My Amicus Brief (Yeah, Right!) to Chief Justice Charles "Bottomless" Wells of the Florida Supreme Court, Tallahassee:

Hiya Judge! How's tricks? Right now you're no doubt pondering, "Who is this bozo?" It's me, Tommy, Judge. Tommy Bosworth, the guy from Bebe Rebozo Street? Yeah, now it's starting to come to you, the guy you threw a dime to on your way to court this afternoon. Did you ask me what I was doing for Thanksgiving? It'll be Sal's again this year, if you really wanna know. Salvation Army, no questions asked. If you got nothing better to do, be my guest.

You probably got a low opinion of bums like me, so I got a proposition for you. Get me a job and I'll get my overqualified ass off the sidewalk. Like, gimme a law degree in canvassing board litigation or something. Okay, let me rephrase that, yer honor: I respectfully request of the esteemed members of the court.... Esteemed members? Where are we, at the court of Louis XIV or something? I don't know you dudes and dudesses from Adam, so why am I talking to you like some peasant in a bodice-ripper costume drama? For all I know, you cheat at bingo, do your neighbor's crossword puzzle, get in the 7-items-or-less line at the supermarket with a cartful of stuff.

C'mon, Judge, gimme a break. How about a canvassing-board consultant? Hell, I can quote Statute 102.168, I can summarize 103.001 Section 5 Part 2 B in a Tallahassee minute. I watched the Florida Supreme Court and the fancy lawyers for two hours on Monday and another couple of hours on Tuesday over at Vincent's Appliance Repair and Internet Center. Listen, I can save you guys and gals a whole bunch of time (although to tell the truth most of you look—no offense—as if Nurse Quobono just woke you up from your naps). To be perfectly honest, I think you guys could use a refresher course in voting law yourselves. How come you have to get primers on this stuff from Big Time hired-gun lawyers? Listen, I could coach you on this stuff—easy. You got two laws that say opposite things. Lose one of 'em. There. I just saved the State of Florida a couple of million bucks.

Now comes my pep talk, and, believe me, you old farts need it. First of all, you guys have gotta get some cajones. Make some decisions, go on, make a little history, babe. Shock 'em! Who do they remember? Judge Jeffries, the Hanging Judge. Not Judge Weaselwort, the prevaricating nerd who sat on the fence so long he had splinters in his habeas corpus. First, you gotta burn the Witch. She's asking for it, Judge. She got dressed up for the part—that dried-blood lipstick, the Cruella de Ville sneer, the Lucretia Borgia haughtiness—"Lick my Gucci pumps, you peasant swine! I must have that ambassadorship!" She's straight out of a Tim Burton movie. Burn, baby, burn! I'm telling ya Judge, they'd never forget you after that. Charles "Chad" Wells, the Frying Judge. Whoa!

Next suggestion: bring back the pillory. The guy who ate the chad? Slap him in the pillory. People love pillories—and we haven't had 'em for two hundred years.

Another humble suggestion: sell tickets. This is history in the making. There's never been anything like it. The media is saying it, the pundits are saying it, mothers are taking their toddlers, lawyers and judges are getting their clerks to stand in line for tickets. It's the hottest ticket around—history as a three-ring circus! So make it a $10,000-a-ticket deal. Promote the heck out of it: "Hear what the seven judges have to say on the seven days! Witness statutory rape by high-priced lawyers! Watch the State of Florida rule on dimples! Who will win in the battle between Accuracy and Finality? Be there to witness the outcome!" Man, you could stretch this thing out indefinitely.

As to why the public are not as yet teed-off by all these shenanigans, it's not so much that the public are patient so much as that they are the patient— and this is open-heart surgery. My guess is that most people are just mesmerized—they can't believe it. We're slam bang in the middle of a historical folly like the Tulip Mania or the South Sea Bubble, and they can't get enough of it. Who would want something as nutty as this to end? Besides, nobody really wants either of these guys to win, so let's string it out as long as possible. This chad business even has a theological ring to it—how many angels can fit on the head of a pin? How many chads does it take to fill the Albert Hall?

And, Judge, this being Thanksgiving and all, I'd like you to rule on one other matter of great political and social import to me personally. I'm real glad we're celebrating the Pilgrim's thanksgiving for all they done for us—for their genocide of the Indians, for burning blameless old ladies at the stake as witches, for their poisoning of our culture with their repressive morality that still smothers the spirit of this country. Let me ask you, though, did these uptight cats in starched collars actually invite Indians to their feast? I don't think so. So, I want you to make amends for me, Judge, for the Indian on the reservation, for the poor soul in re-hab, for the lost and lonely and for all the dispossessed children of the earth. I want you to open your heart and give a couple of those virtually uninhabited Western states back to the Indians. That's it. That's my wish for this year, Judge. If it's possible.