Sunday, December 28, 2008

Resolutions for the faint of obedience

I don't really believe in New Year's resolutions, since I figure if I'm too lazy, selfish or insolent to do something different on any other day, why should getting a new calendar make a difference? However, I recognize the value of marking one's choices - such as getting married, buying a midlife crisis camaro or setting the now ex's clothes on fire, thereby making the breakup official. However, as I am a counselor at law, I've decided to hand out some potential resolutions for the faint of obedience: i.e., my clients, the theives and crackheads of the world. My suggestion to you is to resolve to:

1. To break only one law at a time. If you are drunk, don't run red lights or have your buddy stick their ass out the window. If you have no license, don't drive drunk. If you have 3 pounds of coke in the trunk, don't speed, or rob a liquor store.

2. To pay your fucking lawyer. Guess what? Until you've paid, you have no lawyer and are on your own when the D.A. gets sick of giving you continuances. Know how you thought you shouldn't go in on that robbery without a lawyer? You're going to, and I'm going to be in the back drinking coffee and probably not even wishing you luck. What, am I your guardian angel?

3. To not smack your girlfriend. If your girlfriend is a bitch, leave her. Smacking her up will not make her less of a bitch. In fact, she will, surprise surprise, probably just be pissed at you and get your stupid ass arrested. In a nutshell, "she deserved it" is not a defense.

4. To not come to court drunk. Seriously, it doesn't help.

5. To not come to court high, particularly on a drug charge. People can tell you are high. You are fooling no one. Your red, slanty little eyes and inability to dig your keys out at the security station will not be chalked up to allergies.

6. To pull your damn pants up. The judge will not be impressed by your fine choice in underwear.

7. To realize I am your advocate, not a miracle worker. See those other 276 people in the courtroom? They want to get out of here too. Sit down and shut up. If you didn't want to spend the day in court, you shouldn't have been buying meth in a stolen car.

8. To not smash windshields. Smashing someone's windshield only makes one point: you are an asshole with anger issues who needs to grow the fuck up. Find another solution.

9. To run your story by a couple people before you bring it to court. If they laugh, it is not a good defense.

10. To keep your car on the road: not to veer off into a ditch, a japanese maple, a convenience store, or someone's living room. Ass on the asphalt, it will save you a lot of money in the long run.

Good luck to you and happy new year. May your crimes be smart, your cops be lazy and your alibis strong.

Wednesday, December 24, 2008

Some Christmas ideas for the poor in wallet or heart

Christmas is different when you're broke, which is the case for a lot of people in today's shitcan economy. I'm lucky enough to be employed. Many people these days are not, and spend the day drinking cheap beer and watching Lifetime movies in hopes of seeing someone whose life is worse. If you'll find it, you'll find it on Lifetime. 10 a.m.: "Hearts on a dove's wing: the triumphant story of a one-legged incest victim dumped in the Alaskan tundra by abusive wolves." Stuff like that.

Yet, people want to give Christmas presents. On the eve of this formerly religious holiday turned gaudy celebration of conspicuous consumption represented by a dangerously obese flying man, I thought I'd help by suggesting some presents that won't cost you any beer money. Here we go.

1. Love. Not the boring love your fellow man kind, though. Go fuck and ugly person who will appreciate it.

2. A paper bag with holes cut in it for the eyes and mouth. This is for your friend who is following the above suggestion.

3. Mice, decapitated birds, moles, voles, maybe a squirrel on a good day. I know these cost no money because my cats drag them in all the time and they are not getting an allowance. At least not from me.

4. Starbucks coffee. Oh, no wait. That costs lots of money. It just shouldn't because they're a fucking blight on America. They should pay us.

5. Stolen things. I recommend doing your Christmas stealing all in one place; the more security guards you encounter, the more likely you are to get caught. If you do get caught, however, it will be expensive. If you're in NC, drop me a line and say you were referred by legal bandit for a 10% discount on your defense, which will be "I was broke and stupid."

6. Crap in your attic you got last year and didn't want. Dust that shit off and pass it on. You should bust out some fresh wrapping paper though, and take off that "to Paul from cousin Doofy" tag. Just because you're broke doesn't excuse being tacky.

7. Give a present to the rest of the world and future generations - fire up a brain cell, haul your fat ass a few feet over and recycle your damn bottles and cans. Try using your grubby fucking paws to carry things out of a store instead of taking a plastic bag that will spend thousands of years in a landfill. Recently I saw this piece of shit leave his giant SUV running while he went into a convenience store, bought 2 sodas in plastic bottles, and let the clerk put them in a plastic bag like he couldn't carry them without a toxic handle. My Christmas present is that he and everyone like him be dragged out and shot.

So, there are a few ideas. Enjoy and happy holidays. Hope you get a job by next year and can come up with some present ideas on your own. If not, see you in court.

Tuesday, December 23, 2008

Is this over yet?

Gee, thanks for the zero offers of ideas to cheer me up, you lazy fucks. I could have just gone and stabbed somebody, and where would your bandit blog be then? Written in jail, that's where. And the girls there are, so far as I've seen on jail visits, distinctly not hot. It's not like when Helena and Dusty hooked up on 'The L Word', at least not in rural NC where most of the chicks are in there for crack and meth, which has left their teeth looking like hedgeclippers.

