“Dear Vegas…”

The other day my alcoholic buddy confided in me that he was in a new relationship and didn’t know how to tell her he was in recovery.  I don’t know why people come to me with things like that, since I’ve managed to so adeptly sabotage almost every relationship in which I’ve ever been.  I had one girl actually fake genital warts to get rid of me.  Any idea the dedication required to fake an STD?  I have to give her credit.  I mean, I told my therapist I give her credit…I can’t actually give her anything in person because of the restraining order and everything.  Neither here nor there.

I told my friend he should soften the blow by telling the new girl that he just found out he was HIV positive, and that she needs to get tested because it’s like a super-aggressive strain.   He should rub some Vapor-Rub under his eyes first so he can work up a good cry.  After her wailing sobs are stifled into near silent groans,  smack her a good one on the ass with a big grin and say, “Psyche!  I’m just an alcoholic!  You can’t catch THAT shit!”   Women love surprises!  And what better surprise than, “Guess what?  My dick is NOT a death sentence!  Love you, boo!”

Of course, alcoholism is a progressive disease that seeks to destroy everything good in your life, and ultimately, kill you.  But no reason to put a damper on the relationship early on with that nugget of wisdom.  She’ll be so thrilled she doesn’t have Super-Aids my friend may even instantly get some ass out of the deal.   She’s going to want to at least inspect the goods to make sure he wasn’t bullshitting about the entire thing, and that can only work to his advantage.

You know what?  I take it back.  I DO know why my friends come to me with this stuff.   My plans of action are fucking bulletproof.  I may get a second job moonlighting as a relationship advice columnist with the local news.

“Dear Vegas….”

The Caesar Salad Test

I had a pretty rough week last week.  Even though I hadn't gotten my Bar results yet, I was becoming familiar with the ins and outs of being a lawyer.  Client meetings, settlement conferences, depositions and motion hearings.  And although all that stuff is interesting and challenging, there's a darker side to being a plaintiff's lawyer.  It's nothing that violates the Professional Rules of Ethics, but it's still hard to deal with.  

So Vegas Sr. decided to take me out to a nice dinner so we could talk things over.  And I laid it out on the table.  I told him it was tough to sleep some nights.  I explained my ambivalence about taking cases with marginal liability.  As I finished by telling him I wasn't sure I was cut out for this field of law, he placed his fork down on his plate and looked at me.  He knew I was hungry for advice.  And this is what he said:

"You know what I like about this place?  The Caesar salad.  You know a place is going to have good food when you enjoy their Caesar salad.  No place has a mediocre entre when the meal begins with a good salad.  Especially a Caesar salad.  And, the thing is, even if the dinner is somehow average (which is basically impossible), you still go home happy because you know the Caesar Salad was great. Yep.  Nothing like it.  What were you saying?"

He returned my blank stare for a few moments, and then resumed happily munching his salad.  Awesome, Dad.  It's not like I was really expecting him to drop some golden nugget of wisdom on me.  Just a crumb…a flake even….of sage advice would've definitely tided me over.  Instead, I'm treated to a dialogue on how crispy romaine lettuce and anchovie-flavored dressing is the greatest achievement in civilized society.  Although, I don't know what I expected.  In undergrad, I once told my father I had lost $4,000 gambling on college football, and Johnny Knockdown said he was "gonna bust my knees up good for me."  The response of my wisened old Pa?

"Son, tomorrow is another day."

Tomorrow is another day? TOMORROW IS ANOTHER DAY? There wasn't going to be any tomorrow if Mr. Knockdown found me hiding underneath my girlfriend's couch! Didn't he understand? I explained to him the physics of having one's "knees busted for them."  I repeatedly illustrated to my Dad how much I truly loved walking, and my hatred for all things prosthetic.  I even rented "Casino" and showed him that scene where the guy gets his head put in a vice and his eyeball pops out.  And the fruit of my labor?  My father's final say on Icepick's lien on my femur?

"Son, the only thing I can tell you is what my father told me.  Things will always get better, and try not to look backward.  Now let's go get that salad before Knuckles finds you and you have to eat through a straw.  Hey! A Caesar Salad Smoothie! I bet I could make a million off that!"

