By Rodney Hays

A couple of weeks ago I received a note in the mail most U.S. Americans have grown to hate.

I know what you're thinking, "Rodney, you still get mail?"

The answer is, of course, yes. Six days a week whether rain, snow, sleet or bad sunburn, the mailman or mailchick brings by my mail, or what some people call "snail mail." I sift through my snail mail and take out the junk mail, letters from insurance companies I've never heard of, credit card offers and take home my one piece of mail that I really needed in the first place -- royalty checks from my time on "Toddlers and Tiaras."

But a couple of weeks ago, I received another piece of correspondence that almost immediately made my heart skip a beat. It was a summons from the courthouse announcing they needed me for jury duty.

Jury duty? Everybody hates jury duty. Right?

And this was no regular jury duty call. This particular summons came from the federal court. That's the important people. The federal marshals will shoot you on the spot for felonious acts such as chewing gum in the courtroom.

Haha. That's a joke. The federal marshals don't shoot you. All federal shootings are now outsourced to India.

But I digress.

I told just about everyone I know about jury duty and got lots of good advice about how to get out of it.

Maybe the best advice I got was to shout out random phrases such as "sinner," "baby killer," and "my mom has that same robe." That usually gets you sent home ... or shot by the contractors.

I decided I would take my chances, be honest and maybe I would get sent packing anyway. That approach has served me well during the four or five times I've been called for jury duty before.

On my way to the courthouse, I read over my summons one last time for anything I might have missed. One thing I noticed right away was the note that read, and I quote, "Please detach the bottom portion and send back within five business days."

Now, I guess it's pretty obvious if I was reading those words, then I had not, in fact, returned my portion within five business days.

It was about at this point I knew I was going to federal prison for a long time before eventually being shot by a federal marshal named, "Bob."

I would have to fake my way through it and see what happens.

I finally arrived at the courthouse and realized I was about 45 minutes early. Since I was a little hungry I figured I would try to find a lunch spot and relax. I pulled into the parking lot of a local eatery near the courthouse, straightened my tie, retucked my shirt and headed for the door.

Upon opening the door I was greeted with the smells of fast food and the kind voice welcoming me to the establishment. I reached into my pocket to pull out my wallet, when I realized I had left it in the pants I was wearing earlier that day. I never transferred my wallet to my suit pants.

[Note to readers: When arriving for jury duty, one item you will definitely need: a photo ID.]

It's weird, but the federal marshal boys are kind of particular about letting people without photo IDs into a federal building, for instance a federal courthouse.

I left the restaurant without eating -- since I didn't have any money -- and headed back to the courthouse. I figured I would talk to the marshal boys and see if they would allow me to show them my Facebook profile page as my photo ID.

After a little wrangling they did let me in and I took my place in the jury pool.

I still wanted to go home if for no other reason than to eat. I was starving.

Then the judge came out and explained how the jury selection process worked. Then everybody introduced themselves. Then the attorneys started asking questions of the potential jurors to ascertain who would make a great juror.

Then something crazy happened.

I started looking around and thinking, "I would be a much better juror than that guy," and "I hope she doesn't make it. I can't work with her."

I actually started wanting to get picked. I felt like it was elementary school and we were about to pick teams for kickball. Somebody had to pick me. It was imperative.

In the end, I was picked. So, on the day of court, I listened to the testimony. I took notes. I formed opinions based on the evidence. And, at the end of the day, I was informed I was one of two alternates and would not be deciding on the verdict anyway.

But it was okay. I didn't really want to decide a guy's fate. At that point, I just wanted to go home and get something to eat.

Plus I had a royalty check from "Toddlers and Tiaras" burning a hole in my pocket.

To read more of Rodney Hays' humor, check out his blog at www.rodneyhays.com. Follow him on Twitter and become a friend on Facebook.