he 12 jurors in the Michael Jackson trial surprised some hopeless optimists last week when they returned a verdict of “not guilty� on all 10 counts, allowing the King of Pop his legal freedom and probably inspiring some questionable lyrics from a future album. Among the reasons given by the jury for their decision, more than one, two in fact, said they believed Jackson probably did molest virtually every child who came into his mansion—but not this kid, according to the evidence.

Legal analysts, and by that we mean lawyers without jobs, have pointed to startling revelations during testimony of witnesses to explain the “not guilty� verdict in the Jackson case. Among the more surprising disclosures was that the accused, long thought to be a 13-year-old boy, was in fact a diminutive man with a long police record, known in street parlance as Philadelphia Freddy.

“And I would have gotten away with it, too, if it weren’t for this money-driven legal system!� screeched the gravel-voiced midget, shortly after the announcement of the verdict.

The defense painted a strong picture of a short, unruly child/crime boss and his money-grubbing mother, who parlayed a brush with cancer into a molestation gold mine and tried to catch Michael Jackson in a kid-touching trap, to no avail. Jackson, who had previously settled out-of-court molestation cases on at least two previous occasions, could not be fingered, pardon the expression, in this particular molesting accusation. Jurors claim that although they really wanted to hang Jackson out to dry for all the other occasions of molestation he’s been guilty of, in this special and rare instance, he wasn’t guilty of that specific crime.

“It’s obvious Michael Jackson is a sick, sick man-child,� said a juror, who asked not to be identified, but looked like a “George� to us. “But in this particular case, as brought by Jackson-hounding D.A. Tom Sneddon, there wasn’t enough evidence to nail his peculiarly shaded ass. It’s too bad, because I think he molested three or four kids of some of the jurors, but we weren’t actually trying those cases, and had to go by what the judge instructed us.�

Some critics of the case have not only charged Sneddon with fumbling an easily unfumbleable ball, but have alleged the way the case was framed by the judge made it hard for a jury to convict Jackson of the crime. Among the strange instructions, Judge Rodney Melville warned jurors could not consider previous allegations of sexual abuse made against Jackson, and Jackson’s celebrity status had to be ignored.

“I ask you again,� said Judge Melville, “to think of Michael Jackson as any ordinary man who can afford the world’s most powerful attorneys at his beck and call. If you like, you may also think of Jackson’s heartfelt song, ‘Man in the Mirror,’ and how it made all of us think of how any one of us has the power to change the world. Me, I personally love to think of his small but pivotal solo in the ‘We Are the World’ song.�

Santa Barbara District Attorney Tom Sneddon, described by some as a bloated law enforcement official out to bring down the King of Pop, no matter the humiliation done to him and his office, said he regretted the jury’s finding, but had no complaints against the case his office had built, the jury itself, the judge’s role in the case, or the case of the defense. He only wished they had been able to call as a witness one of the other “possible million� boys Jackson had likely molested.

At the same time, a nationwide poll performed by people with lots of time on their hands, found that up to 49% of respondents thought the jury had made the wrong decision, and that Jackson was guilty of molesting boys. Though the exact same percentage also hoped similar charges would be brought against Huey Lewis and the News, anything to make sure they didn’t show up on some future VH-1 ‘80s nostalgia special.

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I'm thinking about getting into the stand-up comedy business. I don't consider myself to be all that funny really... well maybe wearing a fruit-covered headdress and some canastas to the premiere of "Lambada: The Forbidden Dance" was pretty funny, but more on point I don't have a serious interest in stand-up comedy. But it does seem to be the lucritive pathway to success as a celebrity endorser of phone company services. Which is my real dream, when you get down to brass tacks that look like they're gold until you get down and really look at them close. I want to be the guy on television who's telling you to press a bunch of numbers on your phone so you'll save big. I don't care what the numbers are, you can make them up if you want. Go ahead. I'm not claiming to be an artist here. I just want to tell people what to do.

I'm sure you're asking yourself right now, "Well Omar, if they've already got George Carlin, what in the world do they need you for?". Good question. It seems to me I'll have to carve my own niche. Surely there's other phone company services that need advertising. I think I'll be the guy who tells you that if you pick up the phone and you don't get a dial tone, press the hang-up switch a bunch of times fast. The next step is to hit the receiver on the outside of the phone booth. See? I know this stuff. I watch movies.

I think I can make a career out of this, maybe even spin it off into a sitcom. Like what about those times you pick up the phone and there's somebody already on the line, WHEN IT NEVER EVEN RANG? Isn't that freaky? How do they do that? I think we could do a whole season on that. I'm thinking about having Don Ameche as my sidekick. I've always thought he was serious sidekick material.