"Yeah, Dad. That's a real can't-miss proposition you have there.  Banks will be lining up to finance that gem of a startup."

Now, if you'll excuse me….I have to work off this four grand my Dad loaned me by handing out fliers to Salad Julius.  

Things That Keep Me Awake At Night VIII

Enough small talk. I can't think of a stronger way to start an entry than: 

So I'm with some buddies at a titty bar the other day.

Sparkle walks up to me and asks, "Who's ready for a lapdance?"

I respond by pointing at my friend, because she wasn't that hot.  She proceeds to tell me how rude it is to point at someone else when asked for a lapdance.  Stopping nothing short of scolding me. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore.

"Thanks for clueing me in.  I didn't realize there was so much etiquette involved in an establishment called 'The Purple Nurple.'  Also it's tough to catch a lecture on manners from a chick wearing smiley-face pasties and a glitter thong. But seriously, thanks."

 I was invited to leave.  Apparently, Sparkle was a little more sensitive to sarcasm than I had given her credit for. 

About two weeks ago, I decided to adopt a dog from the Humane Society.  I've always loved dogs, and I was finally ready to have one of my own.  Plus, this dog had a rough start to life, and needed someone to give her the life she deserved.  And I thought being able to tell girls I rescued a dog from a shelter would help me get laid. So far, the tally reads:

Chicks Scored With Due to Dog: 0    Dumps Taken on Carpet: 7

 So not a well thought out plan on my part.     

I actually did meet a pretty cool chick this past weekend.  I decided to ask her out, so I called her last night.  Here is a brief synopsis of our conversation:

Me: "Look, I'm sure you've been on a million boring-ass 'dinner and a movie' first dates. So I thought maybe we could do something fun like go to Atlanta for the day and go to a Braves game or Six Flags."

Her:"Um, that's really creative. But I hate baseball and theme parks, and I already have a date for Saturday. But definitely give me a call next week."

Me (mumbling): "That's cool. I mean, I'm gonna be busy this weekend, too. Probably for the best. (She's hung up by now) But yeah, I mean, I'll totally call you next week. Cool."

It's good to know after three years of being off the market, I still haven't lost my touch with the ladies.

Fantasy Baseball is ruining my life.  There's no joke here.  Law Firm is a hair away from firing me due to lack of productivity.  This is because rather than write research briefs or negotiate settlements, I am on Yahoo! trying to orchestrate a monster trade to improve my heinous middle relief.  Why? I don't know. I can't explain it.  There's no financial incentive in my fantasy league.  Pride isn't an issue, as that died with ex-fiancee's "never given me an orgasm" bomb months earlier.  So it isn't money, it isn't pride, and yet I spend hours a day trying to find a way to improve my team's "Walks plus Hits divided by Innings Pitched," or WHIP to those of you with real lives.  My ace, Ben Sheets, went on the DL for the second time this season, and it ruined my day.  I'm storming around the office, kicking over trash cans, glaring at my paralegal and muttering under my breath. 

 "Lose a case?"    

 "Um, No."

"Surly insurance adjuster?"  

"Nope." 

"Ben Sheets on the DL again?"   

 "LIKE YOU'D EVEN UNDERSTAND? MY ENTIRE SEASON IS RUINED BECAUSE OF THIS PRIMA DONNA AND……"

After I finished my obsenity laced tirade toward the paralegal, Law Firm gave me something called "involuntary sick leave." I didn't see anything in the employee handbook about it, but I'm sure it's totally legitimate.

These are the things that keep me awake at night.

Trial and Error

You really thought a blog with the words "General Scumbaggery" was going to be updated regularly? Come on….The truth is, the lack of updates have been due to four main reasons.  First, my first trial which will be detailed below.  Second, my adoption of a homeless mutt.  Third, my two gambling trips to Choctaw Nation and New Orleans.  And, finally, my laziness. 

Since last entry, I have experienced my first trial.  It was everything I thought it could be.  The subject matter was interesting, the jury was riveted to their seats, and the banter between Plaintiff and Defense counsel was better than anything written on Law and Order.  Well, almost.

