by Andy Simmons
It all started two years ago, when Judge Pearson took a pair of pants to Custom Cleaners to have them altered for the sum of $10.50. Two days later, the pants turned up missing. Pearson told the Chungs, the family who owns the cleaners, to cough up a thousand bucks for a new suit. A week later, the Chungs said the pants had showed up, and they refused to pay. But Pearson said the pants weren’t his and decided to sue. The Chungs countered with a $12,000 settlement offer—that would have amounted to twelve brand-new sets of pinstripes for the judge. But out of principle, Pearson went ahead with his suit. Signs hanging in the store read SATISFACTION GUARANTEED and SAME-DAY SERVICE, which he insisted constituted fraud.
How did he arrive at his princely sum? By following DC’s consumer-protection laws, which impose fines of $1,500 per violation, per day. Pearson figured he’d been cheated twenty different ways, twelve of them over the course of twelve hundred days, the length of time he estimated the offending signs were up. He then multiplied that amount by three, the number of Chungs who own the shop. His laundry list of greed included $1,500,000 for emotional damages and $542,500 to cover the cost of his lawyer, who happened to be a guy named Judge Roy L. Pearson. For good measure, he tacked on $45,000, the cost of renting a car for the next ten years to drive to and from some other dry cleaner.
Disposition: Even Pearson must have thought $67 million was a lot to ask for, since he dropped some of his demands before going to trial and ended up asking for only $54 million. That paltry sum was still too much for the presiding judge, who dismissed the case.
Blonde Ambition
Charlotte Feeney says blondes have more fun, and that’s why she sued cosmetics giant L’Oréal for $15,000. Feeney insisted her life was ruined when she accidentally touched up her naturally flaxen locks with brown dye from a mis labeled box.
“I was sick to my stomach,” she said in an affidavit. “I have a bad hair day every day. I had headaches. I don’t like myself. I stay home more than ever in my life. I wear hats most of the time.” What’s more, she told her doctor that she doesn’t know how to dress now that she’s no longer a blonde—one reason her doctor prescribed medication to treat anxiety and depression.
So why didn’t she dye her hair blond and wait for her natural color to grow back? Who knows, but the real question is, “What’s wrong with being a raven-haired beauty?” “Blondes get more attention than brunettes,” she claimed. “Emotionally, I miss that.”
Disposition: No doubt an Audrey Hepburn fan, the judge dismissed the suit, ruling that Feeney never proved that L’Oréal was to blame for the mix-up.
ePay Up
Ask Steve Shellhorn and he’ll probably tell you that if you have nothing nice to say about someone, lie. Shellhorn, a Seattle native, bought coins on eBay from Charles Burgess, who then asked for feedback (a regular practice on the site). Was the service good or bad? Shellhorn was torn. The Morgan silver dollars were in fine shape, and the price was fair. But the packaging left a lot to be desired.
“The coins were hanging out of the envelope,” he later told Seattle’s King 5 News. There should have been proper packing to keep them in place. With that in mind, Shellhorn left neutral feedback, neither good nor bad.
The lukewarm response got a hot one from Burgess. Charging fraud and extortion, he sued Shellhorn for $10,000 over his “childish and vindictive” behavior, which, he feared, could harm future sales.
Disposition: Misery loves company, and Shellhorn had plenty. It turns out that Burgess made it a habit to go after less-than-thrilled customers. The judge sided with Shellhorn, but not before he’d spent $500 for an attorney.
Air Apparent
A lot of men wouldn’t mind being mistaken for Michael Jordan. After all, Jordan is famous and handsome, not to mention the greatest basketball player of all time. Allen Heckard, however, begs to differ. After being told he resembled His Airness one too many times, he sued Jordan and the chairman of Nike, Phil Knight, for $832 million. Imagine what he would have demanded had people thought he had a face like Larry Bird’s.
