Once again, Thanksgiving is upon us, and I don't really have a lot to be thankful for. Then again, at this age, I thought I'd be fabulously wealthy, famous, getting blown by a different chick every night, and driving a Ferrari back to my part-time residence in St. Thomas.
Using the above as a barometer, I'm 0-5. But when we look at the real Thanksgiving, I guess I do have a lot to be thankful for. In the old days, we learned that Thanksgiving was the time when the Americans went hat in hand to those other Americans, you know, the folks that conveniently kept an eye on shit til we showed up, because we didn't have a lot of food. So the other Americans gave the new Americans some. And being thankful, as new Americans always were, they then proceeded to wipe the other Americans off the face of the earth. This incident is the perfect example of the old adage 'no good deed goes unpunished.' If only Tanto had known, he'd probably have let all the new Americans starve.
Anyway, I will be attending Thanksgiving at my in-laws tomorrow. I actually get along with my in-laws, probably better than my own family. Actually, that's not true, I don't even talk to my family, so it cuts down on the arguing dramatically.
My mother-in-law has four sons-in-law. Now, if I were ambitious, I'd try to be the best - kind of like my fantasy listed above (amazing how I tied that in, huh?) - but I learned from the Indians. Doing too much good is only going to get you fucked. You need to think about survival, first and foremost.
The first, and longest tenured son-in-law is Victor. Victor is one of those religious guys who practices it without preaching it. He helps the homeless, gives rides to tards, and otherwise helps people. Given the fact that I'm exceedingly self aware, and I know that I'm pretty self absorbed, attempting to top this guy is going to result in a lot of effort without the payoff. So I'm already at #2.
I'm the third longest tenured son-in-law, but I'm going to give the #2 spot to my brother-in-law, Harry. Harry, I think, is like me in a lot of respects. I believe he's self absorbed, but he has one major quality that elevates him to the #2 spot: he doesn't say a lot of stupid shit. I lose here, hands down. But it's closer than you might think.
I fall at #3. And this is exactly where I want to be. If you're #1, you're going to have people expect shit out of you. I do very poorly when people expect shit out of me, unless they expect to be disappointed, in which case I'm your man. At #1, you become the defacto patriarch, if there is no other, such as a grandfather. In our case, there are no grandfather's left, so the sons-in-law are basically the four men up for the position. I don't want that position. People scrutinize you, it opens you up to criticism. Victor can have it, cause I don't want to deal with that shit.
#2 is almost as, well, #two-ey, as #1. You're the patriarch in waiting. Essentially, you're on an extended audition. You have to think about everything you do, because people are going to remember, and boy-oh-boy, you're going to hear about it when you ascend to the throne. Plus, you're kind of the stunt double for #1. So you get the potential for all the responsibility, without the glory, of the crown. Fuck that noise.
No, number 3 is where it's at, assuming you're lucky enough to have a #4. And do I have a #4.
Enter the dumbass: Billy Bob.
How can I describe Billy Bob? He's kind of hickish. Not in that endearing 'kinda folksy and slow spoken' sort of a way. More in that 'I could see him attending KKK rallies' sort of a way. No, I'm not saying he's racist, he's never said anything of the sort, just trying to give you a visual here.
He married my sister-in-law in a fire hall. I have nothing against fire halls, but to give you a bit of background, I was drinking a can of Coors light (fuck off, it's all they had) during the ceremony. Why was I celebrating? Cause I knew the promised land was dead ahead. One of Billy-Bob's relatives was wearing an eye patch. An eye patch with a skull and crossbones on it. I'm dead serious here. This was like winning the in-law lottery, ticket holder: me. Did I tell you I was self absorbed?
Billy Bob fun facts:
He used to be a tree surgeon, but fell out a tree and went on disability.
He used to be a crack addict. He cornered my wife, at a Thanksgiving dinner once and told her this. I'm big on abandoning my wife when I sense an uncomfortable conversation coming. Like it's my fault I have a better developed spidey-sense than her?
He lived in a trailer.