I guess it wasn't that interesting.  It was a nine-year old Worker's Compensation case.  With about eighty medical exhibits to pore over individually.  Oh, and there was no jury.  Worker's Comp is always tried by the judge.  Also, not really a lot of back-and-forth between our side and opposing counsel.  None, actually.

The high point of the trial was our client breaking down in tears on the stand after being humiliated by the defense.  The courtroom quieted down while she composed herself and gathered some Kleenex.  A very silent, tense moment.  Until my cell phone rang.  Judges don't generally appreciate phones ringing in the middle of the testimony of a witness.  Especially when the ring tone is I'm In Love with a Stripper.  May have cost us the trial on that one.  May have cost me the job on that one.

Second only to Mike Jones interrupting our client, the other high point was the defense capturing our client on video doing things someone with a legitimate back problem could never do.  I think we could have overcome the footage of her grocery shopping.  Probably could have explained away the gardening.  But, in retrospect, the shots of her playing tennis like a pre-stab wound Monica Seles was pretty much a case-killer.  Although unorthodox, the Judge stopped the trial to ask explanation from myself and co-counsel on the physical activities of our client.  Since the other lawyer with me refused to look up from the Plaintiff's table, I did the best I could.

"Your Honor," I began, "My client is clearly uncomfortable in this 'so-called' tennis footage.  Her serve is weaker than it should be.  She under-extends on her forehand, which is taking away velocity.  And, in one frame, she is clearly in extraordinary pain when hitting the two-handed backhand.  I think this footage, if in anyway relevant, only shows how uncomfortable our client is when performing day-to-day activities.  Thank you."

(Sitting down, whispering to my client) "I think you can take off the neckbrace,now."

The judge then ruled from the bench (which is rare in workers compensation), awarding our client nothing.  This was terrible for two reasons.  First, we put in a lot of work on the case.  Coming in early, leaving late, and even working weekends.  It sucks putting in a lot of effort and getting nothing in return.  Since Law Firm bills on a contingency contract, we got 33% of nothing.  Which doesn't cover expenses.  Second, and more importantly, I was trying to date and eventually bang the client's daughter.  She was just a freshman in college, and kind of looked up to me in that vulnerable, inexperienced, way.  And I was going to use that vulnerability to have sex with her somewhere uncomfortable. 

Unfortunately, my fantasy never came to fruition. Because she and mother were sobbing after the Judge delivered a defense verdict filled with words like "fraudulent" and "disgrace," it was tough to ask her if she wanted to go to Chili's for some Jalepeno Poppers, or if maybe she wanted to catch a movie sometime.  Can't win 'em all, I guess. 

I'm sure I'll have many more chances to bend the professional rules of ethics involving illicit relationships with clients and/or their immediate family.  But you always remember your first……

Alarming Circumstances

Last week, I thought I’d really impress the braintrust at Law Firm by arriving before anyone else.  Even though I wanted to hang myself when my alarm sounded at 5:45 A.M., I crawled out of bed with dreams of impressing Law Firm into offering me a piece of the parternship.  Or at least giving an office without the word “maintenance” on the door.  At least The Partners had enough confidence in me to give me a key to the office and the alarm code.  I wish they had enough confidence in me to pay me more than the minimum wage in Cameroon, but I figured a little display of my work ethic would solve that problem.

I arrived at work at 6:20, with the office predictably locked and dark.  Everything going to plan.  No problems with the deadbolt occurred, and I strolled confidently to the alarm keypad.  My confidence quickly waned when the code supplied to me by my office failed to disengage the alarm.  Hurriedly, I re-entered the code.  Nothing.  The keypad began to make angry chirping sounds, and I began to get worried.  I try the code again, and again I receive the mechanical chirping that sounds like mechanical peals of laughter.  The main alarm siren now begins to sound.  It’s loud.  It sounds like a pack of bobcats caught in one of those machines that crush cars.  I’m sure I was screaming also, but it mattered little as I drowned out by the caucophony of bobcats. 

I ripped off my suit coat like Chris Farley in the SNL “Chippendale’s” skit and leaped over the reception counter towards the phone.  I dialed the 1-800 number listed on the keypad, hoping the good people at Ultimate Security Systems could save the day.  As if the herd of bobcats wasn’t bad enough, now a friendly voice is interspersed with the sirens informing me that “The Police Have Been Alerted” every thirty seconds or so.  Awesome.  At least it couldn’t get any worse.

