This is a compilation of all four parts of "Hungover On Judge Judy" (as seen on the "Drinking Stories" forum), including witty quips, curses, profanity and lots of passive-aggressive taunts toward The Reader. The Drunks seemed to have enjoyed it, perhaps your readers might too.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: the following is entirely true except for the shit I made up.
You know you are getting a matrimonial deal when you meet your future spouses' parents and they look down their aristocratic noses in their formal dining room at you and say "You, sir are not good enough for our daughter!" And then pour out the vintage port wine.
Conversely, you know you are going to get royally fucked over if they drop their mexican cough syrup bottle, grab your hand in a grimy paw and pump it a dozen times, chanting in a spray of cracker crumbs "OH! OH! We thank GOD for you every day!!!!"
Which one do you think I got?
I remember, a few years into our marriage when my wife began lobbying to move her third set of relatives into our house, saying "Hey - I have family too! But they have places to LIVE! And they LIVE in them!!!"
It wasn't all bad in my marriage. My wife broadened my horizons and introduced me to many things I would have never experienced in my stuffy bourgeois life: subpoenas, the friendly, understanding folks at bill collection agencies, the county sheriff, the good folk at our local mental health care facility. There is a whole WORLD out there people!
Ok so her family was scummy and did all the scummy things scummy people do in true scummy fashion, most scummily. Marry scummy people and you get SCUM!
And the day came to pass that I was summoned to court for trespasses against a manic-depressive family member (of HERS) involving all sorts of imaginary sleights that I can't describe for fear of being accused of mental illness. Claims were filed in court and served. I was apalled (my natural State of Being for the last 10 years).
24 Hours Later
The interior of a bedroom, tastefully painted in bright plummy-purple by the mistress of the home. Mongeaux is on the bed in a state of nervous exhaustion. Scummy Wife is on bed chain- stuffing potato chips into her fat fucking yap and watching General Hospital .
PHONE: Ring! Ring!
MONGEAUX: (picks up the phone) Hello?
TOADY: Hi, I'm a producer for the Judge Judy Show. The Judge, as you know, does family law and we scan court dockets across the nation for interesting cases. We have spoken to your sister-in-law and we were wondering if you wouldn't mind telling us your side of the story?"
MONGEAUX: Honey! It's for YOU!
SCUMMY WIFE: Who is it? Can't you see i'm buisy chain-stuffing potato chips into my fat fucking yap!
MONGEAUX: It's Judge Judy again! They must have your scummy family numbers on speed dial you fat fucking WHORE! (artistic license inserted)
SCUMMY WIFE: Hello? OH! Well LET me TEll you....(vacuous chatter)...and then she took a bottle of cooking oil...(vacuous chatter)...so he tested POSITIVE for....(vacuous chatter)....the SWAT Team came and they said...(vacuous chatter)....I'm a fat scummy whore who didn't deserve his saintly, talented writer-hubby....(vacuous chatter)...let me check my schedule...
MONGEAUX: (miming) NO! NO! NOOOOOO! I AM NOT GOING ON JUDGE FUCKING JUDY!!!!!
SCUMMY WIFE: Ok! See you next Month! HONEY!
MONGEAUX: (weakly) Oh...Jesus, no....
SCUMMY WIFE: WE'RE GONNA BE ON "JUDGE JUDY"!!!!!!
To be continued...
Special BONUS Preview of part II:
On The Plane To Hollywood
FAGGOT STEWARD: (to MONGEAUX) And what may I get you sir?
MONGEAUX: (wearily) Three Bottles Of Scotch and a Barf Bag Please.
FAGGOT STEWARD: Very good! And for Madame?
SCUMMY WIFE: Let's see...what looks good? I think I'll have a 5 pound bag of sugar and a bucket of Pork fat.