He was short on cash - well, this is a constant thing - but always has cash for a tree stand, or a bow, or something completely and utterly useless.
He mentioned that he wanted to have sex with my sister-in-law (one that was not his wife or mine) during my wedding reception.
He wears black slacks and cowboy boots to every family function.
He got in an argument with the funeral director during my wife's stepfather's funeral. Right when we were supposed to take the casket from the hearse to the grave site. I don't think I loved Billy Bob any more than at that moment.
His wife attempted to divorce him via facebook. She got major ups in my book for that abortion of an idea.
His wife has kicked him out after finding correspondence with other women.
His wife has called the cops on him. I've always said 'It ain't true love til the cops show up.'
Basically, I could not create from scratch a better shit-bomb to be measured against. If he was any worse, he'd be in prison (and in fact, I'm waiting for him to admit he did time, hopefully to someone who is not me).
Let me be clear, at Christmas dinner last year, I had the choice of being seated next to a 400 lb tard with an oxygen tank or Billy Bob. I was happy I got the tard. I don't like being around him, because he's one of those guys that knows he's a fuck-up, but tries to be everyone's friend. And it just comes off as sleazy. Not that I don't appreciate sleazy, but the sleazy I appreciate involves low cut blouses and short skirts.
So maybe God screwed me out of my Ferrari, riches and fame.
But I'm thankful for Billy Bob. Compared to this fucker, I'm #3 for life, unless I go on a mass-murder spree.
Well, even that would show a little ambition and still keep me in my current position.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Monday, November 23, 2009
Rainbows, Midgets, Dick Vermeil and the Absolute Necessity of Headphones.
Friday was my last day of Vacation in the Dominican Republic, and fortunately I have a few stories. However, I'm going to post them in reverse order, for no other reason than I feel like it. So there.
My wife and I woke up fairly early so we could get in some beach time before we had to leave. We get out on the beach and get under one of those straw umbrellas just as it begins to rain. Sunshowers, which was pretty cool. After about 15 minutes, they pass over and we take a walk down the beach. I turn around and there it is.
A perfect rainbow. I know, it sounds childish, but it was beautiful, one of those rainbows that you could see both ends of it.
We get back and decide to go in the water, which was very nice. I look at my wife and her eyes get wide. I immediately think 'oh, shit, it's a shark, I'm sure going to miss her.' She mouths 'look behind you.' I then think, 'oh, shit, it's a shark, I better get my wife between me and the shark.' I slowly turn.
It's a midget. In a bright bikini. She was a vision. Her little legs and arms and big belly. I thought to myself, 'I've never seen this in 37 years, and I don't think I'll ever see it again. I wish I had my camera.' But alas, she will forever be my 'Dominican Midget Memory.'
We get to the airport, and we're going through security. Which is a bit like kindergarten nap time with all the taking off of shoes and whatnot. So there's a guy in front of me taking off his belt. I get a look at him, and I'm about to turn to my wife and say 'hey, doesn't that look like...'
"Mr. Vermeil?' my wife asks.
"How are you?"
Then, I come up with this genius response:
"Oh my God, we're from Philly!" Yeah, I'm smooth.
So we started talking to him, he was a super nice guy. I said "Coach, it was great to see you win it all with the Rams." He was very gracious. He then turns to me and says:
"You know, ever since I got that hip replacement, I set off those damn metal detectors." Eventually some folks started recognizing him and he took time out to speak with all of them. We talked a bit about golf and the Dominican Republic. Of course, right before we board, my wife, who has a bladder the size of an acorn, needs to go. Right now. So I'm sitting watching our shit while folks are filing past us and Dick Vermeil asked 'what happened to your wife?' I pointed towards the restroom and he laughed. As I got on the plane, he was in first class and made a point to say to me that it was nice talking to me. I said 'You too, Coach.'
He was truly a genuine guy.
Oh, travel tip: ALWAYS have headphones.
We get on the plane, and I took the window seat. Mostly because I'm terrified of flying. So my wife is next to me and this rather large woman sits next to her and is shouting to her friend, about 4,562 rows back, that her bus was late and she almost missed the flight. After about 4 times of shouting this, her friend apparently got it.
