Of Scientology and Spittle

 

Rated PG for language and (gulp) scientology references

“All rise. The Honourable Judge Moody presiding.”

“Judge Judy?” asked Crunch, excitedly.

“No, Judge Moody,” quickly corrected the Judge, looking around fearfully.

(The author is legally obligated to mention that no offence is meant against Judge Judy and the author’s ideas are all her own and, well, yes, some stuff mirrors Judge Judy slightly, but not enough to arouse suspicion and certainly not enough to let this get anywhere other than between you and me…)

“Amen,” Crunch said, solemnly.

“What?” asked the impatient Judge.

“Nothing…say how are those niners lately? Still hitting the ball and other related sporting endeavours?” The Crunch stammered.

The Judge gave him an odd look as all of the occupants in the court room stood to their feet. Magnificent Cow shot The Crunch a sideways glance from across the room. The Crunch inspected his nails and pretended not to notice.

“Oh no, we’ve got Moody again!” exclaimed Magnificent Cow’s attorney irritably. He was an overworked, underfed lawyer whose notorious bags under his eyes had garnered a reputation around the water cooler in his office.

“Will the defendant please come to the stand?”

The Crunch sighed and waddled over to the big, burly guy who says things in a manly voice.

“Raise your right hand,” ordered the big and burly guy who says things in a manly voice.

The Crunch gave him an exasperated look and raised his ‘hand.’

“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

“That sounds rather over-dramatic don’t you think?”

“What!?” the big, burly guy who says things in a manly voice asked, shocked at the Crunch’s temerity.

“Well, why don’t you just ask me to tell the truth? I mean, what’s with the whole truth and nothing but the truth? What are we on some sort of soapie or something?

(Of Scientology and Spittle will return after this short commercial)

“…and what’s with the whole ‘so help me God’ part? What if I didn’t believe in God? Eh? What do you do with atheists, agnostics or scientologists?” enquired The Crunch.

“I guess you’d make Tom Cruise swear on…thetans or something. Or is it ‘so help me aliens’? May I suggest ‘so help you science fiction’?

By this time, all of the court’s inhabitants were in uproar. 3 of them were resisting the urge to strangle The Crunch and two of them were sniggering behind their ’hands.’

“Mr Crunch!” roared the Judge.

“Actually, it’s Mr Crunchleton but you can call me Crunch,” said The Crunch, amiably.

“Crunch Crunchleton?” exclaimed his lawyer quietly, stifling a giggle.

“Order! Order! Order!” roared the Judge; spit flying out from underneath his moustache.  Silence met him. The courtroom filled with stale air. They all watched as a dust ball floated past.

“I realise that may have been a little over the top,” the Judge said, sheepishly as big, burly guy who says things in a manly voice wiped the spittle of his face with a disgruntled expression.

“No!” everyone cried out in unison.

“It was entirely fitting.”

“We deserved it.”

“Scared the hell out of me.”

Judge Moody cleared his throat and said in a sanctimonious tone, “Well then. Shall we proceed?” The Judge shot a pointed look at The Crunch.

The Crunch sighed and raised his right ‘hand.’

“Wait, why does it have to be the right hand all the time? What if I was left-handed? Or had only a stump for a right hand? Or had some sort of religious belief preventing me from lifting my right arm? (Hey, you never know) What would you do then?”

The court heaved a collective sigh of impatience.

“So Mr Cow, you claim that Mr Crunchleton stole your… cape?”

“Yes, Your Honour,” answered Magnificent cow solemnly. He turned and poked his tongue out at The Crunch. The Crunch squealed in indignation.

“Just exactly what do you hope to gain from this case?” asked the Judge.

“Well, my cape back safe and sound for one thing and some money for the damages wouldn’t go astray, either.”

“What damages?” asked The Crunch, incensed.

“Emotional damages,” Magnificent Cow replied, choking back a sob.

“Al right, all right. That’s enough,” the Judge said sternly, peering at the fuming pair through his monocle.

“Mr Crunchleton?”

“Yes’m?”

“Will you please tell the court what happened on that fateful night that Mr Cow’s cape was stolen.”

“Gladly, Your Honour,” The Crunch replied, sweetly.

“Kiss a**!” coughed Magnificent Cow.

The court turned to look at him.

“Well, we were all thinking it,” Magnificent Cow said, defensively.

The crowd turned back to The Crunch.

“I went over to Maggie’s…Mr Cow’s place for dinner and of course, we both got pretty sloshed,” The Crunch started.

“Sloshed?” The Judge asked, confused.

“Drunk? Smashed? Off our faces?” The Crunch elaborated.

“Oh, right, right. Go on,” prodded Judge Moody.

“Well, my memory is a little blurry around the edges but I distinctly remember Mr Cow signing an ownership record for the cape in question,” The Crunch announced, firmly.

“Oh, that’s bull!”

“Outrageous!”

”Tis true, I swear it!” The Crunch said, earnestly.

