Jesus Christ, Judge Jestus and Canadian Judas-Prudence

Tink Husbandblood did not relish giving the news to Judge Jestus: a suspect in the Luanne Balmer bludgeoning case had been caught, charged and was on his way to trial.

Upon hearing the news, Judge Jestus refused to rise from his oxygen tent. He then refused all meals for nearly three hours. Finally, though, Tink was able to reason with him -- or, at least, broach a plan for avoiding having to preside over the trial. With Tink's assistance, Judge Jestus juggled, finagled, jerry-rigged, flubbed, fudged and fiddled with his calendar, doing his utmost to be unavailable for the trial of the man accused of the murder.

"Why did she have to go and get herself murdered in the first place?" the judge cried as Tink worked on his calendar. "Clearly she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Does that mean this suspect has to be tried? Can't this be chalked up to bad luck?"

"It doesn't appear anyone took that into consideration when the Criminal Code of Canada was created," Tink replied.

"Short-sighted sons of bitches!"

As it turned out, the other judges were better at avoiding cases, and within the week, Judge Jestus was notified that the case was his. Once more, the judge refused to rise from his oxygen tent and turned away all meals for almost four hours -- that is, until Tink entered the judge's sleep chamber with a platter of oven-baked pizza pockets. No justice in the Canadian judicial system could say no to pizza pockets.

The preparation for trial was always a trial in itself; one that couldn't even be eased or mitigated by pizza pockets --

"If they're called briefs," Judge Jestus lamented to Tink, "then why do they take so long to read?"

-- So, Tink moved forward with Protocol B: he left the judge in his oxygen tent and did all of the preparatory work for him.

Trial day finally arrived. As Tink dressed him, Judge Jestus said, "I learned in law school that only a handful of human beings have ever actually, knowingly killed another person. Nearly every death is just an accident the deities allowed to happen. Who are we to meddle?" He paused as Tink pulled his robe around his naked torso, and affixed his faux shirt collar. "But still, there's always a chance an actual murderer might one day walk into my courtroom. They said in law school that I'd know a real murderer by the stench of brimstone and sulfur surrounding him. Is that true?"

"Murderers, your honor, are merely people who have killed other people. They're not monsters."

"I guess you're right. They're people who have done wrong, like burning pizza pockets or losing the cap to the toothpaste."

* * *

The first day of the trial, Judge Jestus entered the courtroom and saw no murderers present. More to the point, he didn't smell any present, which greatly relieved him.

Sure, there was the defendant, but he looked harmless and dapper in his suit. If anything, he looked pale; seemed to have the blues. He must suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder, the judge thought, making a mental note to ask Tink if S.A.D. was a valid legal defense -- aside from being not guilty, of course.

The trial commenced and the pain-in-the-ass Crown Attorney bored the entire courtroom with his opening statement in which he made all sorts of scurrilous, slanderous and hurtful accusations against the defendant. It had been years since Judge Jestus overcame the tick of continually shaking his head when the Crown presented its case, but he felt it returning.

"The victim's blood was found on the defendant's shoes," the C.A. droned. "A club with the victim's blood and hair on it was found in the defendant's home . . . The defendant has given six different statements for his whereabouts on the night in question -- none of which meshes with any of the verifiable facts. . . ."

Most of the Crown's case was circumstantial. Nobody had seen the defendant commit the alleged murder. Anyhow, Judge Jestus had decided during the elevator ride to the courtroom on the first day that the case really only involved manslaughter. Somehow, the term manslaughter sounded worse than murder, but the judge clung to the fact that it was the tongue-lashing he bestowed upon the few people he actually found guilty that most mortified them. Prison time was incidental in the face of the judge's unalloyed disappointment in those roguish few and their devilish ways.

* * *

The worst part of the trial came on the third day when the victim's mother took the stand.

The victim's mother had found the body of her murdered -- Manslaughtered, Judge Jestus quietly corrected himself -- daughter. She had also observed her daughter arguing with the defendant -- who was, coincidentally, a former a boyfriend; boy, how the Crown just loved coincidences! -- two days before the crime.

The victim's mother kept it together for a few minutes, but the moment she was asked about finding her daughter dead, she began crying in a most undignified fashion. As Judge Jestus watched her weeping on the stand, he was silently disappointed that so few women cried like Julia Roberts or that Scarlett Johansson; whose large, beautiful eyes filled with tears like autumn rain, strangely accentuating their already perfect features.