She then starts talking to my wife. Now, we've all been in this situation. You're about to get stuck in an uncomfortable situation, whether it be a conversation, a strip search or getting anally raped. You know that your friend/wife/cellmate is done for, but there's still a glimmer of hope for you. You feverishly examine all the possible exits out of the situation and say 'fuck it, my wife's done for, she's on her own.'
I quickly don my ipod headphones. I would have listened to Creed. On constant repeat. That's how annoying this woman was. So I blissfully listened to my music while my wife got lambasted by this woman, who revealed the following details of her life:
Her one sister hung herself because she was unable to find a man and have a baby. If there was a family resemblance, then this mystery was solved within seconds.
The other sister died after a long illness, so she took custody of her niece. I looked over at the sixteen year old niece and she had on headphones too. I guess she saw the same disaster coming and opted out like I did. The woman also mentioned that the sister that had the niece was annoying and her niece was just like her. I love it when annoying people are annoyed by people that they think are annoying. I think that makes sense. Fuck it.
And she wants to meet up with my wife for lunch. I, of course, am encouraging her to go.
Anyway, we touched down in Philly, and as we're going through customs, the guy asks:
"Are you related?" To which I said: 'No.' My wife looks at me and says 'we've been married over a year, we're related you idiot.' The customs guy was laughing his ass off.
My next story will be 'Don't Swim with the French, and Don't Ever Play Volleyball with the Russians.'
My wife and I woke up fairly early so we could get in some beach time before we had to leave. We get out on the beach and get under one of those straw umbrellas just as it begins to rain. Sunshowers, which was pretty cool. After about 15 minutes, they pass over and we take a walk down the beach. I turn around and there it is.
A perfect rainbow. I know, it sounds childish, but it was beautiful, one of those rainbows that you could see both ends of it.
We get back and decide to go in the water, which was very nice. I look at my wife and her eyes get wide. I immediately think 'oh, shit, it's a shark, I'm sure going to miss her.' She mouths 'look behind you.' I then think, 'oh, shit, it's a shark, I better get my wife between me and the shark.' I slowly turn.
It's a midget. In a bright bikini. She was a vision. Her little legs and arms and big belly. I thought to myself, 'I've never seen this in 37 years, and I don't think I'll ever see it again. I wish I had my camera.' But alas, she will forever be my 'Dominican Midget Memory.'
We get to the airport, and we're going through security. Which is a bit like kindergarten nap time with all the taking off of shoes and whatnot. So there's a guy in front of me taking off his belt. I get a look at him, and I'm about to turn to my wife and say 'hey, doesn't that look like...'
"Mr. Vermeil?' my wife asks.
"How are you?"
Then, I come up with this genius response:
"Oh my God, we're from Philly!" Yeah, I'm smooth.
So we started talking to him, he was a super nice guy. I said "Coach, it was great to see you win it all with the Rams." He was very gracious. He then turns to me and says:
"You know, ever since I got that hip replacement, I set off those damn metal detectors." Eventually some folks started recognizing him and he took time out to speak with all of them. We talked a bit about golf and the Dominican Republic. Of course, right before we board, my wife, who has a bladder the size of an acorn, needs to go. Right now. So I'm sitting watching our shit while folks are filing past us and Dick Vermeil asked 'what happened to your wife?' I pointed towards the restroom and he laughed. As I got on the plane, he was in first class and made a point to say to me that it was nice talking to me. I said 'You too, Coach.'
He was truly a genuine guy.
Oh, travel tip: ALWAYS have headphones.
We get on the plane, and I took the window seat. Mostly because I'm terrified of flying. So my wife is next to me and this rather large woman sits next to her and is shouting to her friend, about 4,562 rows back, that her bus was late and she almost missed the flight. After about 4 times of shouting this, her friend apparently got it.
