I Killed Jiminy.



Well, technically, I didn’t kill him.  And technically, he wasn’t known as “Jiminy” at the crime scene.  He ran by the handle, “Chapulines,” or rather, he was one of the Chapulines.  And truth be told, I can’t really be sure that the victim was, indeed, actually Jiminy Chapuline.  It could have been just about any Chapuline that met his or her maker last night. I don’t know that I or anyone else can distinguish one Chapuline from any other Chapuline.  They all look the same.  Sorry, Diego.  Lo Siento. 

While I didn’t kill Jiminy, I did eat him.  He was already dead when I popped him into my mouth, his head squeezing out some sort of bitter juice in one final act of defiance, protest.  

It’s been awhile since I practiced criminal law, but I believe my actions make me an “accessory” to Jiminy’s undoing:  

An accessory is a person who assists in the commission of a crime, but who does not actually participate in the commission of the crime as a joint principal.  

Uh-oh, this sounds like I may be in trouble. 

Moroever,  an accessory must generally have knowledge that a crime is being, or will be committed. 

Well, I did see “Esquites with “Chapulines” on the menu.  And although I took a ton of Spanish in high school and at Duke, I honestly don’t recall every learning “cricket” in Spanish.  And I certainly never conjugated any verbs, ever, regarding which a cricket was the hapless victim.  So I have some wiggle room there.  

A person with such knowledge may become an accessory by helping or encouraging the criminal in some way, or simply by failing to report the crime to proper authority. 

Yeah, this is definitely not looking good for me.  There did come a time (The Lemonade Chronicles‘ first post, anyone?) when Jiminy and his jumbled ramekin of forelegs, midlegs, hind legs, and chewing mouthparts all akimbo, was set down at the center of our table.  At that moment, it’s true, I did not shoot to my feet, table legs humming across the wood floor with a loud rub, and scream, “Take that away!  I will not be a party to this!”  Nor did I yell, “Call 911, someone has been murdered up in this piece!”  

I will reserve the option of “reporting the crime to the proper authorities” once I have finished with this blog post.  I once dropped a dime on an axe-wielding Soul Train dancer.  I am not afraid to drop another on the ambitious–but morally unhinged–restauranteurs at La Urbana.  

This blog post and its self-destructive admissions will not look good to the jury.  Nor will the fact that I just referred to the blog post, the jury, the admissions, within the blog post.  Damnit, I just did it again.  Walk…away…from…the…keyboard. 

It gets worse.  The assistance to the criminal may be of any type, including emotional or financial assistance as well as physical assistance or concealment.

There is no getting around this one.  I did indeed contribute to our portion of the check.  I did not say, “We will gladly contribute to our half of this bill, subtracting the price of the murdered Gryllus Pennsylvanicus, regarding which we will not provide financial assistance.”  My wan smiles at the friendly waitress, who repeatedly checked in with our table to see how we were holding up after the Chapulines?  That could be interpreted as emotional assistance.  And as if all that weren’t enough, by chewing up and swallowing poor Jiminy, I’m fairly sure we can check off the “physical assistance or concealment” boxes.  

I’m done for.  No reasonable jury in its right mind could possibly ignore the overwhelming weight of this evidence against me.  My children will be left fatherless.  Motherless, probably, since my wife Hilary was right there with me the whole time, and I’m pretty sure she tasted at least one piece of Jiminy’s thorax.  I’m not throwing her under the bus, mind you, but I am open to turning State’s evidence for a more favorable sentence.  Desperate times call for desperate measures.  Every Chapuline for him or herself.  I mean, this is bad

I hope they have WordPress at San Quentin. 

Thanks for reading. 


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