For you, Killer Taupe

My most devoted fan recently wrote, "I find your blog to routinely be the most elegant and hilarious combination of words and phrases I have read in a long, long time. AND I've been reading Dostoevsky." This post is for you.


Last weekend, the Mock Trial Team ventured into the west. We flew into the desert, and from a cloud of dust and sand, we emerged as the team that would be remembered. . . we would be remembered as the bitches from captains' meetings, the team that did cheers before the rounds started, and the team that got its ass kicked the first day and then spent the second day beating up on teams that should have their numbers revoked before they further disgrace the sport known as Mock Trial.

What happened, Allison!? Tell us! Tell us!

*Sigh* Calm, my children. I will explain.

Friday. We arrive in Arizona. We decide that playing on a mountain in the desert would be great fun. So we hop into two vehicles--a Chrysler Town & Country and a Jeep Wrangler. Yours truly decided to ride in the Jeep. And she was even daring enough to zip down the back window and let her hair down.

Then things got interesting. Riding around in the desert with the wind blowing through the vehicle, the stereo blasting, and inhibitions fading, the music moved me. Before we knew it, there was an all-out dance-off taking place in that little Jeep. We danced to everything from Nine Inch Nails (luckily, Frat Boy Mike did not die from the trauma known as the musical genius of Trent Reznor, despite his valiant efforts to cover his ears for the entirety of "Head Like a Hole"), to some eighties song with "Promises, Promises" in the chorus, to that song with the whistling, to that Pussycat Dolls crappy love song, to Lisa Loeb's nineties classic "You Say."

Suffice to say, there was a whole lot more fun happening in the Jeep than the minivan. And Frat Boy Mike even entertained us by successfully eliciting the most contemptuous blown kiss from another driver ever. She seriously looked like she wanted to stab the kid for daring to flirt with her from the other side of the dotted white line. You would've thought he was a poor black kid sassing the white mistress of the plantation (which is really amusing when you consider how white FBM really is).

Anyway, let us talk about the trials.

Round one. Captains' meeting. We called witnesses. Then, the following happened:
Them: Oh, here. We need you to sign this.
Me: This has to be presented before witness selection.
Them: Well, aren't you going to sign it and acknowledge it?
Me: No. . . . It's too late.
Them: *bewildered look, as though they had never encountered a bitch before*
Me: We'll see you in the room. :-D

In the room: Alicia: "Gimme a V, Dot the I, Curl the C-T-O-R-Y, Victory! *clap clap clap* Victory! *clap clap clap*"

Round two. Cross examination of the expert:
Me: Ms. Nathanson? Is it Ms.?
Witness: I prefer Dr. Nathanson.
Me: . . . you don't have a Ph.D., do you?
Witness: It's an honorary doctorate from the FBI.
Me: *nods* You filed a curriculum vitae with the court for today's proceedings, didn't you?
Witness: Yes.
Me: *all that jazz about approaching the witness with the document and having her identify it* Nowhere on that document do you mention an honorary doctorate, do you?
Witness: No, my colleagues awarded me the honorary doctorate when I retired from the FBI and I really just find it a bit embarrassing.
Me: But you still prefer to be called "Doctor"?
Witness: Yes.
Me: *nods* *retrieve the document* Now, . . . Doctor. . . Nathanson. . .

Dumbass.

Third round. Awful team. Same witness role as above. Supposedly someone who has worked for the FBI for twenty-five years. Supposedly someone bright. Someone who consistently referred to "the investigatory process" and who couldn't pronounce the first phase of her three-phase method, the antecedent phase (she pronounced it "anticidint").

Fourth round. Even worse team. The little brother team of the team from the third round. Before the round began, we sat there making fun of "the investigatory process" and "the anticidint phase" only to watch as their confused faces cried out in unison, "Why are they laughing?"

Then, the poor team's parents sat in the jury box and laughed with our witnesses and held hands when we talked about families and community during opening and closing statements. How awful must it be to get your asses kicked in front of your parents, and know that they loved the team that was kicking your ass?

It was almost as satisfying as having a father from the Air Force's team come up to me after the round, put his arm around me, and say with a huge smile, "I just wanted to tell you that you're probably the best attorney we've seen. You tore our Walsh apart, you had him sweating, and you did it so smoothly."

Oh, but wait. That wasn't even the most satisfying thing. No, no. The most satisfying moment had to be the realization that the number one mock trial attorney in the nation only out-ranked me by one point, and that's because I got jipped by a retarded judge. Plus, she has acne.

So there.

Take that.

And if anyone runs into Bill, tell him I'm heartbroken that he stood me up. After watching what appeared to be his lovingly diapered ass wobble across the courtroom in his stained pants as he made a fool of himself by having not even the slightest clue what he was doing, and after seeing Alicia whisper "hott" and lick her lips in his direction, and after losing a bet about who could be the loudest attorney in the round, I just knew I had to have him. It's a shame he wasn't on our flight home. The mile-high club always sounded like so much fun.