Because We Failed



As you know, you have been tried and found guilty by a jury of your peers on counts of breaking and entering, second-degree robbery, criminal fraud, and five counts of incitement to riot — rocking, shocking, screaming, shouting, and turning a party out.  The reign of food-related terror by the gang we once feared as the “Fat Boys” is over, and it falls to me to pronounce sentence.

Your attorney, Mr. Walker, has pled for leniency on a number of grounds, which I hope now to address.  Frankly, gentlemen, his plea is not without merit; there were, indeed, exigent circumstances, unusual factors, and simple bad luck involved in this case, and all of them worked against you.  However, it must also be said that were you not engaged in criminal acts — and, if I may be blunt, if you were more in control of your appetites — there would be no need for us all to be here today, and you would not now be dressed in striped jumpsuits, with your ankles chained to comically oversized iron balls.

Let us first take up your case, Mr. Morales.  You have expressed regret for your crime, but is your regret sincere?  To begin with, there is nothing wrong with wanting a midnight snack.  It has happened to all of us at one time or another.  But instead of heading for a nearby bodega, or simply phoning in an order for delivery, you found a pizza restaurant that was closed and broke down the door with a shotgun, like some kind of violent maniac.  Mr. Morales, your file indicates that you are a native New Yorker — surely you are aware that there are dozens, if not hundreds, of restaurants, including a number of fine pizzerias, that are open past midnight on the island of Manhattan!  Even if the food in this establishment was that good, surely you could have foregone armed entry and just found a different place to eat.  And while it may be so that you have sufficient table manners to have put your stolen goods on a plate before eating them, it scarcely does you credit that you literally fell asleep with a face full of cold pizza.  For shame, sir.

Mr. Wimbley, your case is particularly frustrating.  Your plea for sympathy, I must confess, fell on deaf ears; I do not consider simply being hungry at lunchtime to be “the worst case of any MC”.  While it is your bad luck that you happen to have chosen the only Burger King franchise in existence where you receive your food before your bill — and I agree with you that it is “kind of strange” — that is no excuse for refusing to pay.  It is, honestly, impossible to believe that you were “shocked” by the concept of being asked to pay for food you ate at a restaurant, especially given your weight; and your attempt to claim diplomatic immunity is particularly laughable, as “King of the Slops” is merely a self-granted title, and not an actual position of sovereignty.  Normally, the so-called ‘dine-and-dash’, or, in your case, dine, boast, and then slowly waddle out, is not actually a crime, but in light of your arrogance and the astounding fact that you ate seventeen Whoppers without even thinking about it, I am inclined to accept the verdict of guilt on the charge of criminal fraud.

Mr. Robinson.  Yes, you, standing in the middle.  It particularly pains me to pass sentence, as I know you to be a good boy from a good family — and beyond that, a talented boy who is very outstanding; I might even say unique.  But you knew that your time was through, and you rocked all these good people just the same, regardless of whether they were homeboys or innocent young homegirls.  So degraded were you that you became something less than a man and more like a machine, a sort of human beat box.  Tragic is the only word for it.

Now look at you, gentlemen: sitting here alone, looking at the wall.  You thought you were cool and slick, driving the streets in a big car, gainfully employed as hospital orderlies:  and now you stand on the verge of losing your freedom, your mothers crying because they felt you were better.  In light of these facts, I have no choice but to sentence you to jail, without no bail, at the Lincoln Correctional Facility, where you will break rocks with a big, heavy hammer.  Bailiff, stick ’em.



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