She then starts talking to my wife. Now, we've all been in this situation. You're about to get stuck in an uncomfortable situation, whether it be a conversation, a strip search or getting anally raped. You know that your friend/wife/cellmate is done for, but there's still a glimmer of hope for you. You feverishly examine all the possible exits out of the situation and say 'fuck it, my wife's done for, she's on her own.'
I quickly don my ipod headphones. I would have listened to Creed. On constant repeat. That's how annoying this woman was. So I blissfully listened to my music while my wife got lambasted by this woman, who revealed the following details of her life:
Her one sister hung herself because she was unable to find a man and have a baby. If there was a family resemblance, then this mystery was solved within seconds.
The other sister died after a long illness, so she took custody of her niece. I looked over at the sixteen year old niece and she had on headphones too. I guess she saw the same disaster coming and opted out like I did. The woman also mentioned that the sister that had the niece was annoying and her niece was just like her. I love it when annoying people are annoyed by people that they think are annoying. I think that makes sense. Fuck it.
And she wants to meet up with my wife for lunch. I, of course, am encouraging her to go.
Anyway, we touched down in Philly, and as we're going through customs, the guy asks:
"Are you related?" To which I said: 'No.' My wife looks at me and says 'we've been married over a year, we're related you idiot.' The customs guy was laughing his ass off.
My next story will be 'Don't Swim with the French, and Don't Ever Play Volleyball with the Russians.'
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Vacation, All I Ever Wanted
Well, I'm off for a week to the Dominican Republic on a well earned vacation. According to my wife there is actually internet there, so I may well update while I'm away.
I hate flying. Jesus titty-fucking Christ I hate flying.
I hope I live.
Hopefully, I'll update, if not, be well. I really hate to fly.
I hate flying. Jesus titty-fucking Christ I hate flying.
I hope I live.
Hopefully, I'll update, if not, be well. I really hate to fly.
Friday, November 13, 2009
"Cards" on the Table
One thing you figure out pretty quickly in practicing law is that most of your encounters, your conversations, your motions, your entire persona become largely scripted. At first, it's a bit of a shock because Law School
Most lawyers I've met are pretty decent folks. Contrary to popular belief, most of us are not complete douchebags. There are definitely some, but fewer than you'd probably think.
Anyway, by about your second year, you pretty well have the script down. You've been to a few motions, you've written dozens of dry letters, responded to discovery, taken thousands of phone calls, and otherwise immersed yourself in a world faker than a beauty pageant. Some may look down upon this characterization of practicing law, and they're certainly entitled to that opinion. However, try talking to a lawyer in 'real life.' Do they sound like a lawyer? Probably not, at least not most of them. They're playing a role. They have to. Fortunately or unfortunately, the law is replete with custom and tradition and variation from either is looked down upon by the powers that be.
So when you see something that isn't in keeping with custom and tradition, it tends to really stick out, assuming you know what to look for. One of those instances still haunts me to this day.
I was working on a very large case, involving hundreds of attorneys. At a certain point in time, there was another case ongoing that might have impacted the case I was currently working on. Several of the same attorneys were involved in both cases, so I tried to keep an eye on what was going on in the other case. A good friend of mine was involved in both, so we would talk about it. We were at a deposition and one of the attorneys who was also in the other case was about to depose a witness in the case I was involved in.
I mentally referred to this particular attorney as ‘Fish Lips.’
Depositions are fairly formal events. If I go to a deposition, I will wear a suit. No, it's not as formal event as a Court Appearance, but the witness is under oath and it does have certain rules and customs that you are typically expected to follow.
Fish Lips was huge. I'm not talking 'oh, you mean she's not as rail-thin as a model huge.' At my heaviest, I ran about 240 lbs and I'm 6'2". Fish Lips had me by about 50 lbs. Remember that chick that won American Idol? Not the one with no neck, the other one. She was in that Eddie Murphy movie. Fuck it, I can't remember her name.