But I digress. Now, to the holidays. I have noticed the past few years that holidays are very different when you don't drink. Less people to hang out with, less places to hang out, and you're stuck actually experiencing the whole thing - crazy aunt, gobs of shoppers, piped-in Christmas carols, hungover co-workers, the Salvation Army bell (or was that a drill in my ear the whole time I was shopping?), guilt trips, expectations that one nicely wrap things one did not want to buy in the first damn place, clients with no money to pay because they had to get their brat kid an Xbox to make themselves feel better for being shitty, drunken parents all year, traffic, blow-up santa dolls hanging out of windows and waiters with felt reindeer horns on their heads. No wonder people invented eggnog. It allows even old ladies an escape, and God knows everyone needs one this time of year.

However, happy holidays, and may your buyer's remorse not be too painful. If so, I suggest we all set our credit card statements on fire and create a new holiday which involves people boycotting corporate america, wearing normal clothes, ignoring our families and shutting the hell up for a couple of days. Let me know if you're interested. Unless I get something really cool for Christmas, in which case I suggest you down some eggnog, 'cause you're on your own.

Friday, December 19, 2008

Cheer me up, dammit.

The end of the year, in reality, means nothing. People made up calendars to keep up with themselves and each other and to explain why grandma is so much more wrinkly than the baby. On January first we'll all be the same people dealing with the same shit washing the same dishes and changing the same baby and grandma diapers. Calendars mean nothing.

Yet, at the end of every year it seems like everybody's shit gets stirred up and we feel weird. I've been pretty depressed lately. Of course, the dead fish didn't help, or crap at work, or realizing suddenly that Christmas is next week and I just don't wanna. People around me are cranky. On the bright side, there's this D.A. with awesome legs who wears a skirt almost every day. Yeah.

This morning I started a list of cheer me up things. This is as far as I got.

1. D.A.'s legs. Both of them. In high heels. Mmmm.

2. Christmas will be over soon. No more stupid music in every store I go into because I need grapes and deodorant. People will stop wearing Christmas sweaters, which are an abomination and should all be burned. I will not be tempted to strangle some guy in a stupid Santa tie for 12 more months. Overall, good.

3. If I break down and stab somebody, I know several really good defense attorneys and all the local judges. I just need to stab someone in this county.

4. There's always chocolate.

5. Butt stick is only in the office for another week. (If you're confused, see post "butt stick.")I am looking forward to no longer having to deal with butt stick, who could probably benefit from a good ass kicking. Again, I do know some defense attorneys.

6. L word starts back up next month, even though retarded ass Showtime is taking it off the air and ripping everyone off with a 6 week season. Still, though. It's the L word.

7. I never have to take the bar again. Thank God, because I'd stab myself.

8. I'm running out of ideas. That's sad, isn't it?

Help me out here. Mail your happy thoughts on a postcard taped to the hood of a new BMW to: Bah humbug, 110 S. Dammit Street, Gimme-leggs NC. Don't use cheap tape and fuck up my paint, either. thanks.

Tuesday, December 16, 2008

Habeas is corpus

I've apparently killed my fishie and am very sad. I really loved this fish. He lived in my office and I felt guilty every weekend when I left Habeas by himself with no one to talk to him or feed him, and apologized every Monday morning. I rescued him, since people are always stuffing bettas in these tiny, sad bowls, which I think is terrible; so he got a 3 gallon tank with live plants and was very happy. However, yesterday I thought the tank needed to be cleaned and I changed out the water and washed the algae and fish poop out of the gravel and apparently, he liked it better dirty because he was dead this morning. We buried him in a paperclip box outside my window and I cried in the parking lot.

This leads me to philosophize a bit about some of the fucked up people I see every day. The system punishes them and occasionally tries to rehabilitate them but maybe if they cleaned up too much, they'd go belly up. Maybe some people just need to be in a little crap to be OK. Who are we to say? Maybe the laws of nature apply to us too. For instance, a catfish wants to eat gunk off the bottom of the pond. It's what makes him big and fat and whiskery. Maybe some people are just made to have a continually revoked license, a pissed off family, a familiarity with the jail guards, a lawyer budget, and favorite games to play in a cell. They provide jobs for lawyers and judges and district attorneys and jail guards and legislators and police and probation officers and clerks of court and probably a bunch of people I don't even know about. Maybe some people just don't need the water changed.

Sigh. Well, guess I'll mourn the fish for a couple of days and find another, perhaps luckier, inhabitant for this lonely looking tank, and let him get dirty if he wants to. In the meantime, more power to the catfish people who pay for my office so I can give a dirty fishie a home.

Wednesday, December 10, 2008

Spring loaded! Look out!

I work for a guy who is wound so tight I fully expect springs to start snapping and flying out of his body in all directions any day now, so sometimes I keep my distance, you know, just in case. I've got insurance but I also like having two eyes. They probably do eye transplants if yours get poked out by flying springs but I don't know for sure. Besides, I might get a set of big, googly eyes - the kind that makes people think "wow, look at those big, googly eyes! I'm glad I don't have bulging buglike googly eyes like that. I wonder if he's inbred?" or things like that. Mine are nothing really special, I don't think, but are not googly and are a reasonably nice size and color, so I want to keep them, and besides, having your eyes poked out probably hurts a lot.