Except the good people at Ultimate Security Systems don’t answer their phone unless it is normal business hours.  So after leaving an expletive laden voice-mail, I dialed the number the voice mail left me “if this is an emergency.”  Since my job was on the line, I decided this clearly qualified as an emergency.  The emergency number was disconnected.  So, if you’re getting raped or tortured, and you have one phone call to make, I seriously advise against giving Ultimate Security Systems a jingle in the hopes they’ll catch you on the jangle. 

Weeping openly and unable to breathe, I wrest my tie from around my neck.  The phone rings.

“This is Juan from ADT Security.  The Police have been alerted to your emergency.  Can I he…”

“ADT?? WHAT HAPPENED TO ULTIM….DOESN’T MATTER.  JUAN, I NEED YOU TO LISTEN LIKE YOU’VE NEVER BEFORE LISTENED.  STOP THE POLICE.  NO EMERGENCY.  DO YOU HEAR ME, JUAN? NADA EMERGENCIO! NO POLICIA NECCESSITO!”

“Sir, I don’t speak Spanish.  And, frankly, I find the stereotype a little insulting.  In order to cancel the Police Alert, I’ll need the password.”

“FRIVOLOUS? BAR SANCTIONS? SOULLESS? AVARICE? BLOODTHIRST? DID I ALREADY TRY SOULLESS?”

“Sorry, sir.  None of those are correct.  The owner of your office has been contacted, and the police should arrive shortly.  Please stay on the line for a short survey regarding ADT’s custome…”

But I’ve already dropped the phone to the floor.  Juan better be glad I didn’t have time to take that little survey.

Partner of Law Firm, accompanied by a police officer, burst through the front door of Law Firm.  Partner is wearing pajama bottoms and has horrible bed head.  He angrily jabs is finger into the keypad a few times, and the bobcats stop screaming.  The nice lady informing me of police alert is quieted.  As Partner turns and begins his glare that has intimidated juries for three decades, I miss her. 

“You’re up awfully early, sir,” I attempt.  “What say to some breakfast at The Crackerbarrel? My treat?”

The cop left, and the Partner chewed me out for causing him to miss out on his full eight hours.  Looks like I won’t be getting out of the Janitor’s closet anytime soon.  But it won’t stop me from trying.  I’m going back in tomorrow at 6:15.  I don’t remember the code exactly, but I’ll figure it out.  I’m at my best in pressure situations.

 

The Madness of March

Right about now, all over the nation, Tennessee Volunteers fans are gathering together in support of their team.  I imagine the conversation is going something like this: 

“We’re gonna destroy Winthrop!  Right?  I mean, it’s completely meaningless the Vegas odds have this game at the smallest spread of any 2/15 seed game in the history of the NCAA.  Means nothing.  We’re about to prove to the nation the Volunteers deserved that 2 seed and we mean business! Guys? Where did everyone go?”

Duke is like the hot stripper in the Gentlemen’s Club you think you have a shot with.  You know she’s been noticing you high-rolling, because you decided to forego the classic “dollar bill G-string tuck” and went straight for the “pluck the five-spot from my mouth with your boobs.”  (Always a classy maneuver in a topless joint.  Advise against trying it in your favorite watering hole.  Apparently, waitresses are pretty easily offended these days.  Live and learn, that’s my motto.) She is the hottest girl with Daddy issues you’ve ever seen.  And you’ve had just enough to drink to think you really have a chance.  We’ve all been there.  What happens?  As soon as she cleans off your eyeglasses with her pasties, she snags your last fiver and bolts.  She breaks your heart like her stage name should be “Fredo” instead of  “Diamond.”  My friends, I give you the Duke Blue Devils of 2006.  Returning player of the year, Sheldon Williams.  The virtual lock for player of the year, J.J. Reddick.  They look tempting, and you’re enamoured with them.  I can’t blame you.  And, like Diamond, they’ll tease you right into the Sweet Sixteen.  But by the Regional Final, they will have taken your last dollar, swiped your credit card number, and disappeared out the VIP exit with some genetic freak of a bodyguard.  Consider yourself warned. 