The judge wasn't utterly without compassion. Losing a loved one was never easy. A prized fern of his had withered the year before and he'd walked around in a profound funk for days afterward. Judge Jestus was no stranger to grief. But it was really rather self-indulgent to carry on as though the world had ended.

* * *

Judge Jestus was determined that the trial would last no longer than a week. On the fourth day, the defense called its first and only witness: the defendant's mother.

At the mention of another matriarch taking the stand, the judge inwardly cringed. Mothers could be so sentimental. But the defendant's mother turned out to be very interesting. The counsel for the defense stated that she was not only psychic, but that she was also a medium. Judge Jestus loved astrology and attending psychic fairs -- and no one was a bigger fan of the mystical Sylvia Brown -- so this piqued his interest immediately.

If being a medium wasn't tantalizing enough, the defendant's mother claimed to channel one of the most interesting personages in the universe: Jesus Christ.

Although he was not a religious man, Judge Jestus understood the historical gravity of Christ's contribution to the court proceedings. In fact, he was almost glad he hadn't been able to slip out of presiding over the trial.

Since the defendant's mother was only a conduit to Jesus Christ, the bailiff waited until she had established contact with him before administering the oath. It made for an awkward few moments, having the proxy of Jesus Christ swear on a Bible to tell the truth -- essentially making The Lord swear to himself!

Then the counsel for the defense began: "Lord Jesus, is it true that you are omnipresent?"

"Yes," Jesus Christ said through the defendant's mother.

"And being omnipresent, did you have occasion to witness the actions of the defendant around the time in question?"

"Yes."

"Jesus, Prince of Peace, King of Kings, Lord of Lords," defense counsel said, "would you please tell the court whether or not you witnessed the accused committing the crime with which he is charged?"

An anxious hush took hold of the courtroom. Judge Jestus felt at that moment just as he had when he was a kid watching The Six Million Dollar Man battle the Sasquatch -- and had to wait a whole week for the "To Be Continued" to be continued. At least now he wouldn't have to endure so long a wait.

"No, I did not," Jesus said through the defendant's mother.

Sounds of shock and surprise erupted throughout the gallery. The judge rapped his gavel until his elbow hurt. "Silence!" he shouted.

"In other words," the defense counsel went on, "you're saying that the defendant is utterly innocent of all of the charges against him?"

"Yes."

"Do you know who did murder Luanna Balmer?"

"Yes."

"Would you please tell us, Jesus?"

There was a long, painful pause before Jesus spoke through the defendant's mother. Finally: "Someone else."

* * *

Judge Jestus napped on his hypoallergenic beanbag chair while Tink wrote up the official particulars of the judge's Not Guilty verdict upon the defendant in the murder -- manslaughter -- case of Luanne Balmer.

When he finally re-entered the courtroom, the judge was amused by the expressions of genuine anticipation on the faces of the gallery. He recognized a few journalists among them, and momentarily cringed knowing that no matter what he ruled in any given case, they would be unhappy and would write critical, stinging editorials about the case and the verdict. At the back of the room, the judge even recognized a particularly troublesome, noisome blogger. If it wasn't bad enough having to contend with the established, execrable press, there were now bloggers "out there" commenting on every twitch and furrowed brow displayed by the judge.

Why don't you go out and get a respectable job? the judge wanted to shout in the blogger's face. But then he knew the blogger was probably utterly incapable of holding any sort of regular employment, being such a loose cannon, so volatile and id-driven.

Judge Jestus passed judgment. Aside from the quiet, respectful relief demonstrated at the defense table, the boisterous response of the gallery was distinctly outraged. Leading the way with inconsolable wails was Luanne Balmer's mother. The judge made a mental note to ask Tink about barring the parents of crime victims from future court proceedings. They were so disruptive, but who dared ask them to be quiet?

The judge returned to his chambers anxious to check his eBay bid on a ship-in-a-bottle. How somebody could get a model ship inside of a bottle was beyond Judge Jestus. Technology was an absolutely amazing thing.

* * *

On his way out of the courthouse that afternoon, Tink Husbandblood was approached by a figure that made him cringe with loathing and exasperation: the blogger.

