February 2006

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. 


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. 


This past weekend, I journeyed back to my home away from home, which is the reservation of the Mississippi Band of Choctaw Indians.  I wanted to take in some history, some heritage, and view first-hand the unbelievable collection of American History artifacts such as ancient Choctaw craftwork and centuries-old arrowheads.  Apparently, there is also a casino on this reservation.  Even though I had no idea there was a gambling establishment on the sacred tribal land, since I was already there I had no qualms about participating in a little leisurely gambling. 

I decided to take along a gambling companion this time.  Like movies, having an associate to gamble with doesn’t really enhance the experience itself, but it is nice to to have the company.  Although most of my friends are either married or giant vaginas, my buddy Chad agreed to join me on my adventure.  Everyone has certain friends that are great to hang out with, but are equally exasperating.  The Weavers (Chad and his twin) fall into that category.  I always have fun spending time with them, but when I do, a good 10% of my sentences begin with, “Fucking Weaver..” 

The craps table did not work out as well as I’d hope.  It was so cold, I’m convinced there were supernatural forces at work.  Either the table is located directly above an old Indian Cemetary, or the casino was employing a Tribal Shaman as a stickman.  Down a couple hundred, I feel hot breath on the back of my neck.  Good ‘ol Chad.  Slurping away on a beverage like Cousin Eddie, he enlightens me with this nugget of wisdom:  “Well.  The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away.  That’s from the book of Job.  There was nothing else to read in the hotel room when I was taking a dump, so I grabbed the Gideon’s Bible.  Pretty good stuff in there.”  Fucking Weaver.  (Incidentally, the Gideons would save a lot more people if they placed the Good Book on the back of the toilet in hotel bathrooms.  Seriously.  You’re telling me that you wouldn’t perouse some scripture if there was nothing else around to read while you handled some business?  The Lord works in mysterious ways.)

After I was robbed blind at the dice table, I followed my friend into the “High Limit” slots room.  I tried to tell him that slots are useless and boring, but he wouldn’t listen.  Probably a good thing, since no sooner had he pulled the lever did he nail the machine for five hundred.  He immediately went into a celebration dance that would make Chad Johnson blush, while flies were lazily buzzing out of my open wallet.  I won’t go into details about his makeshift endzone celebration, I’ll just say it began with The Robot and ended with a slow, sensual dry-hump of the machine.  It’s a miracle we didn’t get laid. 

After my buddy’s victory over the slot machine, we decided to grab some food at the all night diner inside the Casino.  Our waiter, like many workers at the resort, was Native American.  And from the service, it’s safe to assume he’s still pissed about The Trail of Tears.  I like to think the squaw that birthed him gently swaddled him in a blanket and said, “I shall call you Drags Ass While Bringing Water,” or “Brave Who Will Make Paleface Suffer From Dehydration.”   Although neither of those names would’ve fit on his nametag, I doubt his real name was “Phil.” 

After spending twenty bucks and an hour on a dry hamburger (my own fault, should’ve waited for Sizzler), we headed to the poker room.  We both did pretty well over a six hour span, although we were eventually asked to leave.  When a bet is called, it is etiquette to show all your cards at once. Chad let another player think he had won the pot, and then flipped over his remaining hole card to reveal he, in fact, had the winning hand.  He followed that subtle maneuver by stiffing the dealer on a tip and winking at the player he had just “slow rolled.”  Stunned silence at the poker table.  Giving up on him, they turned to me. 

“What the hell is wrong with your friend?”

I just shook my head.  All I could say was, “Fucking Weaver….”