I also might get crackhead eyes, which are incapable of seeing the next sensible thing to do pretty much ever. Here's a tip, in case you didn't know: crackheads are not reliable people. Today boss bandit wanted me to sit second chair on a jury trial. The case involved one crackhead hitting another in the head with a baseball bat. We were going to argue that it was self defense. Our star witness has been homeless since she got out of jail last. It took quite a bit of effort to find her. Unfortunately, the guy who got smacked in the head didn't show up and couldn't be found. The rumor is he's on the run after a local drug sweep in order to stay out of jail. He has no phone and I believe, no formal address. People acted surprised. Really? He's a no phone having, basically homeless crackhead, and the type of guy people hit with bats. How surprised can you be? Guys like that don't scrub up and appear on time in court to describe how a fight broke out over who got to sleep with the chick they passed around and,how, well, people were really cranky because the drugs had run out and no one was going to have any money until somebody stole some. The prosecutor got a continuance. I am not sure how much good it will do her, but hey, if it makes her happy, that's great. All things considered though, I still say she looks like she needs to get fucked silly and that would make her happier than a crackhead continuance, but who am I to judge? I'm just saying she looks like she has an ass of ice and that can't be comfortable. I'm just saying. I'd still do it if I didn't have a girlfriend, though. She's a rather cute uptight ice queen. Again, just sayin'. In the meantime, I gotta go unwind and fashion some sort of spring protector sunglasses for tomorrow. It's gonna be a long day.

Tuesday, December 2, 2008

Sell it to me

'Tis the season to go buy crap. Years ago, I thought about going into marketing but was too stoned so I just sat around dreaming up funny ads, which I thought at the time amused my cats, but am now not so sure.

I still find myself fascinated with how people try to convince others to buy their crap (hot chick eats popcorn = suggestion popcorn breath will get you laid) and also by how people pick their target audience. "He went to Jarred's!" targeted to bridezillas who measure a guy's worth by the size and setting he chooses for a little piece of compressed coal dug out of a mountain by a Sri Lankan with one arm. That's love. Or so the marketers over the past 70 years or so have said.

My favorite thus far is a local shop: "Guns and Scooter sales." I'm not making this up. This, I presume, is aimed at gun totin' drunk drivers - people who have lost their licenses but may still legally defend their trailer or gang by popping a cap in somebody's ass. On second thought, just the trailer dwellers. People in gangs, in my experience, don't really give a fuck about some little license revocation. Besides, what kind of drive by shooting is that? "Putt, putt, BANG! putt, putt, BANG! BANG!" "Where did that come from?" "The dudes on the little scooters." "The scooter gang? Seriously?" After which, the unharmed targets chase down the guys on the scooters, who are fleeing the scene at 35 mph and kick their asses. So, I guess it's for drunk drivers who need to defend their trailers. Or people too poor or lazy to pay their speeding tickets, resulting in a revoked license but apparently enough money to buy a .22 automatic. The question remains why they take so fucking long to pay my bills.

Maybe we should start selling weapons. Here's the marketing idea: "Bazookas and bond reductions! Get your guns and hired guns at your one stop crime shop!" Or something like that. It's a work in progress. In the meantime, I've got to go hand out some business cards and get the bills paid so I can spend it on something marketed just to me: a left handed lesbian lawyer with a bunch of cats, a penchant for old trucks and a stomachache from too much coffee. Any takers?

Saturday, November 29, 2008

Haunt them for their Nascar hats!

Yesterday, crowds of shoppers stampeded into a Wal-Mart and trampled a temporary worker to death in their hurry to snatch up cheap Chinese crap. When police asked them to leave the crime scene, shoppers refused, arguing they had been in line since the night before.

I don't even know where to start with this. First, who the fuck waits outside all night to get into a Wal-Mart? I won't get started on the evils of Wal Mart in general - I'll just ask: seriously? All night? To shop at Wal-Mart? Seriously? You been sniffing that $.56 glue or something?

A stampede - really? To get into a fucking Wal-Mart? Y'all actually endangered your lives and killed someone to get a discount on a $9 Nascar hat, stitched by slave laborers in some third world country and brought over in a big ass tanker that burned enough fuel to heat your shit town for a week that your cousin Enis is going to lose behind a honky-tonk after it falls off his head while he's throwing up.

And people refused to leave. I think the stampeded guy should haunt each and every one of those fuckers in turn. They stomped a man to death then didn't have enough respect for him or even the cops to stop filling their carts with cheap sweatpants and discount corn chips. I might be a defense attorney, but I have to go ahead and ask - where were the tasers? What the hell happened to billy clubs? Sometimes a cop really does have to knock some respect into some jackass. Do your damn jobs. You seem to be willing enough to bust some pimply teenage boy with a bag of weed, man - how about busting a few heads when the situation calls for it? I'd have defended you.