Except Fish Lips wasn't remotely cute. We've all seen this chick. She had completely given up on any attempt at putting herself together. I get it, I’ve battled weight issues, and it takes a lot of work and a lot of time if you’re inclined to lose it. That being said, I see thousands of overweight women and most of them still try to put themselves together in a way that is pleasing to the eye. Combing their hair. A little make-up. A low cut blouse, you know, a little something for the audience. Or bathing.
Not Fish Lips. She would show up to depositions in stretchy pants. I don't mean those slacks infused with that rubber stuff - not to be confused with Spandex (which I believe has been outlawed) - I'm talking full on 'I had fourteen kids, I vacuum, do laundry all day, run the kids around and eat at McDonalds six times a week' stretchy pants. The type of stretchy pants that are the de facto uniform of every girlfriend on ‘Cops.’ I can only imagine that the fabric of these particular stretchy pants had been woven from the very soul of Hitler because I can't imagine a worse fate than being Fish Lips’ stretchy pants.
For a top, Fish Lips would have a dark long-sleeved t-shirt thing with a sweater that looked like it was straight out of the Bea Arthur catalogue for women who were waiting to die with 15 cats and an outstanding balance of $54,982.13 at QVC.
But like any horror movie, it's not what you directly see that scares you, it's what lies beneath that keeps you up at night.
I like boobs (just check my profile). I LOVE boobs. Frankly, if I had a pair of my own, I probably would be homeless because I would feel no need to be gainfully employed. Ok, ok, you get the point. But those boobs? I now understand the phrase 'too much of a good thing.' These things were huge. Massive. Not in a 'wow, I'm a bit aroused but feel guilty about it' sort of way, more of a 'my penis would commit suicide right now if it had an opposable thumb' sort of a way. If these were the only boobs in the world, I'd be full on Clay Aiken gay.
Think back to when you were a kid. You and your friends were hanging out at the local swimming hole. Think hard. You remember? There's a dock out there in the middle of the lake? Ok, now imagine you're goofing around with your friends and you look back and there's suddenly a Blue Whale on the dock. You're positive it wasn't there just a second ago. You'd swear to it. It is so out of your expectation of reality, your brain can't handle it. At first, you deny to yourself that there's a huge-ass Blue Whale on the dock of your pond. Your eyes refuse to believe your brain. You move to 'maybe it fell on the dock out of the heavens' as an explanation. Nope, no splash. Feverishly your brain seeks to come up with an explanation that allows you to keep your illusion of reality intact. You probably settle on 'oh, it's Ted the Big Fucking Blue Whale and he's always there.' You know it's a lie, but it's a useful lie. Your reality takes a bit of a bruising, but a few drinks will set you right.
Unfortunately, I had none of the above excuses to keep my own reality after what I was about to see.
Fish Lips subtly moves a shoulder. Waves of fat ripple from the strain of the motion. Time and space seem to bend. Reality tears just a bit. Somewhere, you can hear the distant scream of a child. Through the deft use of fat-physics and redirection by hand, it happens.
Fish Lip's right breast is now sitting on the table in front of her. If you’ve ever seen the movie Snatch there’s a scene towards the end when Turkish, Tommy and Mickey walk out of the unlicensed boxing match, fully expecting to get shot. Turkish says something along the lines of ‘you think your life will flash before your eyes, but you just end up with a stupid ass look on your face.’ (Oh, by the way, spoiler alert for the preceding sentence if you haven’t seen the movie.) I had that look. Except possibly more frightened. Frankly, I would have rather been shot. Because, for whatever reason, I continued to watch. I couldn’t look away, like rubbernecking on the Turnpike. You know you might see something that you can’t handle, but you can’t stop yourself. In fascination, horror, and praying to all that is holy that I'm struck blind immediately, I watch as the she repeats the motion, reality tears a bit more, and the left breast joins its partner on the table.
And there it is. There's my Ted the Big Fucking Blue Whale on the dock. The only problem is I witnessed him jump out of the water onto that dock. No amount of negotiating with myself will ever make that go away. No, my reality was forever changed.
I looked around the room. There were 30 attorneys, at least, in this room and it did not appear to me that one of them had actually witnessed this catastrophic event. No one is that good of an actor. You can't witness that and be the same.