I know it’s not really on the subject of the NCAA tourney, but did anyone catch the RR/RW Challenge last week?  Please tell me someone saw Alton pull a pre-emptive breakup with Jodi, stating, “Tobago is dope. But we’re just friends.  Don’t go getting all weird on me.”  Tobago is dope?  Tobago is dope???!!  Wow.  Strong chance we’ll be seeing Jodi hang herself next week.  I hope if she does, the camera pans to Alton, and he’s slowly shaking his head, murmuring, “I knew she was gonna get weird on me.”

The ‘Fins traded for Daunte Culpepper today.  My buddy Luciano is a die-hard Dolphins fan, and I haven’t heard from him today.  It would be a solid bet he’s wandering around Boston, whispering barely audibly in homeless fashion, convincing himself it was a good move.  That last season was just a fluke with Culpepper.  That anything is an improvement over Fiedler/Frerotte dynamic duo.  Somebody should probably start looking for him now, though.  Because Ricky’s comeback to glory promptly ended when he busted up into the locker room singing  “One Nation Under a Groove.”  Nobody saw that paragon of sobriety relapsing.  Just out of nowhere, really.  And, now, the Dolphins just used all their cap room to score a QB with poor decision making ability and a bum wheel.  Were the Cardinals just completely unwilling to part with Kurt Warner?  Were Tony Graziani and Neil O’Donnel unwilling to discuss a comeback? Seriously, someone start looking for my friend. 

How do I start a petition to ban “LOL”? Little help? I know it’s illogical, but it makes me really angry when someone types that cute little phrase.  Not to get all weird on you. 

I’m gonna close out by getting back to my original intention for this post.  I absolutely love college hoops.  I enjoy it during the regular season, but even more during Championship Week and the Big Dance, itself.  I love how pumped the players and fans are.  I love that any team is potentially six wins away from being the national champion.  I can’t ever turn the channel when ESPN dusts off that old highlight of Jimmy V running onto the court in disbelief after the clock refused to strike midnight for his cinderella NC State squad.   And I love that for just two days out of the year, I have something to bet on before noon while I’m at work.  I hope the partners at Law Firm don’t get suspicious when I lock myself in the supply closet with a transistor radio.  Since the supply closet is currently doubling as my office, I’m probably safe.  (Apparently, someone has to retire or die before you get an office at Law Firm.  No one ever does either, however, according to the contract with Satan we have sealed in a bullet-proof display case in the Lobby.  Selling my soul was a negative but not a deal-breaker.   These guys have top-notch medical plan.  I’m talking dental, optical, the whole nine.  Life is about trade-offs.  I didn’t sell-out, I bought in.)

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got about fifty brackets to fill out.

 

 

Que? Vegas No en Casa!

I’m pretty sure I’m ready to go back to school.  I know it seems as if I’ve ridden the higher education gravy train as far as it will go, but I’m willing to test it.  Likely, I’ll not receive any sympathy from my friends, as they moved into the vacuum of despair that is the working world many years before me.  Be that as it may, I may call the student loan office and see how many more years they would keep funding my education and lifestyle. 

Speaking of the student loan people, those bastards are on me like stink on the French.  They must have taken lessons from Capital One.  Apparently, I was a little unclear on the Student Aid process.  They paid, and I went to school and graduated.  I feel like I lived up to my part of the bargain.  What better benefit to the government and society is there than having another lawyer to fight for the cause of justice? Or the American way of life?  Or to sue Piggly Wiggly for negligently leaving some beads of condensation in the produce isle, leading to a poor innocent minority’s complete disability and emotional anguish?  Needless to say, I was shocked and appalled to receive a bill from Uncle Sam for forty large.  It was completely unexpected, and so I just pretended it never happened.  Feigning obliviousness has never really worked out for me, whether it be in relationships or dealing with personal demons.  I thought maybe, just maybe this once, completely ignoring the problem would be the correct course of action.  This was, in retrospect, not a good decision.