Besides, the industry has already done too many adds on calling collect. It's tired, so formula. The people want something fresh. I think we could go high-tech... like a series of spots on phone taps. They're more common than you think. Sometimes I'm talking on the phone and I'll hear it in the backgroud, just this clicking sound. Click click. Who's tapping my phone? I'm not saying I'm any kind of expert on phone taps here, but if they were going to make a sound, I think that would be it. Click click. Tap tap. Y'know? We could do an animated spot with Barney Rubble as my straight man. Like in those old commercials you used to see. "BARNEY! You wiretapped my phone!". And then I could chase him around in a costume or something. I think that would make people want to call more long distance.

That gets me to thinking about commercials in general. Why is it that you never see the people you trust endorsing products? When's the last time Chris Rock called anybody collect? I don't think so. We need more credible sources, the people want to know. Like what does President Clinton take when he gets Herpies Symplex B? That's a hell of an endorsement. What does Kenny Rogers know about chicken? I want to eat at Domingo Pavoratti's Roasters. That tub looks like he knows his chicken. Jerry Seinfeld for American Express? What does he care if it has a high annual rate? He's probably just tired of getting papercuts from handling so much cash. Put Kato Kaelin up there on the screen. Put his hide-a-bed sleepin' mug on an American Express card and I'll think about it.

Until next time, I'm Omar Bricks.

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Last issue's tome on the metric system inspired more reader mail than any column since the My Friend Polio where Omar Bricks offered to sell naked pictures of my sister to the highest bidder. This time, however, readers weren't asking if I could beat Omar's price. They wanted to know how in the hell we came up with our current non-metric system of weights and measures in the first place. Good question.

Imperial weights and measures (known in modest England as "English weights and measures") range from the feet, gallons and pounds we're all familiar with to hundreds of freakish and forgotten variations that sound like whimsy straight out of Lord of the Rings. The next time somebody asks you for a chalder of coal or wants to know if you can spare a groat, you'll know you've either time-tripped into some medieval hell or else you're at the Renaissance Fair. Either way you're screwed. Likewise if someone offers you a minim of soy sauce or four roods of swampland. And if some wiseacre tells you you're twelve scruples overweight or uglier than a perch of limestone, punch him in the face first and ask questions about his outdated terminology later.

The system of Imperial weights and measures is not one defined by cold logic or mathematical nonsense, rather it's an innately human system based on how one innate human, King Edward I of England, thought things should be measured. Having grown up poor, Edward was the kind of insecure nuevo-rich king that insisted everything be named after him and that potatoes should only be grown in his likeness.

In England, length was originally measured by a unit known as the dork, which corresponded to the king's, uh… royal tackle. Later, more prurient factions within the country pushed to have the measure changed to the more family-friendly foot. Edward relented after being convinced that everybody knew what it really meant, and that nobody thought he had big feet.

The yard was developed as a unit of measurement based on the distance from the door to the backyard fence in the king's boyhood home, which indicated a home run if cleared on the fly by a batted ball. Anyone who pointed out that Edward grew up with a damned small back yard was immediately beheaded and taken off the king's Christmas card list without benefit of legal council.

An acre was originally defined as the area an ox could crap up in one morning, though over time oxen fell into disuse due to the scarcity of uncrapped land in England. In time the acre was known as the smallest area of land you could leave to your heirs without them coming to ox-drop on your grave after you'd passed.

Edward was also obsessed with barley, which at the time was known as "edwardly." The king spent much of his spare time counting grains of the stuff, and was keen on showing off his barley-counting prowess by having the standard measure of weight in England be equal to 7,000 grains. This unit was nicknamed the "pound" because that amount of barley was usually sufficient for bribing the dogcatcher to return your wayward pooch. As is still true today, the English of Edward's times were unusually fond of their dogs, though back then they didn't eat them.

The mile was defined as the longest distance Edward had ever walked without being carried, when as a boy his manservant died suddenly of a heart attack while carrying Edward to the beach and the king-to-be had to walk very far to find some ice cream. Similarly, the hour corresponded with the longest time Edward had ever had to wait in line, from the time when he was at the king store and there was a run on poofy velvet capes.

Naturally, the Imperial system was refined in the years after Edward's passing, the most notable addition coming when London blacksmith Mike Inch's ex-girlfriend Lydia immortalized his unimpressive tackle by lobbying that its length would be a perfect way to divide the foot into twelve segments. Lydia was so unflagging in her badmouthing crusade over the years that the inch eventually became a national standard of measurement, providing a powerful example that hell hath no embarrassment like a woman dumped for a slutty bar maid.

If the history of weights and measures teaches one lesson, it is that terminology and unit sizes will come and go over time, but human pettiness is an undying standard that will always remain universal.

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