It took three scotches to fly from Manchester NH to Chicago O'Hare for a short, two-scotch layover. Five Scotches later we arrived at LAX.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is part two in the continuing saga of the Author's humiliation in front of the entire world - and in 1.5 light years (the speed at which radio signals travel) - to the White Trash equivalent of the residents of any inhabited planet orbiting Alpha Centuri (our nearest Stellar neighbor).
Court is never a relaxing experience. Appearing before any person who could theoretically deprive you of large portions of your hard-won earnings and/or liberty is innately stressful - or should be to anyone not on hard drugs. Now, combine that with an audience of several million housewives, chronic unemployables and greasy foreigners stuffing their mouths with squid while they cackle at the humiliation of yet another White-Devil Infidel NorteAmericano and you have an excuse to be drunk for a month.
I wasn't drunk for a month - just three weeks. I was roused (as I often am) by a certain low animal cunning that kicks in just before disaster strikes. Any Drunkard who manages to survive beyond age 30 knows of which I speak: it's the moment of lucidity that comes just as you are about to prove to your cackling buddies that you CAN reach the pool from the Garage roof, or that Bulls really don't mind having an arm stuck all the way up their ass. It's the moment when the scales drop from your eyes and you realize "HOLY FUCK! WHAT THE HELL AM I ABOUT TO DO?"
I was about to go on Syndicated Television PLOWED!
Ok, a lot of people go on television ripped to the gills. Many get away with it. But I wasn't Anna Nicole Smith or Dean Martin - I was Mongeaux and I was going to have to go home afterwards and try to live a life. Paris Hilton can tuck her designer pussy back into her designer undies and jet off to Crete. I had to go back to the factory and face my coworkers.
The epiphany came as I was about to order my sixth Margarita at a generic Mexican Restaurant somewhere in what I presume was Hollywood. The wife was stuffing her aforementioned fat yap with tortillas, washed down by a vat of guacamole. She didn't give a shit what happened as long as the fat and starches kept coming. And why should she? Does a cow stress over anything other than when the farmer is going to tote over the next bale of hay?
Six hours earlier we'd landed at LAX and a cab deposited us at the Hollywood Holiday Inn. You may find this hard to believe but the opposite sides in any dispute on Judge Judy often don't get along and have to be kept apart. Since we were Defendants we got put in the "Defendant" hotel. I presume somewhere on the other side of town all the Plaintiffs were coralled in their own place too.
I think if you have to be with either of these two groups, you'd be better off with mine. Defendants are much more entertaining and infinitely scummier. It's a white-trash smorgasbord! We met a family of inbred (they all had the same jug-shaped heads and chimpanzee ears) oklahomans who were being sued for trashing a neighbors trailer. They were quite proud that soon they'd be on the "Movin' Picture Box". At the pool we had our ears bent for the better part of an hour by a paranoid schizophrenic who claimed he was going to wear a "Fuck The Judge" tee shirt when his moment of glory arrived.
Yes, I was finally among my PEERS! What a moment of pride!
I tipped the bellhop to get me a quart of rum and tried to crawl bodily into it.
Sooner or later Drunks must wander. We were, after all, in HOLLYWOOD! True, it looked like a congested shithole of strip malls and fast food joints. The pedestrians looked like they belonged in a zoological display (my favorite was a 70 year old man with a white knee-length beard who strutted by us in a in a slinky red cocktail gown - sometimes we all just like to feel pretty, I guess). But the wife needed her daily dose of lard, so off we went.
The mexican restaurant was staffed entirely by Chinese people. Maybe this is typical for Hollywood, but it seemed damned odd to me. On the other hand the Margaritas were made of genuine Mexican Cactus Juice so I really didn't give a shit who served them. It could have been a dog on a unicycle - fuck it! Give me another, Lassie and make it STRONG this time! Timmy WANTS to fall down the fucking well!
I had reached the point where I needed to close one eye to see which glass to reach for when the Wife uttered the words that would instantly undrunk me up.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is the third installment in my short series of articles concerning my appearance on the "Judge Judy" show. I usually put a joke here. I don't feel like it this time. Go screw yourself.
