OJ Simpson passed away a few weeks ago. His murder trial was a significant part of my early 20’s as I worked nights and would normally get up around the time the trial began. I remember watching the trial for as long as I could until I had to head into work. Then, I would stop off at the White Castle on Armour and then off to work to devour my treasures.
Ironically enough, history is repeating itself. As you know, former president Donald Trump has been occupied for a couple of weeks now in his felony criminal trial in New York. During his trial two weeks ago, it was widely reported from sources inside the courtroom that Mr. Trump had, uh, how can I put this delicately? Mr. Trump had an upset stomach that, uh, made itself known to many of those downwind of him. To put it less mildly, 45 had the farts.
This past weekend, I had to travel to St. Louis for work. As I did, I stopped off in Columbia, Mo. to pick up a big ‘ol sack of White Castle. The sack of flavored goodness did not last long, but it gave me an opportunity to listen to parts of the trial while munching on these snacks from my past.
It is here that I say something very rare in this space. I empathize with the former president. While I cannot relate to being accused of a felony after paying off a porn star. Nor can I relate to being in multiple trials at multiple times in many states. I can, however, relate to being forced to sit for long periods of time during which your stomach is, uh, unsettled, let’s say.
Almost immediately, my tummy began rumblin’ and the air began to become more unsettled. Mile markers and the carbon dioxide levels both began to rise. Mr. Trump and I had something in common at that time.
Listen, at his age, you shouldn’t be sitting in a courtroom for hours on end listening to how you abused financial systems and grabbed women by the coochies and conspired with shady business types to modify the results of an election. He should be playing “pull my finger” with his grandkids instead of “yankie my wankie” with Debbie from Dallas. Hell, I had a sack of White Castle and had to fully open all of the windows in the car by the time I hit St. Charles. Admittedly, the only law I had broken was the speed limit. But still. At my age, it was pretty foul. I can’t imagine those sitting around the disgraced former president in those hours pleading to have someone open a window or turn on a fan.
In your late 70’s and 80’s, you should be allowed to crop dust anywhere you like and at whatever volume. There are, however, those pesky decorum requirements when brought up on felony charges. I’m guessing that the jury would rather have a hung jury instead of a choked jury. But here we are. 2024 is weird. The White Castle and the trial attorneys won’t be the only things “seasoned” after this thing is over.
Thankfully, my gut began to settle after a few hours and a quick visit to a St. Louis truck stop. I suppose there is no such opportunity for Mr. Trump to grab the bathroom key and sneak out the back. At least for the next few weeks.
My hope is that those around the former president have learned lessons about many things over the past five years. But the hardest lesson of all may be in the coming weeks when those poor folks in the courtroom look to grab the closest gas mask before the verdict is read. Thoughts and prayers to you all. Truly the Trial of the Century. Or at least the Trial of the Nasal Cavity.
If the shit doesn’t fit… you must acquit!
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