APPARENTLY you can’t, in a clenching hurried groan, ask the judge of a prestigious courtroom for a short bathroom break. APPARENTLY it’s not kosher to just hurry out clutching your backside before said judge even answers your request. And APPARENTLY when you do all of these things, people in the courtroom will automatically assume your butt hole and the nervous system keeping it shut, got a divorce. Ha! That’s hilarious, because guess what? John MacGregor shits himself for no one!

The last time I did that was… actually pretty recently now that I think about it. But it was the morning after I drunkenly ate a package of Chocolate Digestive Biscuits, and since I didn’t have underwear on, it really didn’t even count.

***Seriously… I saw Cadbury, remembered they made delicious Eggs, and that was all she wrote. The next day was a blur of tears, blood, and disappointment.***

It counts less because it was in a hotel room. Actually, it’s basically non-existent because it wasn’t even my hotel room. So, as god (and the Chang family, who watched this all go down) as my witness: John MacGregor has never, will never, and always never shits himself. Which is why, when Mark C makes outlandish claims about “John MacGregor. Man-boy. [soiling] himself”, I merely just chuckle to myself and to my client, Lindsay Lohan, and point out one thing to this insecure, I-smell-like-Cash and aftershave, neophyte: my middle fucking finger.

Let me give you the full scoop of what actually happened; not a version seen through money colored glasses.

While Mark C began strutting around the courtroom, like a rooster in heat, giving his opening statements, I used this time to slide Lindsay a note:

***My favorite line from Precious was when Precious goes: “Take my hand boss.” God… so touching, ya know?***

Lindsay read the note, and immediately had an orgasm. I know this because the last girl I saw have an orgasm did the exact same thing: covered her mouth, started violently gagging, and scooted her chair six feet away from me.

Victory! This kitten is just about ready to be taken home for a nice petting, Johnboy…

I guess at this time, Mark C was conveniently done “talking” while simultaneously groping his client. (Who, by the way, is a fucking BABY! I bet if I checked this baby’s ID, we’d find out that he was probably a minor too. Some call this statutory… I call it unclassy.) At this time my cell phone, which I store in my underwear, started vibrating. This is why I dashed out of the court room so suddenly. Not because I… I… I don’t even want to repeat the words.

“Well if your phone really DID ring, who was it, huh?” Well, mythical reader, It was a little someone by the name of, None of your fucking business! Ever heard of ‘em? He’s listed in the phone book under, Eat a dick!

As Mark C finished up his statements he turned to my client and gave her some sort of suave and charming look that she didn’t like at all. I know because when I put my hand on her inner thigh to see if she was OK, she started sobbing uncontrollably.

I stood up, buttoned my suit and took my rightful place in the room: front and center.

I about-face (for the hippies: a 180 degree turn) and face the entire courtroom and my beautiful client, with post-coitus mascara running down her fragile cheeks.

“Ladies and gentlemen… boys and girls… mothers and fathers… We’re gathered here not to subject my grief stricken client to anymore torment.” To give you a reference, I sounded like fucking Morgan Freeman in The Shawshank Redemption.

“We’re gathered here today not to make a mockery of the system that our fore-fathers and their fore-fathers worked so hard to build. Not to make a grocery list of wrong-doings my client has done in her past. We’re here for one thing… Justice!” I felt like Hitler, except less racist and with a better haircut.

“You sit and look at my client…” I hold my hand out towards Lindsay and stare…

…and stare.

…and stare.

“My young, gorgeous client, her body so subtly shouting ‘Take me!’ You look at her and you judge. You judge her talent. You judge her lifestyle and the fact that she’s experimented with other women. You judge her because she isn’t half the man that any of you are!” I felt like Jack Nicholson in every movie he’s ever fucking been in, except I make less sense.

“You see a spoiled celebutante trying to suck the teet of the working man because the Freaky Friday royalties aren’t coming in anymore…

“You see a whiney socialite reaching out for any opportunity to get back into the news, not caring about whom she steps on to make a few extra dollars.” 100 million extra dollars to be exact.

“I’ve got news for you: you’re all being fooled. You’re being fooled, and you’re being dicked around by a piss soaked infant and some creeper in a really dapper suit who probably drives an ice cream truck around elementary schools.” At this point, scattered murmurs echoed through the crowd: “Maybe we are getting fooled?… John MacGregor is so hot…” Not wanting to lose my momentum, I pulled out my Ace in the hole:

“Let me show you a SHOCKING video.”

“A BLANANT stab at the status and fame of my client!”

“I ask you, esteemed jurors and jurettes: who is the real criminal here? My client? My curvy, vivacious, supple client? Or E-Trade financial? One of the wealthiest investment companies in America. Do we mark it off as coincidence that this company decided to run a BRAND NEW commercial during the most watched television event of the year? Do we mark it off as chance that this company used my clients ICONIC name and status on aforementioned MOST WATCHED COMMERCIAL? Do we write it off as twist of fate that this commercial launched them into an elite upper status not yet reached by other investment companies?”

Once I paused, the room was dead silent, except for the sounds of blood dropping out of a man’s ear, an old woman having a stroke, and of course, the sound of Mark C being a fucking dickhead.

“Do we sit back and let this infant get away with slander and mis-use of my client’s name?

“Or do we let justice slip through the cracks, like it did on THIS day.” When I say that sentence, I hold up a picture:

“Yes, that is Al Pacino in Scent of a Woman. If I recall, he was still blind at the end of the movie. So it’s safe to say justice was NOT served that day… Let’s let Justice be served today, eh? What do you say, everybody?”

Suddenly, a slow clap built up. It grew with the fire of a thousand suns, and soon the whole courtroom was a clapping, blubbering mess. And as I left center stage and sauntered back to my chair to sit with my bride, I locked eyes with Mark C. As tears fell down his ugly face, I crossed both of my arms into an X and threw them down over my genital area. When I did this, I mouthed two words:

Suck it.

[To read Mark C's opening statements. Click HERE. Stay tuned for the rest of the court precedings... they'll melt your god damn face. ]

• The Telly