The People vs. Me (Again)

I stood trial for crimes I may or may not have invented.

The courtroom smelled like peanut butter and unresolved trauma. The judge was a desk lamp in a powdered wig. His honor flickered ominously. A bailiff—who was either a platypus or my third-grade teacher—escorted me to the stand, which was actually a very tall ladder leading nowhere.

The prosecution, a sentient fax machine named Greg, accused me of "intentional reality distortion with a side of inappropriate metaphors."
“Your honor,” Greg beeped, “the defendant once declared gravity a hoax and attempted to float away on a couch cushion labeled ‘Plan B.’”

“Objection,” I said.
“On what grounds?” asked the judge.
“On the grounds that the ground isn’t real,” I replied.
A few jurors nodded in agreement. One clapped slowly.

My defense attorney, a sock puppet named Mister Wiffles, climbed onto my shoulder.
“We plead jazz,” he whispered.
“That’s not a legal term,” I replied.
“Neither is Tuesday,” he countered.

The stenographer was a mime. Every word I said, he interpreted in interpretive dance. He was sweating.

Carl appeared as my star witness, wearing a monocle and holding a chalkboard. “Ladies, gentlemen, and metaphysical concepts,” he began, “the defendant suffers from excessive imagination leakage. Reality simply can’t hold it all. You can’t blame a sponge for being wet.”

The judge nodded solemnly. “Wetness is subjective,” he agreed.

The jury consisted of twelve chairs and a ferret named Linda. Linda was the foreperson. She looked at me with those little eyes and said, “Explain the incident with the moon.”

I sighed. “I didn’t steal the moon. I borrowed it. For ambiance. It was a date night.”

“Motive?” Linda pressed.

“She liked lunar light. It matched her hair.”

The room was silent. Even the fax machine wept softly, its toner leaking.

Grizly emerged from under the table, oozing existential dread and chewing on the concept of culpability. He hissed, “Guilt is a coat worn by everyone, but yours has sequins.”
“That’s a compliment,” I said.
“No, it’s a sentence,” he replied.

The judge slammed his gavel, which was actually a raw fish.

“I have reached a verdict,” he declared. “On 17 counts of impossible behavior, 3 counts of cosmic trespassing, and 1 count of whispering to inanimate objects…”

My heart pounded.

“…the court finds you…”
He paused, dramatically. A trumpet played somewhere in the distance.

“…too interesting to punish. Sentence: one lifetime of unpredictable wonder.”

I was free.

Sort of.

Until next Tuesday.

When I’d be back in court. For talking to the sun without a permit.