I wrote the government a letter, beginning with “I have some potentially disappointing news,” and ending with, “Sincerely, The Executor of ______’s Estate.”  From the letter I received a week later, either they are familiar with that particular ruse, or the government has a poor sense of humor.  Either way, I’m getting audited in two months.  Which shouldn’t be a problem, because I kept meticulous receipts of every purchase made in the last four years.  I hope the I.R.S. agent assigned to my case doesn’t mind unwadding soiled cocktail napkins on which my IOU’s are written to my drug dealer.  Probably nothing to worry about.  I hear auditors know how to party.  Just to play it safe, I’m going to check with H and R Block to see if black market prescription medication is deductible.  I like to cover all my bases.  Some call me overcautious, but better safe than sorry….that’s my motto. 

In the meantime, someone calls me from the student loan office about every other day.  I even broke out my tried-and-true “garbled Portugese” tactic, and I’ll be damned if the bitch didn’t respond in Portugese without missing a beat.  I mean, I guess it was Portugese.  I really have no way of knowing.  Touche, student loan office…..touche.  If my bookie ever teams up with these people,  I’m in deep shit.

And as long as we’re on the subject of Portugese, Law Firm dropped an immigration law problem on me at work today.  I might have mentioned “Expert in the field of Immigration Law” on my resume, which isn’t exactly the truth.  In itself, this is a fairly egregious padding of the resume.  Where I really screwed up, however, was throwing in “Extensive contacts at the Mexican Consulate.”  I must have been hammered beyond belief when I conjured up that little addendum.  Extensive contacts at the Mexican Consulate?  Nice, Vegas.  Nothing can possibly go wrong with this plan.  I actually vaguely remember reading that on my resume, considering deletion, and then saying to myself, “Screw it.  What are the odds of getting called out on this one?” 

Of course, I now have two courses of action.  First, I could accept the INS case from Law Firm, fuck it up beyond all belief, ruin the lives of migrant workers expecting Visas to work for $3.00/hr in the Land of the Free, and possibly incur massive malpractice liability against my employers.  Alternatively, I level with Law Firm, and hope I’m dealing with a “no harm, no foul” situation.  Obviously, I’m accepting the case.  Does anyone have any contacts at the Mexican Consulate?  Por Favor?

 

 

Not That There’s Anything Wrong With That…..

Finally, my friendship with the Fucking Weavers pays some dividends.  Last week, after the bar exam, I was lucky enough to land a job with a products liability and workers compensation law firm in the Birmingham area.  Because I graduated 146 out of 147 in my class at Alabama, interviews were few and far between.  I couldn’t even get a job cleaning floors at most firms around town.  Luckily, the Weavers’ have a cousin who is a partner at this firm.  While I await my bar results, I am now officially employed.  On the downside, a Weaver is now my boss.  I will now give myself a papercut on my tongue.

I wanted to prove my ambition, so rather than arrive at 8:00 as required, I rolled in a smooth 7:58.  My arrival was the smoothest part of my day.  Immediately, I was asked to draft a complaint.  Which, no doubt, is pretty basic.  To anyone who didn’t finish 146 out of 147 in their class, that is.  Let me just say it did not inspire confidence when I asked, “What’s a complaint?”  I tried to cover it by nervously laughing, but I’m pretty sure they knew I was serious when my boss walked by my computer and I was googling “complaint” with “how to con paralegal into writing.” (Incidentally, this search yielded no result. ”World’s Best Search Engine” my ass.  No wonder their stock is dropping like a hot rock.  Thanks for the bailout, dickheads).

Glancing at my watch, the cold reality of 8:29 set in.  I was now employed as an attorney (pending bar results), and I had exactly no practical experience.  Most law students accept clerkships or externships while they are in law school, in order to avoid this type of catastrophe.  I, however, spent my summers scoring oxycontin and washing it down with Aristocrat.  Clearly, I got the better end of this deal.  Other than the rehab, delayed bar exam, huge credit card debt, and the pity/scorn of my peers, I really don’t have any regrets.  Hindsight is 20/20, you judgemental fucks. 

After struggling through drafting a complaint, my first day at The Firm was complete.  It took me eight hours to draft a relatively simple legal document.  Badly.  I don’t think there’s any reason to get there early tomorrow, though.  I don’t want to seem pretentious. 