"Mr. Husbandblood," the blogger said, holding a portable MP3 recording device, "how in the world can Judge Jestus square today's ruling with the evidence presented during the trial?"

"I wouldn't expect a mere blogger to understand the unfathomable nuances and complexities of the law," Tink said, "so I'm unsure I can answer your question. All you need know is that justice was served."

"Served?" the blogger said, incredulous. "The Canadian judicial system is in dire shape! There is a growing and disconcerting disconnect between community values and the lenient, misguided judgments handed down by justices."

"Oh really," Tink said derisively, folding his arms. "Name one."

"Well, this case --"

"Name another one," Tink interrupted.

"OK, what about the child pornography case in which the judge stated a father who photographed his nine year old daughter's genitals had 'a sexual purpose'? The judge still found the man not guilty because the man had erased his hard drive before his wife could bring the charges against him!"

Tink uttered a braying laugh. "Are you serious? The man in question was charged with possessing child pornography on April 25, 2006. On that date, his computer was found to be wiped clean -- he had no 'knowledge and control' of those images at that time. Are you dense?"

"Come on!" the blogger said. "Forensic software found child pornography on the computer -- pornographic pictures of the man's own daughter!"

"But on the wrong date," Tink said. "On the wrong date."

"A crime was still committed! The judge all but stated that!"

"No crime was committed because the dates were wrong." Tink looked at his watch. "As I said, a mere blogger has no capacity to fathom the philosophical, spiritual and metaphysical intricacies of The Law."

"Even if that creep had been found guilty," the blogger sneered, "I'm sure the judge would've handed him a stiff sentence like ten days house-arrest. What a joke!"

Tink fixed the blogger with a withering look. "Everyone thinks they know the law; that they know what's fair. I will tell you this -- the purpose of a sentence is not punishment. The judge has the unfavourable task of delivering a sentence which will reform the criminal's behavior. Unless we were actually in the courtroom, with access to all the evidence, and with the education and experience of a judge, we cannot presume to think we know better than the judge. The idea that sentences should be a punishment/revenge or somehow based on the hurt inflicted on others is false." Tink walked away. "Good day."

* * *

Outside, on the front steps of the courthouse, Tink encountered another troublesome figure. He rolled his eyes with impatience as The Wallet Inspector approached.

"What is this?" Tink said. "My wallet was inspected only two days ago -- and I might add, my money was missing afterward!"

"Are you sure you didn't lose your money yourself?" the shifty-eyed Wallet Inspector said.

"Well, no," Tink conceded as he handed over his wallet for inspection. He didn't know anyone else who had to submit to these, but Tink wasn't about to question an official who was only doing his job. At least The Wallet Inspector was quick about it.

"You're free to go," The Wallet Inspector said.

"Thank you," Tink said.

As he got to his car, Tink remembered that he had to purchase balloons for the justices monthly water balloon fight set for the following day at the Whitely Judicial Retreat Compound.

On his way home, Tink stopped at a dollar store and picked up a few dozen balloons. At the check-out, he reached into his wallet and found that his cash and credit cards were missing. He looked at the stone-faced cashier. Tink's cheeks stung with embarrassment and shock. "Oh, gosh, I don't --" he muttered. "Do you have any Wallet Inspector reimbursement forms?"

The cashier looked at Tink as though he'd asked for a bar of Irish Spring soap with the Magna Carter carved into it.

"The Wallet Inspector caught up to me after court," Tink explained.

"We don't got any forms," the cashier said.

"All right," Tink said. "I'll see if the Post Office has any."

He left the store.

Best Buy: Helping YOU shop ELSEWHERE

Best Buy picked the right place when it set up shop in Windsor, Ontario -- otherwise known as "The Millionaire Capital of Canada."

Windsor's economy is tied so closely to Detroit, Michigan's -- and that solid gold auto industry -- there's no question the citizenry has money to burn. Sales and coupons and "deals" and "best buys" are a waste of time among the monied. All we're concerned with is the most expensive item in the store, whatever the store. And thank Gawd Best Buy is here to do that for us.

Unfortunately for me, I am an abnormal Windsorite -- I am not wealthy.