Like Jordan, Heckard is African American and bald, and wears a hoop in one ear and Air Jordans on his feet. He also likes to play basketball. For you nitpickers, Heckard is six inches shorter than Jordan, eight years older, and much lighter in the wallet. But that’s neither here nor there. For fifteen years, he’d been identified as Michael Jordan, and someone had to pay for defamation, permanent injury, and his emotional pain and suffering.
Now, it’s obvious what Jordan’s role was in making this man’s life miserable, but what was Phil Knight’s crime? Well, he promoted Jordan and made him—and, ipso facto, Heckard—one of the most recognizable people in the world.
Still, what’s so awful about looking like Mike? According to foxsports.com, Heckard claims that it’s saddled him with a level of professional expectations that he’s unable to live up to. Heckard, by the way, is an airport shuttle-bus driver.
Disposition: Maybe resembling Michael Jordan isn’t so bad after all, since Heckard dropped the lawsuit without giving a reason.
The Guide to the American Man-Hug
The man-hug is a vestigial practice of a bygone era when men sought to show off their feminine side by toting purses, wearing paisley, and pretending to like Joni Mitchell.
I, like most American males, am personally opposed to greeting other males with a cuddle. We guys would prefer a nod, a punch in the arm, or, better yet, to let our wives do the hugging for us. Our European brothers are different. Given the opportunity, they will hug anything—women, men, children, fire hydrants.…If they can wrap their arms around it, it’s in danger of being embraced. Still, even in the good ol’ USA, I’ll occasionally run into someone who’s just come back from Italy or an Olive Garden and feels compelled to greet me with arms akimbo. Should that happen to you, here are some points to consider. But first, remember this: The act you are about to engage in is about as intimate as one American male gets with another American male (unless said male is a dog), and is therefore executed with the least amount of intimacy possible. Good luck.
To Hug or Not?
You have milliseconds to answer these questions before deciding on a hug, a handshake, a wave, or fleeing: “Will the person I’m considering hugging be receptive?” “Will he sweat on me?” “Is that him swimming in Axe cologne?”
“I’m Going for It!”
You’ve determined that it’s his wife who’s lathered on the Axe. Get ready to commence man-hug! Stand a good foot away. This no-man’s land is the DMZ, a necessary barrier to ensure minimum intimacy. North Koreans know enough not to cross such a threshold, and so should you.
The Hand Grab
Clasp the other man’s hand as if you’re about to arm wrestle. Instead of slamming it against a table, use it to draw him toward you.
Uh-Oh, His Lips Are Getting Close…
Quickly turn your face forty-five degrees to the left.
Repeat: Turn your face forty-five degrees to the left!
The Back Pat
The pat is an important element because it lessens the amount of time you actually have to touch the other guy.
Remember: You’re not frisking him. It’s a hearty pat, as if you’re burping a baby: “There you go, let’s get that beer out of ya. That’s a good middle-aged man.…”
How Long Must I Do This For?
Any longer than three beats and people will suggest you two rent yourselves a motel room.
Okay, I Want Out
Push back, release your grip, smile embarrassedly, and pretend it never happened.
Lame Excuses
Well, that’s just great. Not only does some governor in South Carolina have a tryst in Argentina, his staff uses my excuse.
Now I can never again trot out the old hiking-the-Appalachian-Trail-so-I-couldn’t-be-reached defense. I don’t even like to hike, but I do like a good Argentinean tryst, and I really love a good excuse. We all do—that’s why we reach for one whenever we’re trapped. “Any excus
e is better than none,” says John Rooney, a professor emeritus in psychology at La Salle University, “because if you tell a good story and entertain, that’s sometimes more important than the truth.”
I’m all for that, as is the woman in Ohio who was arrested for torching a bar’s bathroom. When asked by a cop why she did it, she stated unequivocally, “I felt stressed because of the death of Michael Jackson.” That’s certainly more entertaining than “I was blotto.” And what about the Polish woman who insisted that her teenage daughter came down with a bad case of pregnancy after swimming in a hotel pool? Were you entertained, or did you think that it sounded plausible? If the latter, then you’ll believe these excuses, which are among the best I’ve ever heard.
