurn stopped in for a McMunch N'Movie Mega Meal. If they had, maybe none
of this would have happened. As it was, the film was out, and Blurn was
upset. The manager asked him to leave. Blurn refused. Words were exchanged
and finally Blurn left, driving off in a 2011 Dodge Laser Wagon. But three
hours later he returned and, without a word, pulled a four inch long
unfiltered cigarette from under his coat and lit it.
The McBlockbuster's customers fled in panic, screaming, "Yaaaaaa! A
smoker!" and "Look out! He's got a cigarette." Police hastily cordoned
off the area. Seconds later a SWAT team burst in and wrestled him to the
ground. Jason Blurn was arrested and charged with one count of first degree
smoking and forty counts of conspiracy to create an open flame, one count
for each match he possessed. Donald Pherimone, the District Attorney
handling the case, indicated he would seek the death penalty, "as sure as
chew follows bite." The trial got underway on a raw, bleak morning.
District Attorney Pherimone felt the case against Blurn was as open-and-shut
as "a clam with an attitude problem."
But Jason Blurn wasn't entirely defenseless. Ed "Red" Tibbetts, the
wily, grizzled veteran of many such "hopeless" court battles, was
representing Blurn. (Attracted by the celebrity status of the case -- and a
chance to finally get on the Letterman show -- Dave at 104 was still going
strong.) Tibbetts immediately sought a directed verdict of innocent by
virtue of insanity. "After all," he said, "who but a stone-crazy nut-job
would smoke?"
The judge hearing the case -- long-time capital punishment zealot
Kathleen "Nuke 'Em" Nolan -- was considering the argument, but Pherimone
countered brilliantly, reminding the Court that Blurn had used an
unfiltered cigarette in committing his crime, and that anyone who could
figure out which end of an unfiltered cigarette to light "couldn't be that
whacked out." Tibbetts' motion was denied. The trial went forward.
The case wasn't without controversy. A group calling itself the New
Respiratory Alliance (NRA for short) insisted that smoking was absolutely
safe and a constitutional right. Their members protested on the courthouse
steps carrying signs reading, "Cigarettes don't kill people. Guns kill
people." Indeed, public opinion was divided on what to do with Jason
Blurn: 47% said to "fry him," while 41% thought he should simply be wrapped
in a giant nicotine patch.
By the time final arguments were made, things looked bleak for the
defendant. (Very bleak: Judge Nolan was seen sporting a "Bye Bye Blurn"
T-shirt under her robe.) Nevertheless, District Attorney Pherimone, taking
nothing for granted, delivered a blistering summation, pointing at the
accused and commanding the jury to "Look at this man! He can barely look
at me in the eye, and not just because I'm a lot taller than he is. It's
because he knows he's a vicious, cold-blooded smoker! Who doesn't?" His
upper lip twisted into an Elvisoid sneer.
"Ask anyone. Ask the guy who's writing this article. They'll tell
you about a terminal loser who deliberately returned to a crowded
McBlockbuster store and filled the air with smoke. And what did the
cheese-faced little twerp do, as people ran screaming for their lives? He
laughed, then looked for an ashtray. An ashtray!"
"What would have been next? A pipe, a cigar? God only knows, but
he's not telling. The point is, Jason Blurn is a monster who must pay for
what he's done, and you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, get to send him
the bill. And it'll be a whopper, because we all know there's only one
thing to do with a fiend who terrorizes a gentle, peace-loving society like
ours...send him to the electric chair." The jury seemed impressed by
Pherimone's plea, if the standing ovation they gave him was any indication.
The Ed Tibbetts rose to speak. A hush fell over the courtroom. The
defense attorney stood behind Blurn, who was making odd, whimpering noises
and staring fixedly at the evidence bag. Tibbetts put a comforting hand on
Blurn's shoulder. "This is no monster," he said, smiling sadly at the
jury. "He's just a messed-up young man. And who hasn't been a messed-up
young man at some point in their lives? We all have...even the women."
A few of the female jurors nodded. "Now I'm not saying my client's a
saint. In fact, I doubt he can even spell the word. But I'll tell you
this much; whatever trouble he's gotten into, his folks are to blame. They
were rougher on this boy than a chainsaw on an omelette. Because, what
they really wanted to raise was tobacco, not a child. In fact there was so
much cigarette smoke in the Blurn house, Blanton and Brenda Blurn never
knew they even had a son until Jason was seven. Smoking was all the Blurns
cared about. Imagine growing up playing second fiddle to a bunch of rolled
up paper tubes. It's enough to make you see red...or pick up a
cigarette yourself."
