I don’t judge my friends on the basis of being imaginary or inflatable. In fact, I don’t judge my friends at all. Can you say the same? Only you can be the judge of that. And, sadly enough, only you can prevent forest fires.

Well, I speak for myself when I say I once reigned as a magistrate of the high colonial court systems. I climbed the ladder far higher than the mediocre rungs whereupon sit Judge Mills Lane and the insipid Judge Judy. In fact, I served an up and coming leftist Puritan community just west of I-90 in Bovine County, RI for seven rigorous months. My powdered wig and de-powdered robe were a sight that struck fear into the hearts of all those sitting in their humble wooden aisles. To say that I was the beloved Mark Twain of the courtroom would be an understatement. It would also be an incorrect use of the literary tool and companion, “allusion.” After all, I was not, nor am I now, a master of wit and ironicisms. I’m not Huckleberry “Fun,” I guess. Great, like I give a rat’s ass.

Rather than loving me and cradling my gentle spirit in their hard-working, callused hands, the townspeople often poked fun at me and threatened to tip me as they would a milking cow. The youngest Puritan Radicals often accused me of being “o’rly ill-featured and monotonous.” So I sentenced them all to the fatal gallows of shame (which are gaining rapid popularity among trend-setting teenagers in Helsinki).

The Puritans, loyal fans of cruel and unusual punishment, initially rejoiced and showered me with kind words and good fortunes. Unfortunately, life changed for me when the Supreme Court labeled me most eligible bachelor in the courtroom-dating scene. Jealousy took the best of my Olde New English brethren. They met me with a parade of pitchforks and torches. Only Puritans can prevent forest fires. Only they can prevent a lifetime of crying in the corner while your frat buddies throw pop tarts at you. Damn you, Delta Nu! Damn you to a kegless, panty-raidless hell.