So why was I the only one that saw it?
Because of my jackass of a friend. As I said earlier, my friend and I discussed the other case he was involved in, and he told me the following tidbit that happened at another deposition that Fish Lips took:
"Dude, she flopped those puppies right on the table in front of her."
And I doubted him. Some may say the moral to the story is 'believe your friends.' I disagree. The moral to the story is 'don't ever fucking tell me something like that because I might think it's necessary to watch to confirm the story.' Or 'Lie to me, motherfucker, lie to me.'
That's why I was looking. And maybe that's why I was the only one that caught it.
And I'm scarred because of it. Thanks a lot, jackass friend.
Thanks a lot.
Most lawyers I've met are pretty decent folks. Contrary to popular belief, most of us are not complete douchebags. There are definitely some, but fewer than you'd probably think.
Anyway, by about your second year, you pretty well have the script down. You've been to a few motions, you've written dozens of dry letters, responded to discovery, taken thousands of phone calls, and otherwise immersed yourself in a world faker than a beauty pageant. Some may look down upon this characterization of practicing law, and they're certainly entitled to that opinion. However, try talking to a lawyer in 'real life.' Do they sound like a lawyer? Probably not, at least not most of them. They're playing a role. They have to. Fortunately or unfortunately, the law is replete with custom and tradition and variation from either is looked down upon by the powers that be.
So when you see something that isn't in keeping with custom and tradition, it tends to really stick out, assuming you know what to look for. One of those instances still haunts me to this day.
I was working on a very large case, involving hundreds of attorneys. At a certain point in time, there was another case ongoing that might have impacted the case I was currently working on. Several of the same attorneys were involved in both cases, so I tried to keep an eye on what was going on in the other case. A good friend of mine was involved in both, so we would talk about it. We were at a deposition and one of the attorneys who was also in the other case was about to depose a witness in the case I was involved in.
I mentally referred to this particular attorney as ‘Fish Lips.’
Depositions are fairly formal events. If I go to a deposition, I will wear a suit. No, it's not as formal event as a Court Appearance, but the witness is under oath and it does have certain rules and customs that you are typically expected to follow.
Fish Lips was huge. I'm not talking 'oh, you mean she's not as rail-thin as a model huge.' At my heaviest, I ran about 240 lbs and I'm 6'2". Fish Lips had me by about 50 lbs. Remember that chick that won American Idol? Not the one with no neck, the other one. She was in that Eddie Murphy movie. Fuck it, I can't remember her name.
Except Fish Lips wasn't remotely cute. We've all seen this chick. She had completely given up on any attempt at putting herself together. I get it, I’ve battled weight issues, and it takes a lot of work and a lot of time if you’re inclined to lose it. That being said, I see thousands of overweight women and most of them still try to put themselves together in a way that is pleasing to the eye. Combing their hair. A little make-up. A low cut blouse, you know, a little something for the audience. Or bathing.
Not Fish Lips. She would show up to depositions in stretchy pants. I don't mean those slacks infused with that rubber stuff - not to be confused with Spandex (which I believe has been outlawed) - I'm talking full on 'I had fourteen kids, I vacuum, do laundry all day, run the kids around and eat at McDonalds six times a week' stretchy pants. The type of stretchy pants that are the de facto uniform of every girlfriend on ‘Cops.’ I can only imagine that the fabric of these particular stretchy pants had been woven from the very soul of Hitler because I can't imagine a worse fate than being Fish Lips’ stretchy pants.
For a top, Fish Lips would have a dark long-sleeved t-shirt thing with a sweater that looked like it was straight out of the Bea Arthur catalogue for women who were waiting to die with 15 cats and an outstanding balance of $54,982.13 at QVC.
But like any horror movie, it's not what you directly see that scares you, it's what lies beneath that keeps you up at night.
