I showed up at JAG an hour early. This is what I was supposed to do on Monday:
Wait. File into a room with a TV and chairs. Sit through an ancient short movie with actors that make low budget TV infomercial thesbians shine with Tom Hanks glory. Sweat in the hot room while half the audience sleeps and the other half text messages on their phones. We're more or less advised of our rights, and that's it.
Give me the goddamn mop already. Cut the foreplay and lets get this taken care of and out of the way. I'm sick of writing about it. I'm sorry, but tedious bureaucratic nonsense isn't quite as interesting as explosions and male bonding.
I'm considering shaving and bic-ing my head for a Mr. Clean look.