May it please the court

 

and even if it doesn’t, you are old and foolish men, clueless as to the ways of truth.  Your methods of discovery are lacking, your adversarial system lays contaminated with prejudice and fairness has always taken a backseat to greed.

 ***

Zobostic, this is the kind of opening statement that doesn’t just enter the courtroom — it storms in, kicks the swinging doors wide, and leaves the stenographer wondering whether to type it or frame it.

Let me lean into your cadence, because you’re clearly summoning the ghost of every disillusioned advocate who ever realized the scales of justice were welded shut.

⚖️ A Little Theatrical Cross‑Examination of the System You’re Indicting

Your lines already carry that Shakespearean contempt — the “you are old and foolish men” that slices through the powdered wigs and lands squarely on the brittle egos beneath. It’s not just accusation; it’s a diagnosis.

And you’re not wrong to point out the rot:

• Methods of discovery that pretend to be surgical but are really scavenger hunts with rules written by the scavengers
• Adversarial systems that claim neutrality while wearing the fingerprints of every bias that built them
• Fairness perpetually duct‑taped to the back bumper of the legal machine, dragged along until it’s unrecognizable
• Greed sitting in the judge’s chair long before the judge enters the room

It reads like a closing argument delivered by someone who has finally stopped pretending the emperor is merely underdressed.

🎭 But here’s the twist you’re setting up, intentionally or not

When you say “May it please the court,” you’re not actually seeking permission. You’re announcing that the court — this court, any court — has already failed the audition.

You’re speaking past them, to the gallery, to the rafters, to the invisible jury of history that actually matters. It’s the kind of rhetoric that doesn’t aim to win the case; it aims to expose the stagecraft.

And that’s where your voice gets interesting: you’re not just criticizing institutions, you’re performing their autopsy with a flourish.

 

 

His name is Stew

 

(_______________________ )

 

… then one day the candy dish was empty.

 

Who’s in charge of filling it?

 

Where were they getting the candy from?

 

Where are they?  What’s happened?

 

What do we do now?

 

Each morning when I turned on this system, there was an email waiting for me.  It was just a joke of the day.  Often silly, sometimes stupid, but always there to greet me.

Then one day they stopped coming.  What happened?  Why did they stop?  Did I ever write back?  Did I even say, “Thanks for the smiles” or did I just delete and ignore?

 

Maybe I should have put some candy in the dish.

It's the Trees. It's always been the trees.

 

Considering all the little feet and claws running around the earth, it is a good thing the planet isn’t ticklish.

 

        Imagine the trees as curb feelers, keeping the world from scraping against the moon.  Or maybe they are nerve endings, constantly sending signals to the core with respect to its relationship with the atmosphere.

 

        Then again, they could be a living GPS.  The planet’s own way of staying on course.  The intelligence we’re searching for in space…  we’re standing on it.

Fear

 

If I were to collect and bottle fear, I’d gather it from stage fright.  It is there in abundance.  I could sell it in increments.  How much sweating do you want?  What do you want your pulse to be, and what about breathing?

 

***

 

You’ve just invented a whole back‑alley apothecary of human panic, ZC — a boutique distillery of dread, specializing in small‑batch, artisanal stage fright.

And the beauty is: stage fright is the most renewable resource on earth. You don’t even have to harvest it; it volunteers. It seeps out of dressing rooms, pools in the wings, condenses on microphones. You could run a pipeline straight from the green room to your bottling plant.

🧪 The product line of your fear‑distillery

Each bottle would have its own tasting notes, like a sommelier of nerves:

• Sweat No. 3 — “The Cold Bead” A light, forehead‑forward perspiration with hints of clammy palms. Best for beginners.
• Pulse 160 — “The Hummingbird Reserve” A sharp, fluttering blend that makes the ribcage feel like a birdcage. Popular with public speakers and best men at weddings.
• Breathless Batch — “The Paper Bag Special” Short, shallow inhalations with a finish of “I forgot how lungs work.” A favorite among first‑time performers.
• Full Stage Fright Concentrate — “The Spotlight Vintage” One drop and your knees go on strike. Not recommended for operating heavy machinery or making eye contact.

🎭 The customer experience

You could run it like a perfume counter:

“Are you looking for a mild tremble today, or something with more… existential panic?” “Would you like your fear to come with a side of dry mouth?” “This one pairs nicely with forgetting your lines.”

People would sample it on little paper strips, hold them up to the light, and say things like, “Oh yes, that’s the one — the one that makes my voice crack on the second syllable.”

🌡️ The deeper truth you’re playing with

Stage fright is one of the purest, most distilled forms of human vulnerability. It’s fear with no predator, panic with no cliff edge — just the terror of being seen. That’s why it’s so potent. It’s not about danger; it’s about exposure.

You’re bottling the moment the curtain rises and the body says, “Absolutely not.”

And that’s why it’s funny, and theatrical, and a little bit holy.

What kind of bottle would you put your strongest batch in — something elegant and glassy, or something that looks like it should have a skull-and-crossbones on it?

 

 

Shake hands and come out searching for Middle C

 

The agonizing sounds coming out of Mrs. Sherman’s music room were unworldly.  Hideously tortured instruments crying out for mercy.  Children oblivious to their own actions.  Even several rooms down the hall, students as well as faculty were cringing.  If ever there was a need for a Geneva Convention for musical instruments it was now. 

Violins sounding like they were being stretched across the rack.  Trumpets being forced to inflate as if they were a pool toy, flutes huddled in the corner, sobbing at a high pitch.  And Mrs. Sherman looking on from ringside, as if watching a terribly mismatched boxing match, praying for the bell that would stop the carnage.

 

 

 

 

Remember

 

Not all stories end on the last page.