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.

alling the jurors who acquitted Robert Blake last week “low-grade retards,� District Attorney Steve Cooley’s post-trial sour grapes rose to a level rarely seen in our modern, politically correct era Thursday during a 40-minute interview with reporters. Cooley delivering a rambling, profanity-laden tirade punctuated by “Fuck Yous� personalized for each member of the twelve-person jury, each one more cutting than the last.

“This was an open and shut case,� fumed Cooley. “What did they think, that Blake really forgot his gun in that restaurant exactly at the exact same time somebody decided to shoot his batshit grifter wife in the back of the head? I’ve heard little autistic kids come up with better lies than that. I hope none of those jurors have children, sheesh.�

“God! I can’t believe how stupid you people are!� Cooley continued, as if the jury was assembled in his presence. “What did I have to do, put a black cowboy hat on the guy? This was one evil, wife-killing dude! Was his wife not pretty enough? Maybe if the papers hadn’t used those pictures of Bonny shoplifting that watermelon we might have got some jury sympathy. I can’t believe they were all huge fans of Our Gang.�

“Did he really say ‘a pack of inbred monkey-fuckers’?� asked legal expert Chelton Baines. “I hadn’t heard that part. Wow, that’s strong language.�

After the formal interview ended, Cooley continued his onslaught over drinks with this reporter at a nearby bar.

“I swear, this human bungwipe made O.J. Simpson look like Tom Selleck in An Innocent Man,� griped Cooley further. “Or if you haven’t seen that, think of the guy from that Harrison Ford movie.�

“Did you see that juror in the first row? Was he actually eating paste during the trial? Somebody told me it was mashed potatoes, but who brings a jar of mashed potatoes for a snack? That guy was four genes short of a wardrobe, no doubt.�

An assortment of legal experts, however, contend that while Blake was definitely guiltier than a morbidly obese fox in a chicken processing plant, attorney Cooley may have, in legal terms, “screwed the pooch� in his handling of the prosecution.

“Aw, settle down, Steve,� countered Blake’s attorney, M. Gerald Schwartzbach, in a separate interview not held in a bar. “The fact of the matter is, Steve bungled this case. Sure, MENSA wasn’t beating down these jurors’ doors, and many of them had to have basic legal terms like ‘trial’ explained to them numerous times, but I don’t think anyone was ‘clinically brain-dead,’ to use Steve’s term. I mean, what did he expect after parading all those junkies, snitches and piles of walking human shit up onto the witness stand? I’m surprised he didn’t subpoena Jose Canseco or Scott Peterson. What, were Benedict Arnold and the boy who cried wolf too busy to drop by?�

“Playing ‘Blame the Jury’ is the oldest cop-out in the Lawyer’s Handbook,� agreed smug attorney Nelson Arbuckle, waving a copy of the Lawyer’s Handbook. “Everybody knows the jury is just a blob of stupid putty that you need to mold into a coherent mass of guilty-voting.�

“Anybody who doesn’t know that doesn’t deserve to wear the Lawyer’s Ring,� concluded Arbuckle, brandishing a gaudy turquoise ring on his pinky finger.

I've always thought there should be some kind of intermediate step that comes before a restraining order. Because after all, "order" does sound pretty bossy. And Americans don't like being ordered around any more than we like paying for music or a legitimate cable TV connection. So I have no idea why we're still stuck with these old bullshit English laws. Our country should have something like an official Restraining Request, like "Stay the hell away from your ex-wife, if you don't mind." That'd be way more to my liking.

Unfortunately, many of our nation's lawmakers aren't regular My Friend Polio readers, so I'm stuck dealing with the restraining order my new neighbor Hamms slapped on my tender ass last week. Can you believe this shit? I swear to God, the cops catch you naked in your neighbor's basement in the middle of the night, the carpet saturated in cherry Jell-o to create a room-sized Slip 'n Slide, and you might as well not even have a trial. I've always thought being caught naked doing anything puts you at an automatic legal disadvantage, and now I have the proof.

In retrospect, I probably shouldn't have brought over that giant boom box, since the thudding bass from that Mexican polka music is undoubtedly what brought the attention of the law and woke Hamms up in the first place. But like they say, hindsight's on 20/20, and that bitch Barbara Walters asks some mean questions.

So now I have to stay 100 yards away from my neighbor at all times, which really bites the bits since it means I can't go in my den at all, since it's too close to his house. I've been sending Foghat to fetch things I need from that side of the house, since the plaintiff foolishly forgot to include my dog in the suit, but his oversight is my gain. The real pain in the ass is that I had to drop four grand to have hidden cameras installed all over Hamms' house just to comply with the ruling, to make sure where I am in my house and where he is in his are at least 100 yards apart at all times. Next thing you know I'll be hearing from Hamms' lawyers about the Neighbors Gone Wild hidden-camera DVDs I've been selling on the Internet. Sometimes you can't win for losing.

Not that I'm sweating the whole restraining order thing, since this is probably the wimpiest one I've ever had tossed in my lap. One time I couldn't go into Kentucky Fried Chicken for an entire year, that was a real bitch. Especially since I'd been running a home-based business off their pay phone, and we'd already had some problems about KFC and I not seeing eye to eye on what their "business hours" should be, which led to the restraining order in the first place. Well, that and the whole thing about letting 400 live chickens loose in their men's room.

I have to admit though, I've always wanted to file a restraining order against somebody. Doesn't matter who, I just I think it would be hilarious to chase someone around town knowing that I've got the power of the law on my side, should they ever let the chase get too close and breach the invisible 100 yard barrier. And if you brought along a video camera, I bet you could make some mad cash selling a DVD of that shit on the Internet. Restraining Order 2: Run, Yuppie, Run.

But so far Hamms doesn't seem like the fun type at all, I think he sincerely wants me to stay out of his house. I've tried to reason with the guy that I've got so much of my shit over there we should just trade houses, but I don't think he was too impressed by the offer after he saw Foghat's treasure room, where the dog brings all the stuff he's found around the neighborhood over the years.

But I think he'll come around once he realizes that a restraining order just means Foghat's going to be over at his house twice as often now, running errands for me and searching the house for cream of asparagus soup on his own dime. Hamms can say what he wants about Omar Bricks, but at least I never barfed on his collection of antique pillowcases after eating a case of canned cat food.

I give this restraining order thing about two weeks. Bricks out.

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