Overall, I guess I am saying something is really, really wrong. I for one suggest making a monument to this guy - this martyr there to show us what we have become: a nation of selfish, violent, crap-grabbers with as little respect for ourselves as we have for each other. Maybe next time a new Wal-Mart is getting ready to put every small business owner in in a new town out of a job, somebody will step out of his trailer and say, "Naw, man, I jes don't need me a new Nascar hat that fuckin' bad."

Thursday, November 27, 2008

Tis the season to excuse gluttony and watch a bunch of idiots jump in a pile repeatedly, also known as football. I wouldn't mind all the jumping in a pile so much if they didn't talk about it so long after each pile up, as if they'd done something really special. People suggest I just don't understand, which is certainly true. What they don't wonder is if in fact I understand perfectly and they're spending entire afternoons on the couch watching a bunch of idiots jump in a pile, which I suppose would be hard to admit as you barrel toward a chip and beer induced heart attack having spent so many afternoons of your life yelling at people on TV who can't hear you and don't care if you think they should have thrown the fucking ball in some other direction.

This year I am spending the holiday with the in laws, which is going fine. We are apparently deep frying a turkey. For those of you who have not witnessed such a thing, it goes like this. First you raise and kill a chicken, gut and defeather it, chop off the head and legs, throw the remains in some water and boil it. Then do whatever with the chicken. Put the chicken flavored water aside. Raise and kill a turkey. Pull off its feathers, take out its guts, chop off its head and legs, wrap it in plastic and sell it by the pound. Unwrap it. Inject it with the water from the chicken. Alternately, stick it in a plastic bag filled with salt water. Meanwhile, set an enormous pot out back and fill it with grease. Boil the grease. Drink some beers. Take the chicken-salt-water turkey and carefully lower it into the boiling oil. If you don't set anything on fire, take a drink. Hang out a while. Drink some beer. Somehow, this 20 lb. bird carcass will be cooked through in about an hour. Get someone sober to help lift it out of the boiling oil. If no one catches on fire, take a drink. Eat the turkey. This is apparently delicious. We'll find out in about an hour.

I do appreciate the opportunity to be thankful we can afford to be gluttons, though, and that history changes things. I am, for instance, grateful to not have woken up on a hay matress to build a fire for warmth, hope the natives whose land I stole won't kill me, wear a dress made of yarn I spun myself after shearing my own sheep, be miserably married to a musket-carrying pilgrim who bathes twice a year and live in a handmade cabin. Fuck that. When my tax refund comes in, I'm gettin' an Itouch and in the meantime, I'm in some store bought Levi's waiting for tortured turkey. Here's to tradition. Or not.

Sunday, November 23, 2008

Here's to not being brain damaged!

It is almost Thanksgiving. I have lots of things to be grateful about. For instance, I'm not brain damaged. Yesterday I told my acupunturist about our new office help and she said the girl is probably brain damaged. Apparently, this can cause people to be impulsive and not pick up on social cues - i.e. doing things like inturrupting an attorney getting ready for court to show them a 5'7" of your teenage spawn completely unsolicited. My acupuncturist suggested I work a question into the conversation as to whether the girl had ever been unconscious. I explained there really isn't any conversation. Allow me to demostrate why. This is an actual exchange in our office, as reported by my office manager.

Weird temp: I'm really particular about body odor.
Office manager: Uh huh. I wouldn't want to smell bad.
Weird temp: I'm really particular about it though.
Office manager: Uh huh.
Weird temp: I'm so particular, I use deodorant on my butt.
Office manager: What?
Weird temp: You know how your butt can sweat? I wouldn't want it to smell bad. So I use deodorant on my butt.
Office manager (regrettably, she takes the bait): How do you tell the difference between that deodorant and your regular one?
Weird temp: Oh, I have it labeled in my bathroom as "butt stick."

OK - first, who puts deodorant on their butt? Secondly, who tells people about it? Specifically, who tells a busy office manager at their temporary job? My next question - how does she explain 'butt stick' to her children? Do they think this is normal? Will her kids go to school and talk about butt stick to other kids and find out this is not normal and become known as "butt stick"? This is not entirely unreasonable, as I have begun to refer to weird temp as 'butt stick'.

Sigh. Five more weeks. You will enjoy this more than I will.

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

Ours is not to reason why

I have been sworn in as an attorney for 10 weeks. I have decided my job is to be helpless for the hopeless. However, I have not yet turned off the impulse to wonder why people do the things they do, though I manage not to ask. Why, when you need your license to keep your job, were you drag racing? And why were you racing in a shitty pickup truck that can't outrun the cops? Why did you try to beat up the guard when you were in jail? Why did you throw beer on the cop? Why did you steal all that shit with cameras on you? Why have you been skipping court for the past 7 years and what, exactly, am I supposed to do about it? How did it seem to be a good idea to show up to court shitfaced drunk? The list goes on. In fact, it goes on and on, every day. This is how I make my living.

