Mockinating the Countryside

I am quite certain that you all noted my absence and spent the majority of the weekend in a fit of sorrow. I apologize that my greatness has left you so dependent. In an attempt to make up for the pain of leaving you all alone, I have returned with a present: tales of Mock Trial hilarity.

That's right, folks. This weekend our Mock Trial teams ventured deep into the heart of Tennessee, where teenagers dressed up in suits performed before "judges" who had suspiciously thick hillbilly accents and who were obviously oblivious to courtroom proceedings, e.g., the "judge" who said "substain" every time she sustained an objection.

Let's start from the beginning. We took a charter bus to Tennessee, and being that our two teams filled approximately half the bus, we stopped and picked up two teams from a school on the way. When we arrived, at least two members of their teams were clearly intoxicated. I mean to say that these guys spent at least four hours in the bus bathroom, vomiting, and when we finally arrived at the hotel in Tennessee, they just sat on the bus, heads between their knees, unaware that the bus was empty. Driver: Are you getting off? Drunk: Huh? Do I have to? Driver: Well, everyone else is going in. . .

Then we went to the opening ceremony. This generally means that a bunch of loud, hyperactive teenagers in polyester are crowded into an auditorium, waiting for someone (who is always surprisingly bad at public speaking, especially considering the nature of the competition) to ramble about "Thank you to *insert name of any witness or location from the season's case here (I swear they're like one huge in-bred family)* and we hope you'll have fun and blah bliddy blah" so that the teams can find out whom they will be competing against and then get the hell out of there. The opening ceremony is really pointless--unless you enjoy people watching as much as I do.

At this opening ceremony, I was diligently people watching when I spotted the most atrocious sight one would ever hope not to imagine seeing at a Mock Trial tournament. Really, people. It was that bad. This woman must have weighed around 250 pounds; she had bleached her hair blonde and permed it into an 80s' style poof; she was wearing a skin tight bright teal halter top that showed every inch of cleavage possible--think about her size people! that's a lot of cleavage!--and over the teal halter top, she was wearing one of those tiny sweaters that ties/buttons below the bust; just in case people had somehow missed her enormous breasts, she felt it necesary to wear a sweater that would emphasize their presence. (Yeah. And the grand canyon needs a "Warning: Huge Fucking Hole Ahead" sign.)

Next, we went to our first round of the tournament. Everything was going fine; the other team was nothing fantastic. But then they called a witness that will long be remembered. Let us refer to her as "Bisexual Bobblehead Micky." You all know what those bobblehead things are, right? People keep them in the car; it's a little person or animal with a tiny plastic body and a gargantuan head that moves around in every direction. Okay, well, after every answer she would turn to the attorney and just move her head side to side and back and forth and every which way, making me think of a bobblehead. It was bizarre. Then, she spoke. "Yeah I worked at the hotel with Peyton; she was hottie! *bobblehead*" "I found this kid handcuffed to a pipe in one of the rooms, and I took off the blindfold and gag, and, well, I'm familiar with handcuffs, but these weren't the fuzzy kind, so there wasn't anything I could do about it. *bobblehead*" "I usually work the front desk because I like to be in control, I like to dominate. *bobblehead*" Why would anyone think that character would fly when our judges are predominately sixty-year-old near-deaf, near-blind, conservative, traditional, grumpy men? (Don't even tell me it's hot. I'll kill you.)

Now, I can't claim that other teams are responsible for all of the stupid things that happened this weekend. Our witnesses had some moments of their own. For example, a freshman from our second team was playing the same witness as Bisexual Bobblehead Micky. So our Micky shall be known as "Toilet Fetish Micky." At practice last week she was speaking about finding the victim handcuffed to a pipe and felt the need to tell the court that "the poor dear had soiled herself and so I took the sheets out from under her." She was told not to talk about soiled sheets in court. It's not charming and the judges just don't want to hear about a little girl urinating and defecating on herself. In competition this weekend, Toilet Fetish Micky told the court that when a guest complained about pipes clanging in the next room, she thought it must just be the toilet again--people are always flushing weird things down the toilets, it's a perpetual problem.

Possibly the most humorous things to happen during any of the trials involved one witness: Frat Boy Mike. (No, that's not a nickname for the witness. That's the real guy's name.) Now, FBM was playing the role of a criminal profiler. You have to understand, this profiler is well-educated, lectures for the FBI and Northwestern University, and owns his own business. This character should be played as an educated professional. As you can probably guess, Frat Boy Mike has to act quite a bit for this role. In fact, we have coined the term "ellisisms" for all the words and uses of words that he invents during his testimony. My personal favorite: discertain (used in place of ascertain). Other classics, "We use these to attribute the perpetrator of the crime," "At this point we deal with fingerprints. . . at this point we deal with DNA evidence. . . this phase deals with post-offense behavior," and "We look at behavior correlated with evidence."

Then, we got on the bus to go home and FBM was scripted to ask Dr. Browne, "I was wondering if you could briefly explain for me the deontological necessity of modern man's existential crisis" (definitely stolen from the early 90s movie Reality Bites). We died laughing as he added, "I understand the deontological necessity part, but what gets me is modern man's existential crisis." Then, he and another witness (Toilet Fetish Micky) slapped on their best hillbilly accents and had the fight to end all fights.
FBM: Woman, get yer ass in the kitchen!
TFM: If you want it you better cook it yerself!
FBM: I already shot it, now you gotta cook it!
TFM: Do it yerself, yer a grown man!
FBM: That don't change a thang. I'm hungry!

It was an interesting weekend. And needless to say, I'm glad I don't have to do it again for another couple of months.