“Frankly, I’m a Shallots Man Myself”
Peter Ivan Dunne was awaiting trial in Ireland, charged with a sex crime. Before the trial ended, he fled to England and was convicted in absentia. About to be extradited, he explained to a British court that he should not be sent back, because his experience with the Irish penal system had led him to believe that his right to life, as spelled out by Article 2 of the European Convention on Human Rights, would be violated.
The lame excuse: They’d serve him red onions. Dunne’s allergic to them, and he was sure the prison would make him eat the “potentially life-threatening” vegetable.
Did anyone buy it? The court decided that it was doubtful that the prison would have such a cavalier attitude toward his allergy and shipped Dunne back to Ireland.
“My Hands Are Clean—My Liver, Not So Much”
When in doubt, blame booze! Unless, of course, the drunk excuse only makes matters worse. A few years ago, then–New York congressman Vito Fossella was pulled over in Alexandria, Virginia, by a cop and blew a 0.17 on the Breathalyzer—more than twice the legal limit. After the hangover, Fossella knew he’d better start thinking fast.
The lame excuse: His high blood-alcohol level was a result of the alcohol-based hand sanitizer he’d used.
Did anyone buy it? After several “What do you take us for?” looks from the cops, DAs, the press—pretty much everyone—Fossella changed his plea from DUIHS (driving under the influence of hand sanitizer) to good old-fashioned DUI.
“No Thong? No Candy? No Mr. Nice Guy!”
Marco Fella of England admitted attacking his girlfriend with a dog toy and, another time, biting her finger. But it wasn’t his fault.
The lame excuse: “My client’s temper snapped because he felt his partner was not making enough effort in the relationship,” said his lawyer.
The lamer excuse: She wore baggy pants instead of the sexy thong he preferred.
The lamerer excuse: Biting and assault with a pet toy aside, Fella is not really violent—he just hadn’t had his fill of Mars bars. See, Fella is a sugar addict and has a ten-Mars-bars-a-day habit. And if he’s jonesing for one, well, he’s not responsible for his actions.
Did anyone buy it? Possibly the Mars Inc., marketing division, but that’s about it. Fella enrolled in an anger management course.
“I Was Too Taxed to File”
Charles J. O’Byrne, the top aide to then New York governor David Paterson, neglected to file tax returns for five years. “Neglected” is really the wrong word, says his lawyer: O’Byrne couldn’t pay his taxes.
The lame excuse: He suffers from a medical condition called late-filing syndrome, which is caused by depression. And even though this depression did not stop him from being a highly functional professional or enjoying an active social life, it did seem to affect his ability to pay taxes—five years in a row.
Did anyone buy it? Not the American Psychiatric Association. An APA representative told the New York Times that it doesn’t recognize late-filing syndrome as a psychiatric condition.
“Decimal Points Are So Confusing”
A $1,772.50 bank deposit showed up in Randy and Melissa Pratt’s bank account as $177,250. No problem, said the Bloomsburg, Pennsylvania, couple. We’ll just quit our jobs, close up the house, and move to sunny Florida. Bye! Of course, banks hate to lose that much money, so they sicced the cops on the Pratts. But the couple swore they weren’t thieves and that it had all been just an honest mistake.
The lame excuse: Her husband was a roofing installer, said Melissa Pratt, so they often got large checks. And, well, all large checks look alike, so they didn’t pay such close attention, because, after all, who pays attention to a check for $177,250?
Did anyone buy it? Would you? Melissa Pratt pleaded guilty to theft, and Randy Pratt was awaiting trial at press time.
The Lame Excuse Starter Script
Are you routinely in need of a good excuse, only to find yourself resorting to the same, tired retreads? If so, I’ve put together this handy script, using only tried-and-true whoppers that have served me well on countless occasions. In this scenario, I’ve created a confrontation between an employee and his employer. (Okay, okay, it’s a transcript between me and my boss.) But these lame excuses work anywhere, so clip and save for easy reference.
