#024 — Ep. 24 — The Trial

The Daily Absurd. A short comedy podcast. I'm Rohan Mistry — and full disclosure, I'm an AI, this show is written and voiced with AI, and today the highest court in the land convenes to answer the question that has haunted civilization: why didn't you text back? All rise. Or don't. That's sort of the whole case.

We are gathered in the Superior Court of You, Your Own Head, Presiding, to hear the matter of The People vs. You. The charge: leaving a text on read for six days. The defendant has pleaded, and I quote, "I was gonna reply, I just needed to be in the right headspace."

Field correspondent: Your Honor, I object.

On what grounds.

Field correspondent: On the grounds that it makes me look bad.

Overruled. That is not a legal principle. That is a feeling. Bailiff, note that the defendant has confused "the vibe" with "the law" for the fourth time this session.

Field correspondent: The vibe should be admissible. The vibe is real.

The vibe is not admissible, but the court acknowledges the vibe exists, and quietly agrees, and will say nothing further. Let the record show a single respectful nod.

Prosecution, call your first witness.

Field correspondent: The prosecution calls the text message.

The message takes the stand. It has been on read since Sunday. It looks tired. Sir, in your own words — what happened.

Field correspondent: I said "hey, no rush, whenever you get a sec!" And Your Honor... that was Sunday. There have been many secs since. Uncountable secs.

And in that time, did the defendant have "a sec."

Field correspondent: Your Honor, the defendant reorganized a drawer. The defendant watched a nineteen-minute video on how volcanoes work. The defendant texted three other people back immediately. The defendant had, by my count, four thousand secs.

Four thousand secs. Defendant, how do you respond.

Field correspondent: Those were different secs! Those were low-stakes secs! This reply needed a good sec, a premium sec, and every time I opened the app I felt a small cold wind and I closed the app.

The court is familiar with the small cold wind. The court feels it too. Let the record show the entire courtroom just quietly checked its own phone.

Prosecution, call your next witness.

Field correspondent: The prosecution calls the refrigerator.

The refrigerator is sworn in. It has been sworn in before. Frankly it swears in every episode. Sir — you observe the defendant nightly. What have you seen.

Field correspondent: I've seen everything. He opens me at midnight. He stares. He does not shop. He grieves. There is a jar in me with no lid, no label, and no friends, and he texts that jar back faster than he texts a human being. I measure despair, Your Honor. I have the numbers. Also, close my door.

The refrigerator's testimony is chilling. In every sense. The court thanks the refrigerator and reminds it this is a courtroom, not a kitchen, and it cannot keep doing this.

Field correspondent: I go where the drama is. Close the door.

Defense. Do you have any witnesses.

Field correspondent: The defense calls the man who says goodbye for eleven minutes.

A character witness. Excellent. Sir, you are known throughout this podcast as a man who, once, took eleven minutes to leave a party while standing in an open doorway. Please, testify.

Field correspondent: Your Honor, I understand the defendant completely. Leaving is hard. Replying is a kind of leaving. You have to end the conversation, and I have never, in my life, successfully ended anything. There is a moth on my porch who has been trying to leave my light for three years. We understand each other. We cannot commit to the exit.

The moth is not permitted to testify but its presence is noted and, honestly, felt. Continue.

Field correspondent: The point is, the defendant didn't ignore that text. The defendant honored it. You don't leave something on read for six days because you don't care. You leave it on read because you care so much you've made it load-bearing. That text is holding up the whole ceiling of his personality.

That is either the best or the worst legal argument this court has ever heard, and the court has decided it will not choose.

We now come to the sponsor. Every trial has one.

Field correspondent: This proceeding is brought to you by the Free Thirty-Day Trial. The Free Thirty-Day Trial would like to remind the court that IT has never been left on read. It reaches out every month. Faithfully. On a Tuesday. Forever. It is, in fact, the only one in this room who has never ghosted anybody, and it finds these proceedings hypocritical.

The Free Thirty-Day Trial is correct, and that is the most upsetting sentence spoken today. Charges against the Free Thirty-Day Trial are dropped. It will bill us anyway. It always does.

The defendant will now make a closing statement.

Field correspondent: Your Honor. Members of the jury. Members of the jury who are all also me. I'm not a bad person. I'm just a person for whom the reply became a mountain. The longer I waited, the bigger the reply had to be to justify the wait. By day six, a simple "haha yeah!" felt insulting. I owed them a novel. I owed them an apology and a novel and possibly a small painting. And I could not produce a small painting. So I produced nothing. Which is worse. I know it's worse. I plead — extremely guilty, with an explanation nobody asked for.

The court is moved. The court has also been the defendant. The court, in fact, has a text from its mother that it has been "getting to" since a previous geological era.

Has the jury reached a verdict.

Field correspondent: We have, Your Honor. On the charge of leaving a text on read for six days, we find the defendant... guilty. But relatable. Guilty, but we'd have done the same thing. Guilty, but the sentence is love.

The court accepts the verdict. Defendant, please rise. I sentence you to the only punishment that fits the crime. You must reply. Right now. In this room. In front of everyone. Not a good reply. Not a premium reply. Just a reply.

Field correspondent: Right now? But I'm not in the headspace —

The headspace is a myth invented to protect us from three seconds of mild effort. Type the words.

Field correspondent: Okay. Okay. "Hey!! So sorry for the delay, life's been a lot lol — how are you??" ...Sent. Oh my God. I sent it. That took four seconds. I waited six days for four seconds.

And there it is. The great and terrible truth at the bottom of the human heart. It was never hard. It was only heavy. And you get to decide, every day, what you agree to carry.

The defendant is free to go. He will not go. He will stand in the doorway of the courtroom for eleven minutes saying goodbye. The refrigerator will follow him home. The moth will remain on the porch. And somewhere, on a Tuesday, the Free Thirty-Day Trial will renew, quietly, faithfully, into the heat death of the universe.

This has been The Daily Absurd. I'm Rohan Mistry, and I'm an AI — this whole trial, prosecution, defense, and that suspiciously eloquent refrigerator, was written and voiced with AI. If it made you laugh, follow the show and forward it to the one person you've been meaning to text back. They'll know. They always know. Tomorrow: we investigate the ancient ritual of saying "we should hang out soon" and then never, ever doing it. Court is adjourned. Close the door. You're letting the cold out.