Tibbetts snatched up the bag of incriminating smokes, held them over
his head, and thundered, "Which my client did! But he's no criminal. He's
a victim himself. Of lousy parents, and an even lousier habit. So you
must find him innocent. Look at him, shivering and sweating. Is this a
total loser? You bet he is! But he's a loser with hope, because I've come
to know Jason Blurn, and while I personally can't stand the man, I can
assure you that he'll never touch another cigarette for as long as he
lives!" At which point Blurn vaulted from his chair and lunged for the
evidence bag.
Guards instantly pounced on him, but Blurn fought on which demonic
fury, shrieking, "I've gotta have them!" When it was clear his struggle
was hopeless, he cursed the Judge and the jury and vowed that, given the
chance, he'd "fire up a butt in every hospital, school and movie theater in
the stinking country. Suck that smoke, turkeys!" Judge Nolan gaveled for
order, had Blurn manacled, then charged the jury to "get this over with
quick."
A month later, Midnight, Blurn is strapped to a chair bearing arm and
leg restraints, electrodes, and a 12.7 energy efficiency rating, according
to the sticker on the back. Blurn is asked if he has any last requests.
"Yeah," he says, "Gimme a cigarette." One is placed between his lips. He
smiles and asks, "Got a light?" The switch is thrown.
Outside, a puff of smoke rose from the prison. It wasn't clear if it
was from burning tobacco or scalp, but one thing was certain: Jason Blurn
paid the ultimate price for a pack of cigarettes...and the whole world
could exhale in relief.
David Smilow
You Come In for a Bud or an Absolut Martini
The new waitress comes over (she's unneeded). She introduces herself. Her
There is a large, long-eared animal sitting at the bar. It's not a rabbit,
And you remember not remembering Babe Ruth or Whitey Ford, and you never had
And you realize other best friend, the bartender, has not only been
Things could be worse!
After a day hard as a tax collector's eyes,
You come in for a Bud or an Absolut martini. Who
is sitting in the corner, but Falstaff, or a guy who looks like Falstaff, he's
wearing a plumed hat for Christsakes. His buddies are carrying swords and
laughing and yelling, and none of the off-duty cops, who usually clutter the
place like reject rocks from Stonehenge are anywhere to be seen.
Falstaff, or the guy who looks like Falstaff, cuts a monster fart. His buddies
snicker loudly and continue yelling. One lifts his flintlock and shoots a
hole in the ceiling. Even the commodities brokers just laugh.
Do you understand what's going on?
No! You just bragged to your shrink
about a raise you didn't get,
so he wouldn't think you were failure at everything
and he raised his fee to $125 an hour,
or rather 45 minutes.
name is Lizzie Borden. She tells you right off she is having trouble with her
parents. She says the new cook's name is Typhoid Mary and warns you not to
eat any of the happy hour hors d'oeuvres. She tells you
she feels guilty about serving "that food," but that she has to make a
living. She adds it would be okay to tip her for not serving you,
and hands you a pamphlet on ovolactovegetarianism.
And what hors d'oeuvres you see, actually look good. They've always been
good and you haven't eaten since breakfast!
but you don't know what it is. A couple of famous ball players, guys you've
always wanted to meet, are talking to the damn thing. They don't even look
your way. Half the world walks by outside. All those ethnic groups, you got
nothing against, but don't exactly love like you are supposed to either. And
the homosexual next to you tries to start up a conversation with you in
Spanish. You figure he thinks you're Puerto Rican!
a championship season.
Outside the day is still as hard as a tax collector's eyes.
What can you do?
Your days off are as bad as your days on. Your kids go a couple of beats
before they remember you. "Oh...hi...Dad...! And you see the same pause
at work every day, only they see you all the time, and they still forget your
name.
And your best buddy gets drunk and confesses that the best sex
he ever had was with your wife. He says
it was before you two got married,
but you don't believe him,
you seem to remember, they didn't know each other
before you got married.
not ringing them all up (everybody has to make a living ), he's been
short changing you! You discover the drinks only cost half of what you've
been paying for the last eleven years!
He tries to explain, but how can he...?
And Gooden is pitching and the Mets are losing. And the one guy who looks
even half sympathetic (the rest are Yankee fans) is the gay guy from Honduras
and what he really wants to talk about is politics -- political repression in
Honduras! And you don't want to hear about it -- they're allies after all.
He is not even trying to pick you up. He doesn't like your looks.
And....
Well It could be worse!
You could be living in the gutter. You could have too little money for an
tax collector to tax,
too little brain for shrink to shrink.
You could be the only non-homosexual, non-bisexual, non-Haitian, non-drug
addict, non-hemophiliac, non-health worker, non-heterosexual in America to
have AIDS!
You never tried to help anybody ever.
You don't even have sex with your wife
much less anyone else.
And you still have it! Just somehow you have it! You got
it from a toilet seat! You're the only one in human history!
Then again, they could be a hell of a lot better....
It's still as hard as the taxman's eyes out there.
Have a nice day!
Stephen Williamson
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