A few months ago I was shopping for a laptop, and wandered into Best Buy. I had done months of Web research and had narrowed down on the laptop I wanted: a $499 Acer. When I approached a salesman at Best Buy and pointed out the machine I wanted, he immediately walked away, saying, "No, no, I'll show you what you want." When I insisted that I knew what I wanted, the salesman grudgingly went into the back to see if there were any models in stock. What do you know? They didn't have any left. I bought my laptop elsewhere.

Today, I went back to Best Buy with my dad who was looking for a laptop for my mom. We checked out all the models on display, compared specs, tabulated my mom's uses -- e-mail, writing the odd letter, a little Web surfing -- and narrowed on a $499 HP model. Luckily, Chris, the curly-haired salesman, was on hand to steer us away from what we wanted.

First thing he said when we indicated the model we wanted was that it was junk. He warned about its technology being five years out of date.

"So, Best Buy sells merchandise it thinks is garbage?" I asked, incredulous.

Chris vigorously nodded.

I couldn't believe it.

Then Chris inadvertently pointed out a discrepancy between that HP laptop's specs, which were printed on a card mounted on the counter in front of it, and those on the sign above it. The sign stated it only had a 1 GHz processor. The card on the front of laptop said it had 2.1 GHz.

I said, "So, without knowing what this laptop will be used for, you're instantly trying to up-sell us?"

To this Chris tried a crippled, left-footed tap dance that made all involved feel embarrassed for him. "This is what you buy for your kid when you want him off your lap," he said.

"You know, your spiel isn't making HP sound bad," I told Chris, mystified by his bizarre performance, "you're making Best Buy look bad."

To which Chris shrugged.

"Maybe we'll buy the laptop elsewhere," I said.

To which Chris shrugged again.

So, we left and bought a laptop for my mom elsewhere. No doubt Chris had a plethora of millionaires to whom to sell $2,000 laptops, game systems and big screen TVs. Clearly, we were wasting his time.

Shopping at Best Buy (the Bait & Switch Capital of Retail) is like trying to buy a quart of milk in Beverly Hills, California: it's not the errand that's unreasonable, it's the environment that's unreasonable.

Where does Best Buy get its sales staff? These guys should be ushers in a porn theater.

Scumbags in Spectacles -- groping for that modicum of respectability

Attempts at re-spectable-ability among the scumbag set:


Maurice 'Mom' Boucher, Hell's Angels



Sid Ryan, CUPE



Ken Lewenza, CAW

Where are the adults?

To a Member of City Council:

I'm a lifelong resident of The City. I was born here, I was educated here; I was married here and bought my first home here. My parents are lifelong residents, as well.

As the dominoes of the global financial meltdown tumble around my neighborhood, I need to ask someone -- shout the question aloud -- "What in the name of gawd has happened to The City?"

Another question that throbs in my mind all day long is, "Where are the adults?" Who is making the decisions that continually lead The City down blind alleys year after year? Have we simply had a string of terrible mayors? Is City Council as corrupt and dissolute and inept as its detractors claim? Are the citizens so apathetic, so fat, stupid and slap-happy that they don't ask more of their leaders? Have the best and brightest of The City simply left behind those who embrace mediocrity?

I am a writer and IT professional who has worked in Canada, Ireland and the United States. I'm educated, motivated and would like nothing better than to put my brains and talents to work for a local company. Aside from a miserable six-month stint at an ass-backward, hellhole of an office five years ago, I've never worked in The City during my adult life. I've submitted enough resumes to local businesses over the years -- to our newspaper, the art gallery, St. Clair College, the University, the few companies that need IT personnel, etc., etc. -- that I could probably cover the entirety of E.C. Row Expressway (itself an infamously and incompetently handled project) with the volume of pages.

So, I've worked in the United States -- most recently at WorkPlaceUSA in Boilston. Even that, now, has dried up and I am once again unemployed. For the first time, however, I am unemployed and wide awake to the fact that The City holds absolutely no promise for me. I have beaten my head against its unyielding concrete for most of my life, and I'm through with it.