It would help if just the clients were confusing. The guy I work with collects stray dogs of the person type and dragged in this nutjob with no office social skills for 6 weeks to help her feed her kids because she can't find a job. I pointed out that this just means she'll be out of a job in 6 weeks but the logic seems to have escaped him. Yesterday she insisted on telling us all about how her husband told her she was fat then left her for a 500 lb. woman. I am still wondering how I managed to not say "maybe he meant fat in the head." We'll put that down as divine intervention. This saga was detailed in the car on the way home from lunch, so the staff was trapped in this sedan of sorrow with no way out. Help! I thought. I sweated with the exertion it took to not explain I'd probably choose being crushed by a woman the size of a refrigerator to being crushed by the daily torture of listening to her too. I looked around wildly, wanting to jump out in traffic but had on a nice suit and didn't want to rip it up, so I came up with the idea of counting blue cars and billboards. Then this morning I was rushing to get out to court and talking to the office manager about my files when chick interrupts to show me a picture of her kids. I have one question. How did this seem to be a good idea? Oh, right, I don't ask why anymore. I just try not to shoot people.

Ultimately, I suppose mine is not to reason why, mine is but to do what I can and collect fees. We'll see what I've learned 10 weeks from now. Maybe I'll be able to afford some new suits and hang them in the office in case I have to jump out in traffic and have everyone else staring at me asking "now why did she do that?" Time will tell.

Saturday, November 15, 2008

Why straight people should fear gay marriage

There was a Proposition 8 protest here yesterday, which was of course really about right to marry, since it would be really silly to just protest a ballot measure that had already passed last week 3,000 miles away. We don't love parades THAT much. Bad timing, still though - it rained so fucking hard my combat boots are still wet. I blame the Republicans. They probably had a prayer vigil and all the hot air affected the weather patterns. I have to hand it to the Army, though - my socks were amazingly dry. Go Army!

I've decided, though, since it looks like we're slowly but surely getting some rights, to come clean with the rest of you guys. Opponents are terrified of allowing same sex couples to marry, and supporters wonder why the hell the opponents care; how could a couple of people they never met getting hitched possibly affect them? What the hell is the problem? Well, here's the deal. It would be a problem. Yep. Other gay people won't tell you this but Legal Bandit is going to spit the truth here. I'll even describe how.

First, if gay people can marry, all straight marriages will suddenly become null and void. Yep, your fears are well founded, fearmongering gay haters. And the list goes on. You'll be forced to marry gay people to get back at you for forcing us to marry straight people for so long. Get used to it. Oh, and the sanctity of marriage is over. Churches will spontaneously combust, and God will send down inscribed tablets providing that your $10 marriage license is no longer overseen by the heavenly host. And here's the big one - yes, in fact, people from West Virginia and Kentucky are waiting in the wings, and will rapidly be permitted to marry their sisters and mules. In fact, dogs and mules will marry, gaining inheritance rights to each other's spots in the barn. Let's see, what else? Oh, we will be able to recruit, using billboards and You Tube ads. Your teenager, who would have otherwise been straight, will somehow have his/her hormonal and emotional framework altered and will become homosexual. This will be so widespread that everyone will be marrying within their own gender, of course not procreating, and in two generations, you guessed it - all your family lines will be wiped out and America will be entirely populated by Mexicans and Al-Qaeda. In the meantime, the country will be exceptionally well decorated, enjoy lots of snazzy dance clubs, and build a lot of pickup trucks plastered with bumperstickers and heard playing indie folk songs about relationships.

So, the truth is out there. No one else had the guts to tell you, but you can always count on me. Get to it, h8ers, your marriages and country is at stake.

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

Suffer me the little spouses

I think I should address Proposition 8, also known as "Really? In 2008?", so here goes. I don't know why so many people are opposed to allowing us gay people suffer in marriage. We should have the same right as straight people to have our estranged spouses deliver the home and vehicle, per court order, by ramming the goddamn pickup into the side of our single wide trailer yelling 'here ya go' in a drunken slur then stumbling off. We should have wedding rings to lose in sleazy hotels with hookers just like straight folks, and be cornered at family reunions by aunt-in-laws who want to share the details of their operations, and drive to some godforsaken shithole in bumfuck for Thanksgiving because dammit, "we went to your family's godforsaken shithole last year, Charlie" and all the other stuff that comes with marriage.

Ultimately, I think this is what we get for a serious lack of literacy. The argument most Americans have against gay marriage is religiously based, which it wouldn't be if people could fucking read. Heads up, folks: the dude who stars in your religion didn't have anything to say about us. Yeah. That shit you keep quoting was some tax collector I highly suspect was butt fucked by a Greek when he was 10 and never got over it. The Leviticus argument doesn't wash either, unless you want to stop eating bacon and cheeseburgers, raise sheeps to kill on altars and stone adultresses to death. Here's the deal - if you're going to beat the shit out of a bunch of people with some 2000 year old Arabic social rules, have some integrity about it. Read up and get to herding some oxens for sacrifices. Just leave me the fuck alone; I'm not interested in wandering around in the desert with you. I've got a new Xbox and that's way more fun.

So anyway, really, what is the problem? Let us risk our retirement accounts, get cleaned out by shady divorce lawyers, raise brats who hate us, insist the ugly new dress looks great, and find out the life insurance policy was cashed out last year and spent on some slut like the rest of you. Pain shared is pain lessened. Share yours with us.