“Mr Cow, do you care to weigh in on this discussion?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Well, I must admit that my recollection of that night is also not entirely reliable, Your Honour. I do know, however, that I would never sign the rights away on my beloved cape!” Magnificent Cow cried out, his chest heaving with emotion.

“So, Mr Crunch, you adamantly claim that Mr Cow presented you with a legally binding contract for his cape? And Mr Cow, you swear that you would never have done such a thing?” asked the Judge.

They both nodded, vigorously.

“Well, then, there’s only one thing to do,” the Judge paused for dramatic effect, “show me the contract.”

“Uh… well. There might be a problem. I… don’t exactly know where it is,” The Crunch explained, ashamedly.

 “You don’t know where the ownership records are?” asked the Judge, incredulously.

The Crunch muttered, “Yes.”

Magnificent Cow grinned triumphantly to himself.

“Well then this was a waste of time…” the Judge started.

“Wait!”

The Judge froze.

“I think I may know who took them,” The Crunch said, wide eyed, “I have reason to believe that the person in possession of the ownership records is…my pot plant.”

The court gasped. Jaws dropped. Cars came to a screeching halt outside.

 “Just exactly why do you suspect your…pot plant, was it?” the judge enquired, intrigued.

“Oh, she’s never liked me. Always on my case about every little thing…” moaned The Crunch.

“Why doesn’t she like you?” Magnificent Cow couldn’t help asking.

“Because of my ‘sub-par watering skills’, apparently,” answered The Crunch, rolling his eyes.

Later that day

“Uh…Miss Plant?”

“Pot, Your Honour.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Well, my friends call me PP.”

“Pee-Pee?”

“Coz of my initials,” she explained, looking in confusion at the tittering crowd.

“I see,” sighed the Judge.

The Crunch sniggered and whispered to his attorney, “I came up with that.”

The attorney surveyed his client through bespectacled eyes and hummed, indifferently. He walked up to the stand, looked Pot Plant straight in the eye and asked, “Do you have any idea where Mr Crunch’s ownership records are?”

Pot Plant withered underneath the attorney’s bespectacled gaze, hesitated and answered, “No.”

“You’re lying!” The Crunch yelled, suddenly.

“Am not!” Pot Plant squeaked, indignantly.

“Are too!”

“Am not!”

“Tell the truth!” screamed The Crunch.

“You can’t handle the truth!”

“Enough!” growled the Judge, “May I remind you, Miss Plant, that you are under oath?”

Pot Plant looked down at her lap, thought for a moment then sighed.

“Okay, okay! I may have taken his silly ownership record thingy,” admitted Pot Plant, grudgingly.

“See!” The Crunch yelled, jubilantly.

Magnificent Cow scowled to himself.

“You admit to taking Mr Crunch’s ownership record?” asked the Judge.

“Yeah…I saw him passed out and drooling, clutching a silly little paper thingy and well, it wasn’t my fault! He forgot to water me again! I mean, he came over to me drunk as a skunk earlier and he…but I wouldn’t call THAT watering…more like…”

“Peepee?” laughed The Crunch.

“Yes?” answered Pot Plant and the whole court giggled.

The Judge silenced them with his gavel. “Okay, if you will kindly hand over the ownership record, then this absurd case will be over and done with…”

(Of Scientology and Spittle will return after this short commercial)

The head juror handed the Judge the verdict.

“I find the defendant…”

The whole court leaned forward expectantly.

“…not guilty.”

“Whooooopppppeeee!” whooped The Crunch and threw his hat in the air in his jubilation.

His eyes met that of Magnificent Cow’s and both quickly looked at the floor. The Crunch had initially been miffed with Magnificent Cow but had unexpectedly enjoyed the crazy day and his fun had cooled his anger. Magnificent Cow was feeling slightly ashamed over his vehemence about the ownership records. Both were prepared to do everything they could to repair their friendship.

 “Hey,” greeted Magnificent Cow.

“Hi,” replied The Crunch and they strode out of the courtroom, both vowing to never mention the day again. Magnificent Cow decided to break the ice.

“So, scientologists don’t believe in God?” asked Magnificent Cow, inquisitively.

“Nope,” answered The Crunch.

“So, is like Tom Cruise their leader, or something?” asked Magnificent Cow, shuddering and sniggering.

“No, personally I think that Tom Cruise is only a pawn in this scientology craziness,” began The Crunch, “He’s much too short for the role of cult leader. They need a tall, impressive behemoth of a person. Not some taller girl-marrying, ‘The Outsiders’–ruining, couch-destroying, Oprah-mortifying…”

(Of Scientology and Spittle will return after this short commercial.)

“…small guy.”

Finis.

Reviews

[Billy]

Wow, I honestly am not sure what words to use as a description, but this was pretty amazing, as far as I'm concerned.
I see you have, and use, a great sense of humor, and a wonderful amount of wit.
I really enjoyed reading this.