he Michael Jackson trial escalated to the seventh level of hooplah Friday as prosecutors introduced into evidence a bloody sequined gloved that had not been previously revealed publicly. The defense requested a recess, to which the witty judge replied that no one had been good enough to deserve recess, but they would take a brief break. It gave the Jackson defense, led by attorney and Warhol knock-off Thomas Mesereau, a chance to recover from the five-fingered blow.

Nothing could hide the shock of Jackson and his attorneys as Santa Barbara County District Attorney Tom Sneddon held up a plastic bag containing a sequined left-hand glove so much like the famous right one long worn by the pop icon. The article of clothing, according to the District Attorney’s office, was found on the Neverland Ranch around the famed Ringo Starr cabana, which is halfway between the Neverland Hard Rock Café and the velociraptor compound. Sneddon claimed that, though the owner of the DNA had not yet been identified, scientists who all dressed snappy could verify it was human blood and did not belong to Jackson.

Mesereau’s first tactic, thought by many Monday morning counselors to be a real fumble, was to claim the defense had not had proper time to examine the accessory because in a poorly-Xeroxed evidence list it appeared to be “love,� which they all thought intangible and beyond examination. The judge thought this was funny, but not funny enough to grant a full recess to the defense. Mesereau then challenged the validity of the DNA findings, when he found out Sneddon had carried the bloody glove back to the lab himself, rolled up in a pile of his sweat socks in the trunk of his car.

“For all any of us know, that blood could well belong to Bubbles the monkey,� said Mesereau, evoking a horrified gasp out of the entire court. “But… probably not. And really, there’s absolutely no proof that it belongs to my client. You’ve never seen a picture of him wearing two sequined gloves, have you?�

The prosecution admitted the best it could produce was a picture of Jackson wearing two Bruno Magli shoes on his hands, but no such luck with the glove. The Santa Barbara County District Attorney’s Office did catch a break later, however, when returning to court after lunch, Jackson picked up the plastic-bagged bloody glove and said very loudly, “Hey! I’ve been wondering where I left this.�

Defense counsel argued in the afternoon that one bloody glove doesn’t prove anyone’s a murderer and it certainly isn’t grounds for child molestation charges, and promised the court it would call an expert next week who would testify Hollywood tough guy Steve McQueen had an entire room in his house devoted to bloody gloves. Mesereau also suggested that Jackson’s glove could be explained by an elaborate underground Fight Club, but would say nothing further about it since rules one and three prevented him from talking on the subject.

The prosecution concluded for the day by introducing more evidence of mysterious behavior at Neverland Ranch, including a pornographic magazine which had the fingerprints of the accusing child on one page, and several pages containing the fingerprints of District Attorney Sneddon. Then, just for laughs, the prosecution showed some of its other Neverland findings, such as a small Portugese man who spoke no English and had been putting on Jackson’s shoes for him for twenty years, and footage from a small hidden security camera in Jackson’s underwear.

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I don't like my doctor. He laughs too much when I describe my symptoms and plus he smells Greek. Also I don't think the prick knows what he's doing. You tell me how you're supposed to get a yeast infection when you don't even cook.

My main problem with doctors is that they're all dildos. Every last one of them. Except for radio personality Dr. Laura, now she's more of a heartless ubercunt. I tried to choose her as my doctor at the clinic, but they said I had to choose between Dr. Blintz or the highway, and the highway was booked up that day. That nurse thought she was pretty funny until I asked her why they didn't give us bigger sample cups to crap in for the tests, that seemed to hit some kind of nerve. She's probably had to try and squat over one of those tiny things herself.

I'm not sure if Dr. Laura even counts as a real doctor, to tell you the truth. It may be one of those honorary titles like what Dr. Seuss had.

Whenever your star vehicle is cancelled and replaced by reruns of a show about some kid who talks to his dead grandma on a toy cell phone, it kind of makes you think. Soul Searching, they call it. Though I may be thinking of that dance show with Ed McMahon. And that's not what I've been doing, though when I was a kid I did play-act like I was the host whenever that show was on TV. I didn't really like dancing, but I loved gonging the neighborhood kids when they tried to act like they had talent. I probably would have liked grade school more if they had let you wheel a gong into the talent shows like I wanted to. As it stands it was the worst two weeks of my life. Before the last two.

Whatever it's called, I've been up to my nipple rings in this thinking lately. You should try it some time, it's like a vacation for your eyes. Actually that's a bald assed lie. Thinking sucks, there's a reason it only comes up when your life has pinched a loaf. But I like to think I'm not the only one tugging on the peter of misfortune lately. Like they say, misery enjoys company picnics.