Thursday, November 6, 2008

Solid as Barack

*Sniff*. I admit it. I cried for joy when the election results were announced; I was, and am, so proud of us - by us, I mean 1/4 of the country, since only half of us got off the couch and voted, and only half of them didn't vote for Yosemite Sam. However, 25% of us elected the most inspirational person of my lifetime and I couldn't be happier.

I wonder, though, if our expectations might be too high. It's easy to do, when Obama gives you the impression he could part the clouds and that angels follow him about, singing hymns of unity. It's easy, with a guy like that, to expect more than is reasonable from him; therefore, I thought I'd check in with my readers and see if my expectations are, perhaps, a tad unrealistic. OK, here they are, let me know.

1. World peace

2.Mega millionares will only accept a living wage, then donate the rest of their salaries to Santa. Or breast cancer research or, you know, something.

3. Barack will light the rainy days with his smile, except over fields and flowers, which will grow and bloom under gentle storms as if touched by God.

4. Hip hop artists will stop rappin'about slappin' hos. They will start a new trend: mad lyrics about health care reform and why one's underwear should be a mystery. The belt industry will boom.

5. Barack will visit Arizona, ask it to cool down, and a sweet breeze will begin to blow. He will smile at Maine and the snow will melt, creating a fresh water source for the east coast.

6. Citizens of the world will gather, hold hands and, in unison and perfect harmony, sing "Kumbaya."

7. Kittens and puppies for everyone.

8. Everyone will be doing so well they'll stop using drugs and stealin shit, which will put me out of work, but I won't even be mad about it.

9. Detroit will develop cars that run on sunshine and buttercups.

10. The Shiites and Sunnis will hold a joint bake sale to rebuild the country, forgive the invasion and send our troops home with cookies.

So, these are my expectations; feel free to share your own.

Hopefully yours,

The Legal Bandit

Monday, November 3, 2008

A call to arms

Hamlet (or some idiot) asked if it was better to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune or take arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing, end them. What kind of retarded question is that? Is standing around having shit thrown and shot at you really an option? "Oh, no, no fighting back for me. I'll just take an arrow in the eye, thanks."

Yet, this is the question at hand when people decide whether or not to vote. Look here, people. How do you think the system got so fucked up? Dumb ass fuckers standing around taking an arrow in the eye. Worse yet, the dumber fuckers who vote on the basis of who they'd rather have over for a beer. How has that worked out for you in the past 8 years? Sure, Gore was boring. So what? How many parties has the president ever invited you to? Do you expect the leader of the country to start showing up at your family get togethers? "Oh, hi, Billy Bob? Yeah, this is Al. I'll be coming by for your pig-pickin' this Saturday down by Mosquito Lake." It just doesn't happen. When it does, I'll excuse electing a drunken frat boy who treats the economy like an experiment with his allowance.

Therefore, here is the Bandit's challenge to you: Get out and vote and decide who you vote for on some semi-rational basis - which, by the way, means forgetting absolutely anything you may have heard on Fox News. If you sit home tomorrow, may you get an arrow in the eye. You deserve it.

Thursday, October 30, 2008

A shut mouth is a terrible thing to waste

Today a high school student thinking about going into law came in to shadow the guy I work with for a day. We chatted some over lunch. I refrained from offering to just choke her with her sandwich until she lost half her brain cells and heart, thereby acheving the same result, just cheaper and without the degree. I figure, if she wants to ruin a perfectly good life, that's her perogative and anyway, it may be too late. What the hell is a teenager doing giving serious thought to their career? She's supposed to be smoking pot, eating pizza, riding around aimlessly, drinking shitty beer somebody's brother bought and getting groped in backseats. Kids these days. Geez.

But then, most people waste their lives. Today a guy with a rap sheet a page long turned down a plea offer - which did suck - and we'll be going to trial on enough felonies to get him 26 years. The D.A. was quite self righteous about him being seen by some drunks chasing a crackhead prostitute with no pants on, possibly while weilding a knife. I would have explained he was just trying to get the wallet back she had just stolen if I'd gotten a word in edgewise. He said he had no patience for plea offers from defendants that insulted his intelligence and pointed to the degrees behind him, saying he wouldn't have them if he were stupid. I found this interesting for several reasons. First, I have more degrees than him and so does my girlfriend. Second, if he were smart, he'd have listened a bit and tried to get me to tip my hand; I in fact know a few things about the case I'm pretty sure he doesn't. Like I dug up an unserved warrant on his prostitute from where she never showed up to court for being busted with a crack pipe and it's going back out now. I didn't mind, though. This shit is going to be hard enough, so I'm perfectly happy with being underestimated.

My theory is that he was a career minded teenager; that type seems to understimate the kid who rode around drunk with their bare feet sticking out of a Camaro's passenger window. Sometimes for good reason; but sometimes, not so much - getting questioned by the cops teaches you to keep your fool mouth shut, and sometimes, that's the best way to seize an opportunity, which is a terrible thing to waste.

Sunday, October 26, 2008

The bee in the bonnet: a bridal story

This weekend my BFF got married. BFF sounds retarded when you're our age but I've known her for 23 years and we've been through tubs of tequila, the 1980's, punker haircuts, punk rock parties, back surgery, shitty relationships, shittier cars, school, car wrecks, poverty, job hunts, dead pets, family problems, schools, graduations and now a wedding together so fuck it, I'll call her what I want.