I stopped drinking immediately, which (considering the amount I had already imbibed over the past twelve hours) was kind of like slamming on the brakes a day AFTER you have already hit the deer in the road.
The wife, I discovered, had no intention of saying a word when we got into court. I was supposed to do all the talking. This I did not know; I assumed since the principals involved were all her scummy family, my role would consist mainly of providing emotional support. I was wrong.
Worse still, I'd spent the last year and a half working twelve-hour night shifts (seven p.m. to seven a.m.) and just to get to Hollywood I hadn't slept in over a day. I was going to be a MESS come morning. I'd be lucky if I could clutch my groin and gurgle in front of the camera, let alone make a coherent argument. We navigated our way back to our room and collapsed.
The sun rose that following day like God's Flashlight. I drank an entire pot of coffee and snuck a few shots from the mini-bar while the wife grazed placidly at the breakfast buffet. Once the bacon and maple syrup ran out it was time to hit the studio.
I guess I expected someting like you see in the movies: a fancy gateway with a uniformed guard saluting movie stars who sailed by in yellow convertibles. Instead I got a building sandwiched between a KFC and a Mattress Discounter. It looked like a smaller version of The Borg Cube - no windows or discernible features whatsoever. A long line of drunken reprobates stretched out of the single entrance. They were the audience.
As chief scumbags we were allowed to jump past the line and go right in. There was the ubiquitous metal detector to walk through, guarded by a phalanx of very large and mean looking negroes in yellow "Security" Tee-shirts. They didn't like me, probably because I was as big as them but with ten years of accumulated work muscle on my frame, instead of the steroid gym-ham that they had. We made badass goo-goo eyes at each other as I went to the defendant's waiting room. As I walked away I could almost hear them thinking "SHeeeit - If this one goes nuts, taking him down's gonna HURT!".
All my fellow losers were clustered around the stale pastry platter like buzzards on a dead gazelle. There were more Mullet Haircuts in the room than teeth. One woman had CURLERS on! The wife clawed her way to the pastries while I sought out the bathroom to see if there were any razor blades i could use to slash my wrists open.
A Note On Producers:
Judge Judy is run by a gaggle of bright, ambitous, fashionable young men and women looking to break into showbusiness. There are two basic groups.
a) Hot young babes dressed in virtually identical up-to-the-second fashions.
We were lucky - we got a babe. She was cute and perky and looked hot in calf-length go-go boots. Her job was to get us all worked up and ready for the fight to come. The only fighting I was doing was to keep my breakfast down. Tequila, stress and lack of sleep had conspired to give me the kind of hangover that should be put on film and shown to grade school kids to scare them straight for the rest of their lives. She gave up ater a few minutes and one of the Faggots came over to give it a try.
"Don't be nervous." he said.
"I think I'm going to throw up." I said.
"It'll be fine. Just be yourself."
"Can I be myself throwing up?"
"DON'T throw up!"
"Good fucking advice Liberace!" I screamed. "Shit, this job is wasted on YOU! You should be a doctor - 'Don't have a heart attack! STOP bleeding from that gunshot wound!'. Who did you BLOW to get this job?"
He beat a hasty retreat. After a while they herded us into tiny unventilated room designed, I presume, to give our pores a chance to open fully and discharge gallons of anxeity sweat. I passed the time pounding my head on the wall. The wife stood placidly chewing her cud. After a few centuries they called us onto the stage.
To be continued...
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is the big moment and I will probably fuck it up.
I crept out of the waiting room with all the enthusiasm of Alec Guiness crawling from his Sweatbox in the movie "The Bridge Over The River Kwai". Of course, Alec had it easy - all he had to face was the merciless brutality of Colonel Saito. I had to face my nutty sister-in-law, 6 million Greasy Television Losers and Judge FUCKING JUDY!
We were led past a series of big black curtains into the back of the set.
"When they say GO, you walk out that door and up to the podium." Some faggot producer whispered.
"Thanks, Rock." I said.
