Boy, you talk about a turn of luck!  In less than a week Homer had gone from the nicest guy anyone would ever want to meet to a universal object of disgust.  No matter what happened, Homer was doomed.  If the court found Homer insane, he would have to spend the rest of his life in the nuthouse.  Otherwise, if he ever got out, Mr. Boss would certainly tear his lungs out.  And to make matters worse, his wife wanted whatever was left to feed to the goldfish.  On the other hand, the court could find Homer sane.  In that case they would fry him in the electric chair.  Cheery choices.  As Homer sat in his cell he wondered whatever became of all the friends he had ever known, all the people who had sworn to stand beside him no matter what.  They were all gone now.  Poor Homer.  He couldn’t even hang himself.  They had taken his shoe strings.