Since no one in a position of power or responsibility in The City has ever seized the moment during boom times to plan for downturns, The City now teeters on the brink of an economic abyss. You know you're in trouble when the future of the city's largest industry is in the ham-hands of Flem Lewenza and the CAW. I understand that unions may have had a purpose at one time, decades ago, but as happens with most institutions, their purpose has been lost in a cloud of self-interest, greed, incompetence, ambition and arrogance. Seeing pictures in the local newspaper of CAW members burning copies of the email sent to them by the CEO of Chrysler Canada was painfully symbolic. I'm a front-line, low-level worker and I can sympathize with my peers in other industries who have to give concessions while their executives pull down exorbitant salaries, benefits and perks. I get it. But what in the hell led us here? The road we're on was so gawddamned avoidable, I'm aghast and almost laughing with shock that we are where we find ourselves.

My question and conundrum is much larger and far-reaching than Chrysler, the CAW and Flem Lewenza. There seems to be a constitutional resistance to success in The City; a cringing away from the challenges of hard, necessary decisions. Basing our economy on strip bars, bingo halls, the casino and the downtown bars that turn into a weekly melee with teenaged American drinkers is criminally short-sighted. It's insulting. No Cityite I know feels anything but embarrassment and disgust about The City's major economic pillars.

Gosh, I'll never forget when the casino first came here and our art gallery was kicked out of its building so it could house the "temporary" casino. I was in university at that time and people coming to campus from out of town laughed uproariously at that cartoonish turn of events. Like the burning of copies of the Chrysler Canada CEO's email, the temporary casino supplanting the art gallery was so gory and vivid in its symbolism.

Where are the adults?

Who in hell allowed that Dougherty character to leave that gaping hole in the ground next to the Compri Hotel for two decades? That's what I'm talking about.

And here I am, an educated, skilled, willing son of The City who has come to the point where I feel absolutely poisoned with my disappointment and anger with this bloody place. I can hear a balcony heckler shouting, "Well, why don't you run for office, smart guy, if you think you can run things better?" I'm not saying I could run things better, but I sure as hell thought the people for whom I've voted over the years -- and I vote every opportunity I get -- would run things substantially better than they have.

I spent this week in Toronto, sleeping on a friend's floor after days of looking for work. On a professional, economic, practical level, The City for me is a wasteland. I bet you I couldn't get a job as a bingo caller right now, and I have a wonderful speaking voice! In 2006, I wrote an adaptation of Oscar Wilde's novel The Picture of Dorian Gray for the stage. A prominent local artist and director produced the play. The day before Dorian Gray was to hit the stage at the Capital Theatre in March 2007, the theatre closed down. The day before. To hell with my disappointment, my heart went out to those wonderful actors who'd put months of hard work into the play. It was ultimately staged at MacKenzie Hall, but only after there was an enormous amount of confusion and doubt about where to find an alternate venue.

The City's in terrible shape, and the sad thing is, I don't think it would know what to do with a panacea even if one existed. The City has been turned so horribly inside-out by incompetent greedy swine that I don't think it could ever be hammered back into shape.

I guess what's motivating me to write this disjointed, pointless message to you is that during this economic disaster, I've finally seen the face of The City -- and it's the face of a stranger.

Where are the adults? They fled long ago. It's Children of the Corn here. We're led and bullied by insolent adolescents, regardless of their true chronological ages. We're led by Sandra Pupatello who commits the same sins she rails against in her ideological enemies. There's no right or wrong, only "our side" and "their side." Commit whatever sins you like, so long as you're on our side. And no matter what coherent, innovative, salvation-bringing idea they have, screw it, because it's coming over from their side.

Another question crosses my mind with increasing frequency: "Who gives a shit?" I used to. I always imagined our civic leaders did. There was evidence that friends and neighbors did. But more recently, the answer to that question has become as troubling and unsettling as the answer to "Where are the adults?"

Saying that The City's barn doors have hung open too long and its future escaped is not a fatalistic assessment. I believe a fatalistic assessment of The City is one that denies that truth. I'm as hopeful as the next guy, but more than that I'm a realist. Hope without realism is a hippie's dreamland.

I feel like a resident of Pompeii in the wake of Vesuvius' fury, except we haven't had the benefit of a dramatic demise.

Where are the adults? Wherever they are, I would like to join them.

The CAW has to destroy the city in order to save it

The Canadian Auto Workers union, today, engaged in an impromptu sidewalk performance piece, demonstating their view of the future for the city of Windsor, Ontario:

Asked for comment about the dire performance piece, CAW leader Ken Lewenza said, "The CAW has to destroy the city in order to save it."