We lurched into the bright lights of Judge Judy's Faux courtroom. The merciless cyclopean eye of a dozen cameras focused on us. A floor director stood in the wings waving a sign that said "Walk and Talk" while chanting (For the illiterate extras in the audience, I presume) "WALK and TALK, PEOPLE! WALK and TALK!"
The drunken shitheads playing the audience aggreably mingled and mumbled, trying to look like anything but what they really were: drunken shitheads. Paralyzed with terror, the Wife and I marched up to our podium and stood there with glassy eyes. We looked like a pair of stuffed marmots.
The loopy sister-in-law and her 14 year old delinquent daughter took their places across the aisle. The chickens were all lined up. All we needed was the lady with the axe.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Since I am drunk and essentially a crass and lazy piece of shit I'll condense the action here to suit me, because writing it all out in detail would constitute work. If you don't like it there is always scrambled porn on pay per view. Fuck You.
JUDGE JUDY: I am a dried up crone who drinks a quart of vodka a night and cries herself to sleep on her bitter, lonely pillow. Whom can I destroy today?
MONGEAUX: I am a bald guy with a bitch wife but I am well spoken and seem to be telling the truth. Believe me.
WIFE: I am a fat whore.
LOOPY SISTER-IN-LAW: I am a nut-bag but I have a nice ass. MONGEAUX should have fucked me last sumer when we all got drunk in my pool and I let him feel my ass through my bikini bottom. His wife was passed out in a puddle of maple syrup at the time. She is a fat whore. I am so stupid my daughter and I both got matching eyebrow rings for the show, even though she is 14. I have no class. But I have a nice ass.
DELINQUENT DAUGHTER: I have the brain of a retarded nematode. Everything I say is a lie. Next year I will be caught getting my six year old brother stoned and I will be locked into to juvie hall till I am eighteen. Mock me please, Judge Judy!
JUDGE JUDY: I mock the slutty teenager.
MONGEAUX: Have your bailiff shoot me please!
WIFE: I am a fat whore.
LOOPY SISTER-IN-LAW: MONGEAUX should have fucked me when he had the chance. I am showing inappropriate anger towards Judge Judy, because I am not used to not getting my way.
DELIQUENT DAUGHTER: I shoot my mouth off and get slapped down.
JUDGE JUDY: MONGEAUX wins $2000! FUCK you all!
I left the court dazed. The loopy sister-in-law was SO pissed! I heard later she planned to take a weeks vacation in hollywood after the show financed with the money she expected to win on it. OOPS!
There was a certian amount of milling around backstage. I stood around cooling my heels for the yakking to subside, when I noticed Judge Judy's bailiff, standing alone.
I walked over to him. He was a mountain of khaki Negro. The biggest man I had ever seen, staring off into space. I looked up at him and said "So how did i do?"
He blinked and looked around. Was somebody actually TALKING to him? "What?"
"How do you think I did out there?" I said.
"Oh. You did fine man. Real good." he said absently.
"Thanks. I'm glad we could have this talk." I said
So we flew back to New Hampshire as fast as we could. As soon as we got into the air I called over the stewardess. "I just finished taping 'Judge Judy''." I told her.
She smiled. "Want a drink?"
"Six Scotches, Ice and a cup, please." I said.
She gave them to me. I poured out the first two bottles and took a long, smoky sip. The air was unnaturally clear; I could see every detail down to the curve of the horizon. Below, a forest fire raged on the west slope of a mountain, an ashy plume of smoke angled across the ridgeline. Orange and yellow flames flared beneath. I poured two more.
Maybe this was the turning point, I mused. Maybe the worst was over. Sure my wife was a fat whore. But I put her loopy family in its place. That had to count for something, right? Maybe I had finally come into my own, stood my ground and spoken up for myself. Maybe, just maybe, I had become a man.
I threw up on my shoes.
Last edited by Mongeaux
on Mon Apr 17, 2006 11:55 pm, edited 1 time in total.