The wedding was outside, and the day was pretty nice, which also meant the birds and bees were out. The groom had a ladybug crawling all over him which was not nearly as bad as the bee in my bouquet. So I'm standing there in 4 inch heels trying to look serious and there's this fucking bee crawling all over my roses. I sent psychic messages to the bee. "GO AWAY!!" I thought, but the bee was actually not psychic, so it didn't work and he crawled on. So I kept looking at the bee, wondering what I'd do if he stung me. Would I be able to keep my composure? I couldn't blow her wedding screaming "OOO! OOO! He got me!" but bee stings really hurt - would I be able to contain myself? I wasn't sure. Meanwhile, he just kept crawling. I thought I was going to be OK when they went to like the unity candle and he was still there, as this was the end of the ceremony, but then he started flying in my face and around my head. "Damn bee!" I thought, weaving my head around and hoping he got the message. Fortunately, rather than sting me in the eye, which was his perogative, he flew away at the last minute and I was able to regain my composure to so I could pick my way across the wet grass, teetering in my high heels, and swear if my girl and I ever get married we're wearing hiking boots and having a potluck and everybody gets permission beforehand to smack the hell out of any damn bee that fucks with us.

Seriously, I couldn't be happier. The guy isn't a total monkey with a haircut like all her previous choices; he's actually pretty cool and gets extra points for pulling off the words "burp" and "fart" in his proposal ( I witnessed this) so he gets my boot of approval. Here's to you, BFF, may the birds and the bees never sting you or peck out your eyes, and if they do, I'll kill them.

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

Asshole evolution

I had been wondering how John McCain got to be the angry old fuck he is until yesterday. Then I realized that angry old fucks come from angry young fucks. It's a simple matter of evolution. Allow me to predict the future of one particular D.A. whose humanity I see shriveling before my eyes by way of illustration:

District Attorney A, who we will for the purposes of this illustration, call "Prick", started off with the potential to be a pretty O.K. guy. He's tall and was probably decent at sports in high school. This enabled him to hang out with the jocks and the seeds of his elitist attitude were thus born. He spent a couple years fucking cheerleaders and then joined a frat where they competed at slamming beers and fucked sorority chicks. Prick's dad wanted his progeny to be special so he could think some long forgotten premature ejaculation made him, by extension, special. Prick wanted to please his dad, at least more than he cared about pleasing the sorority chicks. He went to law school and believed this made him special. It did not. No one convinced him of this fact.

He got a job as an assistant D.A. working for a further developed dick, we'll call him Chubby. Chubby took Prick under his flabby arm and taught him that he wore an invisible white hat that gave him special powers. Prick began to gain weight, and to throw that weight around. Prick was not an exceptionally good lawyer. Secretly, he knew this, and therefore loved his invisible white power hat all the more. It cast a light of correctness on his inelegant arguments.

Now, Chubby couldn't keep employees and so after a couple years, Prick was promoted to be the head of the assistant district attorneys who handled traffic and misdemeanors. Prick swelled with pride.

Soon, a little lawyer got sworn in; we'll call her Bandit. She would go to Prick for help and find Prick was so full of himself that Bandit was frustrated at every turn. Even when Prick's colleagues, like Curly, were willing to help, Prick would storm in and insist he push forward in his own pointless, silly way until Bandit realized that Prick, in fact, had totally lost his head in his own ass and resigned herself to stealing victories when she could get Prick by the short hairs, which wasn't terribly difficult because, as we've said before, Prick had his head up his own ass.

(OK time to transition to future telling here - ready, set, go.) The years will pass and Prick will grow fat and limp, but will have learned that he felt powerful and potent when he swung his imaginary white hat and pointed down at hapless little lawyers, and poor people, and dumb people, and smelly people, and people who didn't have their shit together, and people who got in a lot of shit, and people who tried to help other people out of shit, for they should be more like him and pull themselves up by their bootstraps (though they had no boots) and be smart and act like they'd been raised right, which they hadn't.

Prick will run for political office and people will notice he responds to his opponent's optimism and well crafted plans with creepy smiles, smirks and that oh so delicious pompous righteousness. He will become a role model for little pricks and die, having wasted the chance to do the world some good.

(story is over now. transition to blog - ready, set, go.) OK hope you enjoyed story time and the moral of the story is: don't be a Prick.

Sunday, October 19, 2008

Broke or gun totin'? You decide.

Law school was something like having to make dinner while you are actually inside the pressure cooker. Studying for the bar was something like wanting to shoot yourself or someone else, depending on the day. Actually, it was exactly like that, not something like that, who am I kidding?

Now that it's all over, I'm broke. Here's a tip: you know all those student loans? Yeah. You have to pay them back.Post graduation, allow me to present you with your choices in this arena: you can (1) be broke or (2) get a corporate job, be stuffed in a dusty corner writing memos for several years and continue wanting to shoot yourself or someone else, only you won't have time, because you'll sit in that dusty corner 400 hours a week. Really, it's up to you.