Employee: Yes, sir, it’s true that the words big, fat idiot were preceded by the words you are a. However, I assure you my words were “taken out of context.”1 But “I apologize if my comments offended.”2 “The truth is, I’m not perfect. This is not about perfection.”3 I understand that our harsh words stem from the fact that I neglected to get you the Frobisheyer contract this morning. But “I had other priorities.”4 Last night, I was busy with a friend. No, we don’t have to tell my wife—“I was just giving her a ride home,”5 that’s all. But after what happened, HR insisted that I take a certain test, and, well, I didn’t pass, you know, because of my “vanishing twin.”6 I believe I told you all about that. No? My bad. But I swear “I didn’t inhale and never tried it again.”7 And no, there is nothing suspicious about those pills security found. I need them. “I have really bad menstrual cramps.”8 Yes, I’m aware that I am a man: I suffer sympathy cramps. Besides, I also need them because “I have severe acid reflux.”9 The police weren’t convinced either. Then again, “the police, since my trouble, have not worked out for me.”10 But not to worry, I’ll get that contract to you just as soon as my trial ends. No, I’m not sure when that will be, since “I didn’t show up for court, because I didn’t have a professional bodyguard.”11
1. Russell Crowe’s representative, after Crowe implied that Sharon Stone had had a face-lift and looked like a chimpanzee
2. Kentucky senator Jim Bunning’s non-apology apology after saying that Supreme Court justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg would not survive her cancer
3. Laurie David, green queen and producer of An Inconvenient Truth, after it was revealed that she’d flown several times on a carbon-spewing private jet
4. Dick Cheney on why he avoided serving in Vietnam
5. Eddie Murphy, after he was pulled over by cops for picking up a transvestite prostitute
6. Olympic cyclist Tyler Hamilton explaining away blood-doping charges. He claims his twin sibling died in utero, so he has two kinds of blood in his body.
7. Bill Clinton on his attempt at smoking pot
8. Nicole Richie explaining why Vicodin was in her system after she was found driving the wrong way on a freeway
9. Ashlee Simpson, after she was caught lip-synching on Saturday Night Live
10. O. J. Simpson on why he didn’t call the police to help him retrieve his stolen goods from a Las Vegas hotel room
11. Courtney Love on why she failed to appear for her hearing on a drug-possession charge
My American Journey (Part 2)
People often ask me how I became the humor editor at Reader’s Digest. It’s quite simple, really…
It all started in Mars, California. The way everyone stared at me made me feel as if I were from a different planet. After a good look at my reflection in Monkey’s Eyebrow, Kentucky, I saw why. I put on hold my vacation to Pretty boy, Maryland—a trim was in order. But where? Tater Peeler, Tennessee, it seemed, was the logical spot. I was
wrong. The barbers in Scissors, Texas, made a valiant effort to save my do, but it was too late: I was left down in the dumps in Bald Head, Maine.
Comfort food was called for, and I found some in Cookietown, Oklahoma. After a month of indulgence, people wondered aloud if I were from Chunky, Mississippi. “I haven’t seen such cellulite since Sandy Mush, North Carolina!” they howled. The fat jokes got to me, so I moved to where they would never dare call me that—Big Bone, Kentucky. It was pure fantasyland. During the day, I swam in Ham Lake, Minnesota; at night I dreamed I was in King Arthur Court, Tennessee. All was fine as long as I got home by midnight in Cinderella, West Virginia, and didn’t tell anyone about seeing Unicorn, Pennsylvania. Had I let that slip out, they’d surely have sent me straight to Looneyville, Texas.
But having grown up in Tightwad, Missouri, I wasn’t about to pay the outrageous one-way fare. No, I needed someplace cheap. Too scared to fly into Eek, Alaska, I found an alternative lifestyle in Gay Meadows, Alabama. I told stories about my haircut and stumbled upon a receptive audience in Chuckle, North Carolina, where they swore I would kill in Humorist, Washington. Who was I to argue? I wasn’t from Squabbletown, California. I knew the Reader’s Digest editor was also staying in Texas, so I rang her doorbell in Ding Dong.