I came prepared with all provisions necessary for maintaining a clear, active mind as I wait in the jury pool. I must use my iPad, smartphone, and the various apps contained within them to remain mentally limber, so I can pounce on the falsehoods hidden within the arguments of the accused. Oh, the accused are crafty; their lies honed to a cutting edge. An hour of flicking through my Netflix queue before settling on something I've seen many times before should do the trick.

Or, I can ignore Netflicking and instead get wrapped up in the inspiring film The Blind Side, starring Sandra Bullock. The fine people who run the jury selection process have chosen the film (for which Ms. Bullock received an Academy Award) to entertain us as we await our opportunity to wield the flaming broadsword of the law. It seems like a fine film, but I cannot allow it to distract me from today's duty.

My entertainment options are open. Now it's a matter of being selected. I'll make you proud, America.

An hour in, I've already grown tired of my technology. Limitless entertainment, all a few swipes away, and not a bit of it is satisfying. I hunger for more. I yearn for substance. I desire the exhilaration of courtroom battle! In lieu of that, I stare at a fellow juror's ugly Hawaiian shirt. It's no epic fight between agents of deceit and paragons of truth, but it's got enough sailboats and hibiscus flowers to keep my mind occupied with perplexing questions like "Why?" and "Why?" but in italics.

Looking around, this seems to be the norm among male jurors. Some, like me, came dressed in a flawlessly ironed button-up shirt and slacks so khaki that they're the envy of every Christian missionary in the county. The summons specifically mentioned a strict dress code, but it did not mention that I could decide the fate of a human life while looking like Jimmy Buffet.

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Go back to your lawless heathen sanctuary of Margaritaville, you beachcombing bastard!

I so itch to pass judgment on a case that I've developed a warm-up exercise to fight the fatigue of boredom. I close my eyes and, based solely on its appearance, bestow the first thing/person I see with a crime, and then pass judgment on it. The chairs? Guilty on millions of counts of inflaming hemorrhoids. The paint on the walls? Cleared on all charges of being pleasing. The guy to my left who thinks I can't see him picking his nose? Mistrial due to juror misconduct.

Admittedly, my patience has worn a bit thin. Two batches of names have been called, and I have not yet been honored to be one of them. No matter. Sandra Bullock just met the large shy kid, and I'm eager to find out how this encounter led to his ascent to NFL stardom.

This is fun. This is fun.

Whatever. Their loss. I'm going to the cafeteria down the hall to pick up a sandwich. If I can't pass judgment on a perp, I can get real sassy about the quality of a public courthouse cafeteria ham and Swiss on wheat. And then I'll get real judgy about the state of their restrooms. If they're clean, I'm pooping on the geometric center of the floor.

But ... what if they call my name and I'm too busy eating and/or evacuating onto the floor of a courthouse? Hm.

I'll eat later. And I'm sure restroom floors have been pooped on already. This is a government building, after all.

P.S. We're 41 minutes into The Blind Side. It's been nearly four hours since I saw the opening titles.

I'm back in the waiting room and THE FUCKING BLIND SIDE IS STILL PLAYING. How many announcements can possibly be made that a two-hour movie gets stretched out to an all-day affair like a TNT Lord Of The Rings marathon? Is this courthouse a bubble of unstuck time flowing independently from the universe, like a dot of oil defiantly holding its shape as it's sloshed in water? When I walk back to my car, will I find that humans have evolved into floating fart clouds of thought?

I have to settle down. This isn't healthy. They can't do this to us. It's not right.

My fellow jurors and I find some solace in catching each other's eyes and exchanging nods of solidarity. With only our pupils, we express a Russian novel's worth of pain. Then, with our middle fingers, we express other feelings. I fear these walls are turning us on ourselves, too. My perception of reality can no longer be trusted. I labeled this entry as "Hour 5," but in truth, I have no idea how long it's been. I found myself watching, and thoroughly enjoying, The Blind Side for what felt like at least 20 uninterrupted minutes. It ultimately turned out that I wasn't even looking at the TV, and the "movie" was a white lady idly sitting beside a black man, but still -- her performing was incredible.

She really made me believe she liked black people. Maybe that's why Sandra Bullock got the Oscar? Does she have a history of vocal racism? Was she playing against type? If so, then bravo, Bullock!