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.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
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.
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.
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.
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. . . "
(Smirk)
"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.
"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. . . "
(Smirk)
"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.
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.
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