Vintage Hilarity: *Insert The Soulful Sounds of Dueling Banjo Music Here*

Today I went to court in what the Census reports is the "poorest county in the United States." It is a thriving metropolitan area with a staggering population of 111 located in what is known by geographers as überrural Kentucky.

I enter the court room to find a host of pro se (for non-law dorks this means people who represent themselves) litigants smoking openly in court. A woman with dreadful halitosis and an improperly placed nose piercing approaches and immediately begins trying to tell me all about her car accident that happened 6 years ago. After she tells me all about her back pain, she fires up a cigarette and takes a seat. I make my way to the other side of the courtroom to sit with the other out of town attorneys (who are not smoking). When my case is finally called opposing counsel attempts to defeat my summary judgment motion pulling a surprise witness out of his hat like that magician dude on Frosty the Snowman (who, incidentally, always reminded me of my Uncle Boone). The judge is halfway pursuaded and opts not to rule on the motion until after we've deposed the witness. I leave the courtroom, pleased with my half-win and thrilled to be able to breathe again. I crank up my iPod and begin to celebrate.

But then I realize I must now deal with Surprisewitness. My boss agrees to accompany me to Surprisewitness's house so that we can interview him. I park my car in a super muddy holler and approach a dilapidated wooden house with too many Christmas lights on the front porch. Immediately upon stepping into the grassless yard I sense that the sewer runs straight out of the back of the house and into the yard because the smell instantly makes me want to puke in a sink. I look down with pity at my Kate Spade shoes that are now marred up in the poo-mud. Then I realize that my shoes are probably worth more than Surprisewitness's house and I feel like a terrible dickbag for being so concerned with my footwear. Luckily, shock would soon pull me out of that guilt riddled funk.

We approach the front door. 6 cats swarm me. The door is barricaded with plywood. This serves little purpose as a burglar deterrence mechanism, though, because there is a gaping hole in the side of the house. Nevertheless, I opt to make my way around to the side door, which does not appear to be barricaded. I knock and stand waiting in the poo-mud. A minute or so later a toothless Mrs. Surprisewitness opens the door in an oversized t-shirt. And only an oversized t-shirt. My boss introduces us and Mrs. Surprisewitness invites us in. 

Mr. and Mrs. Surprisewitness's house is one huge room. The stove, furnace, toilet (yes, toilet), bed and couch are all right in the same area. This immediately sent me into a panic, fearing that Mrs. Suprisewitness who apparently has no modesty would attempt to make use of the open-air toilet while we were there. There are no lights. But for the tiny tiny tv playing Spongebob Squarepants re-runs, I would have thought the house had no electricity. The walls are unpainted, mostly rotten wood and covered from floor to ceiling in 3X5 photos, posters of Elvis and Native Americans, and random pieces of costume jewlery. I wonder how exactly it came to be that I had stepped into a Rob Zombie movie.

Surprisewitness invites us to take a seat. I didn't realize this, however, as Suprisewitness talks a lot like Farmer Fran from Waterboy. Even after Mrs. Suprisewitness translates and I understand there's been an invitation to sit, I still find myself completely unable to take a seat. As I begin to make my way to a chair, I cannot avoid picturing Mrs. Suprisewitness's pantsless ass in it and I become overwhelmingly afraid of contracting swine AIDS. I move over to stand next to the furnace and suddenly more cats than I can count swarm me. I comment on a cute calico kitten. Mrs. Surprisewitness says, "Yeah I got 20 of 'em. Go through 10 bags of catfood a month." 

My boss and I ask Surprisewitness some questions with Mrs. Surprisewitness translating. As we explain to Suprisewitness the deposition process and that he will be receiving a subpoena, a cute pomerainian emerges from behind the silver Christmas tree and jumps into Mrs. Suprisewitness's bare lap. Mrs. Surprisewitness begins snuggling the dog and I hear her say, "You won ye chew tabacky?" I am certain that I have now become unable to understand her, too, since it sounded like she just asked her dog if she wanted to gnaw on some Copenhagen. Then Mrs. Surprisewitness turns to my boss, "She chews tobacker. You ever see a dog chew backer? Hey D, get her some chew." Surprisewitness brings a few strings of tobacco to the dog. The dog proceeds to gnaw on them as if they were a chew toy. Mrs. Suprrisewitness says, "See? Aw, she looooves her tabacky."

So the moral of the story - A. You can at least sort of win hopeless motions. B. People really live in some horrifying and heartbreaking conditions. C. Kate Spade shoes and poo-mud don't mix. D. Dogs have vices, too.

*Originally written 12/08/2009

An Open Letter to a Soda Pop (or more accurately, a soda pop maker)

Dear Coca-Cola Company/Makers of Fanta
I grew up in rural Kentucky drinking Nehi soda and Kool-Aid. Needless to say, from an early age, I formed the opinion that orange beverages were indeed not supposed to taste like oranges. As I grew older, I abandoned Nehi for Fanta, which still did not taste like oranges, but seemed less ghetto than Nehi and led to me getting made fun of far less often. I didn't really care for either. I didn't dislike Fanta, or orange soda in general for that matter, I'd drink it on occaison for a welcome change from cola, but alas, it's un-orange taste wasn't something I really desired. 

That is until the summer I went to Iceland. One bright July night, I dropped into a 10-11 parched, dehydrated, and desperately seeking a cold beverage. I paid an exorbient amount for a Fanta, unscrewed the cap, placed the bottle to my lips and quickly exclaimed loudly to the streets of Reykjavik, "HOLY MOTHER OF GOD IT TASTES LIKE ORANGE JUICE!!"

I became obsessed with this near-orgasmic liquid. I couldn't get enough of it. I consumed at least 4-6 Fantas a day. Fanta replaced my juice at breakfast. It quenched my thrists after long days of rafting or missing the ferry. I paired it with 2am hot dogs for a heavenly, but wholy unhealthy "4th meal." I even mixed it with vodka for the most divine of cocktails. Indeed, I was in love.

I returned to the United States with the hope that orange soda was changed for the good, that there had been some change in the un-orange soda recipe of yesteryear. I stopped in at my local gas station, bought a Fanta and was sadly met, yet again, with the disapointing un-orange taste I'd grown up with. So, Coca-Cola Company/Makers of Fanta, my question to you is this: Why it gotta be like that?

Seriously, I realize that Fanta is a European creation and that this probably earns the Europeans some higher status in the Fanta heirarchy, and moreover the majority of Americans are slobs that have no sense of taste and will eat anything and everything put in front of them. But really, it's just not fair to the rest of us Americans who know better, who've tasted better. We're left scouring desperately for something, anything, remotely like the carbonated orange bliss we once came to love in the EU. We spend long days at natural markets buying overpriced bottles of sparkling clementine juice (which, I might add, does NOT compare to the exquisite bubbly flavor of Fanta) and make 2 hour road trips to international markets to pay $3.79 for a mere 1 liter of Fanta imported from Ireland. But it could be so simple. If only you'd bottle the flavor sensation that our European comrades enjoy with such ease, for sale here in the US. So, really, Coca-Cola/Makers of Fanta, what's the deal? What's the problem? Why can't I have the carbonated delicacy I crave? Why do you discriminate against us 'Mercans? Why it gotta be like that?
Sincerly,
Rachel C.