I Decided it was time to unwind and maybe rent a movie from my local Blockbuster tonight.  Considering Blockbuster has my picture behind the counter with a “Mace and Detain This Man on Sight” caption, I decided to go to Movie Gallery instead.  (Incidentally, isn’t Movie Gallery everyone’s Plan B?  Looking around that store, I realized all the customers had been exiled from the choice store due to late fees or sex offender registries.  No one goes to Movie Gallery that has a choice.  I won’t even argue about this.)  Movie Gallery has about fifty unrented copies of “My Date With Drew” and virtually no porn. No porn? And this is supposed to be a legit rental place?  I’m supposed to abuse myself to “Elizabethtown?”  Thanks for nothing, Movie Gallery.  If I could afford $832.45 in late fees, I’d totally never go back there. 

Perusing the small selection, I ran into an old friend of mine from high school.  We talked for a good twenty minutes, exchanging news on people we’d lost touch with.  As we talk, I notice other people glancing over with various degrees of interest.  We agree to go to lunch later this week, and give him my cell number.  Other people are openly gawking at the number exchange.  The thing is, my friend from high school is gay.  Blatantly, glaringly gay.  He rocks the outfit, the lisp, the whole nine yards of gayness.  But because I’ve known him so long, his gayness doesn’t even faze me.  I don’t even think about it.  But, to the onlookers, they just witnessed a flaming homosexual number exchange, with ensuing promise of a lunch date.  Awesome.  That’s just the cherry on my day. 

“I….I’m not really gay,” I say as I place In Her Shoes upon the counter (making a strong case for heterosexuality.)  The clerk and customers are pretending not to hear me.  I know what they’re doing, and I don’t like it.  Condescending bastards.  They’d never treat a man like this at Blockbuster.  Now I’m wishing more than ever I hadn’t decided to keep Home Alone for nine years.  Damn you, Macauly Culkin. Damn your insistence on delivering precocious comeuppance to ne’er do-well theives. 

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to figure out how to hide from my boss, select an ensemble for my lunch date next week, and find a way to masturbate to Elizabethtown.  Is there no rest for the weary?

 

Things That Keep Me Awake VII…….Bar Exam Edition

The only thing worse than watching all your friends become licensed attorneys before you is having to take the Bar itself.  I’m about three fucking seconds away from a nervous breakdown.  Also, Montgomery is officially the worst city in the United States.  Here are some slogans I’m dropping off at the Montgomery Tourism Bureau on my way out of town:

“Montgomery…….Because there aren’t enough black people where you live!”

“Montgomery…….Where the only thing dirtier than the scenic Tallapoosa River are the locals!”

“Montgomery…….Birthplace of segragation, but resting place of squalor!”

“Montgomery…….Who doesn’t want a 50/50 chance of getting mugged on vacation?”

You get the idea.

In my view, the world can be evenly divided into two groups of people:  those who like pulp in their orange juice, and those who don’t.  No one sits the fence on this debate.  (Although no one hates pulp quite as much as my buddy Kev.  If I could bet on things like, Kev will be the first of my buddies to get dragged out of his house by cops after a domestic dispute resulting from a breakfast beverage purchase gone awry, it would be a lock.  He’d be screaming the whole time about how “she did it on purpose” and “she and those foul bits of juicy orange got what they had comin’ to ‘em.”  Fucking Weavers.)

Speaking of how much I love Montgomery, this is Ex-Fiancee’s hometown.  She knew I was staying here, so she dropped off a gift bag at the front desk.  Which seems sweet, but I can’t eat any of the stuff she left.  I’m not saying she’d lace edibles with laxatives or a low-grade rat poison the day before my exam, but I’m saying I’m afraid she’d lace edibles with laxitives or a low-grade rat poison the day before my exam.  Chances are I won’t need any helping shitting myself when I crack open the test tomorrow.

I gave myself a pep-talk about the bar exam in front of the hotel bathroom mirror after I got out of the shower today.  Full-on finger pointing “Dude, you’ve got this shit” mode.  Then I flexed.  Coin-flip as to whether the pep talk or the flexing was more depressing.

I took a job with a plaintiff’s firm last week, thanks to a friend of mine.  The partner of the firm is a good guy, but he was kind of upset when I asked him if I needed to bring a grappling hook and rollerblades to help chase down ambulances.  I even pantomimed “twirling of the hook” over my head, thinking that would be funnier and he’d crack a smile.  He didn’t, though.  Should make for an interesting first day at work.