So, I've opted for the being broke job, which isn't so bad. Here's an example. I had a lot to do the other morning but a chill afternoon, so I ate some lunch, then took a nap on the futon until the fill-in office guy gently woke me, on one knee, to present me with an ice cream sundae. Seriously, this really happened. We hung out and ate ice cream and watched some you tube and I got hired into some stuff over the phone, then the guy I work for came back, and we all went out back and watched him smoke like it was going to make him tall or something. Here's a tip: smoking is bad for you. It will not make you tall, though it will make you dead, which, on the up side, will enable you to do a fine impression of John McCain's smile.

I think I made the right decision.

Wednesday, October 15, 2008

McJumpy Bean Loses

And now, the final debate. Perhaps I am being too harsh on John McCain. There might have been something wrong with his pacemaker. His cyborg insides might have had a few shorts.Maybe he had a live wire up his ass to keep him awake, I don't know. However, the end result is that he looked like a zombie with a manic blink reflex and absolutely no ability to control himself. Ask yourself - is that who you want in tense negotiations with North Korea? A guy with a creepy grin who interrupts, smirks, writhes in his seat and has the composure of a bipolar 9 year old?

"Well, Mr. President, it is important to our country . . . um, are you OK?"
"Yes, yes." (blink blink blink blink blink)
"Well, we feel that the United States should take a greater role. . . "
"Mr. President, it seems you do not take our country seriously. I need to impress upon you..."
(Interrupting) "I have experience! I can lead this country! I am the only one who knows what to do!" (Pointing and writhing in his seat)
"Well, with all due deference, Mr. President. . . "
(Smirking, making secret grocery list with big pencil)
"This conversation is over."
"I win!"

And I'll say it: what was with the big ass sharpie he had for notes? OK, call me elitist, but I want a president who shows up to Geneva with a nice pen, not a goddamn crayon.

I also hoped for a leader who could remember things that were just said to him. I paraphrase:

Obama: "95% of all Americans will not pay one penny more in taxes under my plan. I will eliminate tax breaks to big oil companies and spend the money on social programs. Every dollar I spend is offset by cuts in other areas, not funded by taxes."

McCan't: "He's raising taxes! He's proposing new spending to be paid for with raised taxes!" (Insert poorly concealed apoplectic rage and jumpiness here.)

Oh, here's a tip: stand next to your wife. Your crazy old ass got some rich sort of hottie, though she looks a robot Stepford wife, but you're supposed to be fucking her. Scoot in, man. That 2 feet of distance makes it look like you can't even get love in your own damn home and wouldn't know what to do if you did.

The sad thing is people buy this load of crap. But maybe a lot of people can't remember what was just said to them, either. Which,if any of them are reading my posts, is probably a good thing.

Stealin' your time: my first post

I used to have a blog here called caligulawyer but law school ate that shit up with almost everything else in my life, so rather than dig up the dead, here I am, a broke ass graduate with my old law school laptop, entirely new things to bitch about and something else for your lazy ass to do instead of working to make somebody else money like you're poorly paid to do. Yahooooo!

And what an occasion! Tonight is the last of the presidential debates, or should I say, ass whippings for John McCain. Bet he never saw this shit coming. Yes, dude, you're losing to a black guy, and he's smarter than you, cooler than you, better looking than you, and doesn't give a fuck that you probably have fond memories of that segregated school you attended.

The debate starts in about an hour. Obama is a classy guy and will not say what I think he should say. Therefore, allow me to say this for him:

"Dude, really. Run the country? This shit is so far in the ditch after 8 years of your idiot buddy running the joint we need trampolines just to see daylight. You loved the guy until everyone told you they hated him now you're a 'maverick' or some shit because of some crap you ranted about like 15 years ago. Nobody's buying it except people too prejudiced to vote for me. Hell, even they don't buy it, they just ain't voting for a black dude. Oh, incidentally, what the fuck was with stealing my damn slogan? "Change"? All of a sudden? Right in front of everyone? When I'd had that shit on my ads for about a year? Man, that just sucked. Try some imagination in the next life.

But then what do I expect of somebody who picked, from a country full of people, Caribou-Killing Barbie as their running mate? Really? And you didn't know her kid was knocked up and she tried to get her brother in law fired and thinks seeing the coast of Russia in the distance is foreign policy experience? What, did they come to her to arrange moose-fucking expeditions? Let your unmedicated, unbalanced following scream about wanting to kill me at her rallies while she teeters on her 'ho heels. It just makes you look more like an asshole.

By the way, you apoplectic butt, try reading my proposals before talking about them. I am not going to 'raise taxes' and throw small business owners out on the street. I'm just not selling the country out to your rich buddies who people have suddenly noticed are picking their pockets. "Hey!" the country is saying. "That's not just a tickle on my ass! That's some greedy fucker digging for every last penny so he can lay around farting on some gorgeous island where people hate him for a little while longer on vacation from his million dollar home!"

Please, tonight, John, have a little dignity. You got your ass beat. Don't come out wandering the stage like you have alzheimer's and getting all worked up so the EMS guys crank up the defibrillator. Just make a good showing and bow out with a little class. Your great great great grandchildren are worried about you and people aren't going to risk having Debate Team Barbie as president. Cool?"

And now, off to the show. Welcome to my new blog.