I suppose the whole doctor thing is a moot point anyway, since it looks like UPN's money tit is drying up and I won't have medical coverage after Thursday. Then it'll be back to consulting the copy of Captain Pickle's Big Book of Sick that I've had since I was five, which was probably a better idea all along. At least it has pictures and doesn't stick any silverware in your skin pantry, unlike certain doctors I could name or at least vaguely describe.

I'm not sure if the commune's advertisers have a problem with terms like "skin pantry," they seem to be a pretty mellow. All I know is the one douche commercial I did was like playing charades with a bunch of Nazis, everything was on their "no no" list. I couldn't even say "afro clam."

Until I get some offers for legit commercials (and no, I don't believe they really film commercials for having sex with a pony. Once bitten, twice shy on that one guys, but thanks for playing) I'm thinking of supplementing my income by opening an advice booth here at my desk at the commune, like the scam that Lucy girl was running in the old Peanuts comics. She seemed to do alright.

I don't really have her background in psychiatry, but I think I could do well with a Blunt Honesty booth. People would sit down, pay me first (if I learned one thing from Dr. Kevorkian's Biography, it's get the money upfront) and I'd tell them they had a face only an undertaker could love or something helpful like that. I'd probably have to charge more than a nickel because of inflation and all, I haven't really worked out the pricing structure yet. But I think it could work. One thing I know for sure, no way am I letting this thing degrade into a kissing booth like the last time I had this idea. A girl's got to look out for her reputation.

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Anyone who knows anything about me (kids with book reports: attention) knows I have two mortal enemies: Lindsay Wagner and computers. Of course, one is a dumb electronic appliance and my fear and hatred is just an irrational phobia; and then there's computers, and my job forces me to learn to work with them.

It's still no excuse for the teamster-like attitude of my computer. This computer wouldn't work if I threatened to replace it with cheap foreign labor. It starts slow, it runs slow, it even turns off slow. And let's not get started about the mail—actually, let's do; my column needs filling up this week.

All I can say is they've hired a real slacker to deliver my e-mail, 'cause I'm the last to hear about anything in this office. I never get any memos, no electronic Christmas cards, I never even get any of Rok Finger's daily barrage of ethnic jokes. Either I'm the biggest outsider in the commune offices (and with Bludney Pludd around that role's already taken) or I've got the world's worst e-mail delivery system.

Come to think of it, I've never even received my welcome e-mail from that Bago guy. Just how long has this electronic Ferris Bueller been pulling a fast one on me? For all I know he could've unplugged the connection to all the other computers on the first day and the dildo has been loafing ever since.

I'd like to teach that biatch a lesson. I should see if there's some kind of program for doing that—send in some sort of hellfire-spitting preacher of the Internet world to punish him for disregarding my mail. A computer virus or something that acts like the drill sergeant from Full Metal Jacket on big puss internet couriers. I'd like to see that smooth jackass piss his electronic self when that program storms in all, "What is your major malfunction, Private Clarissa Coleman's E-mailman? I've shit things with more gumption, numbnuts!"

Boy, I'm excited about it the more I consider it. There must be some kind of program out there like that. Some kind of Equalizer-type computer software that settles things up even with asshole electronics, and keeps it all on the down-low. I asked around the commune who I would speak to about that, our tech support people, but everyone acts like I'm joking and keeps saying they want to see where I'm going with it. Maybe I'll have to place an add in a newspaper or magazine—that's what you had to do for the A-Team.

I'm not an idiot, you know. Just to make that clear. I know there's not really a little guy inside the computer with a college dorm-style apartment, just lying around, drinking beer and watching Software Gone Wild instead of delivering my e-mail. It's all real complicated computer shit I can't possibly fathom, so I translate in my own terms when talking to you. It's like the ending of Stephen King's It, when It was so completely cool and amazing you can't possibly really see it, especially not in a made-for-TV movie, so they just cheap out and make it a big spider. Man, that was suck-city.

It's real important that I start getting my e-mail. Not only do I have fans out there who want to contact me, and I'm not about to give my address out to such knobs, but I also have this big new show about to start and I'll need every possible communiqué possible. Not only for my own satisfaction, but to make sure I can fire off complaints and suggestions for script changes, all of that stuff, to the producers. So that guy needs to get off his metaphysical ass or get replaced real fast.

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