Classy Actions

Once upon a time I contemplated becoming a lawyer. I could see myself wearing a suit and arguing that those Hudson River fish died of old age in General Electric v. A Bunch of Losers Who Think Rivers Shouldn’t Be Flammable—oh yeah, I’d be corporate, baby. Unfortunately, I’m not much for remembering legal stuff. I think the term “pro bono” has something to do with Ron Jeremy, the Socratic Method is an electronica band and torts are delicious. But right now, I’d like to revisit my legal-eagle alter ego because I feel the need to defend myself against a litany of slanderous accusations leveled at me by my “friends,” per se, mea culpa, uma thurma turbo. Here then, I give you the alleged charge against which I, the alleged defendant, allegedly plead innocent.

Doyle, Wilson et al v. Ez. This case was brought after the defendant, Mr. Dyer, failed to bring his snowmobile on a trip to the Adirondacks. The plaintiffs, Messrs. Doyle and Wilson, also allege that the defendant got a lobster-related Trivial Pursuit question wrong and recently paid more than $100 for a pair of jeans. Therefore his Mainer card should be revoked until further notice.

Your honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, good morning. I’d like to draw your attention to Exhibit A, my right hand. You’ll notice a scar across the top of my middle knuckle. See that? Pretty bad, isn’t it? Don’t worry, it’s fine—it hurts a bit when I’m ladling soup down at the shelter or giving massages at the old folks’ home, but I’ll be alright. I’ll bet you wonder how I got that scar. Fancy Boston fella like myself, I probably cut myself on a martini glass, right? Or maybe I spilled some merlot on my khakis and got so mad that I punched my IKEA occasional table? Wrong. That scar is from a sled—I’m sorry, a “snowmobile.” We Mainers call them sleds.

A few years ago my hand slipped on a spark plug wrench and I bashed my knuckles into my 1977 Scorpion Sting’s cylinder head. But that’s not the only trouble my sled’s caused. One time my mother was helping me push it back into the barn after a big storm, and she slipped and her foot got stuck in the track. I had to take her to the emergency room, ayuh. That’s the truth, even though having to take your mother to the ER with a snowmobile injury sounds like the punchline to a Jeff Foxworthy joke. My point is that snowmobiles are dangerous, diabolical machines and I’m never riding one again until I can afford something a bit safer, like a 2004 Arctic Cat ZR 900 EFI Sno Pro with hand-warmers and a studded track.

On the topic of Trivial Pursuit, the questionable question was, “How many legs does a lobster have?” Being a former lobsterman, I said eight. Trivial Pursuit said the answer was 10. Now take a look at Exhibit B, the Maine license plate that once adorned my Camaro IROC-Z. Please note that when you read between the ones on either end, the plate reads 3MTA3, or, in your rear-view mirror, “eat me”—which is appropriate, because also on this plate is a tasty eight-legged lobster. So the Trivial Pursuit people count the claws as legs. Does that make sense? Members of the jury, if I asked you how many legs you have, would you say four? Would you put on a pair of gloves and walk to the dentist on your hands? Well, neither would a lobster. That’d be silly—lobsters don’t even have teeth. I am right, and Trivial Pursuit, which is written by a bunch of yuppie flatlanders who wouldn’t know a lobster if one walked in the door, jumped in a pot of boiling water and served itself with a side of corn, are wrong.

Finally, let’s get into my pants. I do not dispute the fact that I bought a pair of jeans at French Connection for $108. But is that so wrong? I mean, they’re boot-cuts, so I could wear them fishing or hunting, although I’d be pretty upset if I spilled bait juice on them or got mud on the cuffs. But they’re perfect for when I’m going out to a lounge that’s chic yet casual—you know, the kind of place where the calamari comes with something more imaginative than marinara sauce, like maybe a passion fruit chutney.

What?! My Mainer card has been suspended? Whatever. It’s not like you can get a decent latte up there anyway. ∂