If I tank this exam, it’ll be the ‘wagon fall-off’ heard ’round the world.  Let’s just say I’ll be making your local news, World’s Most Insane High Speed Chases, and Faces of Death all within a week.  It’s better to burn out than fade away.  That’s all I’m sayin.’ 

(Montgomery……2,000 FEMA refugees can’t be wrong!)

These are the things that keep me awake.  All night. 

Things That Keep Me Awake VI

If Snoop Dogg had played at halftime of the Superbowl, ABC could have billed it as “The Snooperbowl.”  And that would’ve been awesome.  (I saw this joke on Leno the day after I wrote it.  If it’d been Conan, I would have felt flattered.  Leno doing it made me feel ashamed and in need of a shower.)

Today I ran into an old friend from High School who I haven’t seen since Auburn, and I asked him how he was doing.  The conversation quickly turned to my stint in rehab, as it often does with people who I haven’t seen in awhile.  What is it about that experience that people love to talk about?  If I run into some girl I had typing class with in 1993, she doesn’t say shit about me graduating from Law School.  But damn sure she wants to hear about rehab because she “heard” I wasn’t doing too well.  (Incidentally, this same friend told me he was ordering poppy leaves off Ebay, grinding them up in a blender, then boiling the sledge down and adding it to his coffee to get a “morphine-esque” high.  I couldn’t make this up.  I saw this coming freshman year at Auburn, when I came back to our apartment from a weekend at home and he’d removed all of our furniture to have a rave.  He couldn’t remember what he’d done with our furniture.  Good times and new-roommateness ensued.)

Today I was studying for the most important exam of my life, and my Mom called to have me help my Dad move some furniture in the freezing-cold pouring rain.  In the midst of it all, my Dad said he’d retire but he couldn’t put up with my Mom’s bullshit for eight hours a day.  It’s good to know my dad’s cubicle is preferred over spending time with his soulmate.  I can’t wait to find that special someone to make my life complete. 

The other day my friend told me his high school girlfriend used to like to have sex to Warren G’s “Regulators” album.  Even though I’m nearing a nervous breakdown because of the bar exam next week, picturing him getting his sixteen year-old swerve on to “This D.J.”  always brings a smile to my face.  I like to think that one day, when lecturing his son on the birds and the bees, he’ll give a thorough account of the amorous effect that a Nate Dogg joint has on the ladies. 

This upcoming fall’s pledge class at Auburn would’ve been nine years old when I pledged.  I will now curl into the fetal position and rock myself to sleep.

Would it be desperate if I called one of those “local singles” phone lines?  I mean, the girls look really hot.  That has to be legitimate.  Has to be.  And, even if they aren’t quite as hot in real life as they are on the commercials, how bad could they be? Am I right?  Because it’s looking like it’s either that or one of those Russian mail-order brides.  You always hear about those, but you never actually see a catalogue with overseas women for sale.  And I’ve looked long and hard.  That’s a hell of an investment, though.  What if she showed up at your door, and you’d given the wrong item number in the magazine?  You’re stuck with a hermaphrodite midget who speak-a no english, that’s what.  And I bet their return or exchange policy is brutal. 

And speaking of desperation, a buddy of mine recently engaged in a cocaine fueled sex romp with a hot married lady.  In itself, that would not be desperate.  When you add in the hot married girl’s husband exceeding the scope of observation and plunging in to participation, the desperation becomes a little more clear.  I can’t imagine anything more awkward than being inside another man’s wife, and yet having to politely refuse a reach-around from the husband.  Constantly, he had to fight to maintain erectness while slapping the guy’s hand away everytime it got near a “zone of danger.”  Clearly, some protocol needs to be established ahead of time to prevent anyone’s feelings from being hurt. 

(It’s kinda easy when ya listen to the G’d up sound, Pioneer speakers bumpin’ as I smoke on the pound.  I got that sound for yo’ ass and it’s easy to see, that this D.J. be Warren G.)

(Giggling like a schoolgirl).

These are the things that keep me awake at night.