I like boobs (just check my profile). I LOVE boobs. Frankly, if I had a pair of my own, I probably would be homeless because I would feel no need to be gainfully employed. Ok, ok, you get the point. But those boobs? I now understand the phrase 'too much of a good thing.' These things were huge. Massive. Not in a 'wow, I'm a bit aroused but feel guilty about it' sort of way, more of a 'my penis would commit suicide right now if it had an opposable thumb' sort of a way. If these were the only boobs in the world, I'd be full on Clay Aiken gay.
Think back to when you were a kid. You and your friends were hanging out at the local swimming hole. Think hard. You remember? There's a dock out there in the middle of the lake? Ok, now imagine you're goofing around with your friends and you look back and there's suddenly a Blue Whale on the dock. You're positive it wasn't there just a second ago. You'd swear to it. It is so out of your expectation of reality, your brain can't handle it. At first, you deny to yourself that there's a huge-ass Blue Whale on the dock of your pond. Your eyes refuse to believe your brain. You move to 'maybe it fell on the dock out of the heavens' as an explanation. Nope, no splash. Feverishly your brain seeks to come up with an explanation that allows you to keep your illusion of reality intact. You probably settle on 'oh, it's Ted the Big Fucking Blue Whale and he's always there.' You know it's a lie, but it's a useful lie. Your reality takes a bit of a bruising, but a few drinks will set you right.
Unfortunately, I had none of the above excuses to keep my own reality after what I was about to see.
Fish Lips subtly moves a shoulder. Waves of fat ripple from the strain of the motion. Time and space seem to bend. Reality tears just a bit. Somewhere, you can hear the distant scream of a child. Through the deft use of fat-physics and redirection by hand, it happens.
Fish Lip's right breast is now sitting on the table in front of her. If you’ve ever seen the movie Snatch there’s a scene towards the end when Turkish, Tommy and Mickey walk out of the unlicensed boxing match, fully expecting to get shot. Turkish says something along the lines of ‘you think your life will flash before your eyes, but you just end up with a stupid ass look on your face.’ (Oh, by the way, spoiler alert for the preceding sentence if you haven’t seen the movie.) I had that look. Except possibly more frightened. Frankly, I would have rather been shot. Because, for whatever reason, I continued to watch. I couldn’t look away, like rubbernecking on the Turnpike. You know you might see something that you can’t handle, but you can’t stop yourself. In fascination, horror, and praying to all that is holy that I'm struck blind immediately, I watch as the she repeats the motion, reality tears a bit more, and the left breast joins its partner on the table.
And there it is. There's my Ted the Big Fucking Blue Whale on the dock. The only problem is I witnessed him jump out of the water onto that dock. No amount of negotiating with myself will ever make that go away. No, my reality was forever changed.
I looked around the room. There were 30 attorneys, at least, in this room and it did not appear to me that one of them had actually witnessed this catastrophic event. No one is that good of an actor. You can't witness that and be the same.
So why was I the only one that saw it?
Because of my jackass of a friend. As I said earlier, my friend and I discussed the other case he was involved in, and he told me the following tidbit that happened at another deposition that Fish Lips took:
"Dude, she flopped those puppies right on the table in front of her."
And I doubted him. Some may say the moral to the story is 'believe your friends.' I disagree. The moral to the story is 'don't ever fucking tell me something like that because I might think it's necessary to watch to confirm the story.' Or 'Lie to me, motherfucker, lie to me.'
That's why I was looking. And maybe that's why I was the only one that caught it.
And I'm scarred because of it. Thanks a lot, jackass friend.
Thanks a lot.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Inappropriate but Funny
The above title is how my wife, who knows me very well, sums up my existence. This is the story of how she came to that conclusion.
We live in an apartment building. And like most apartment buildings, it has an alarm system in case of a fire. One weekday morning, I heard this blaring sound and lo and behold, it was the fire alarm.
So my wife gets out of bed and starts heading to her vanity.
I say 'what the hell are you doing?'
"Brushing my hair."
I was dumbfounded. Now you may take from the above that my wife is a vain woman, but this is not the case at all. Well, not any more vain than an average woman. Which in man terms is unbelievably, but somewhat tolerable occasionally, vain. But what was baffling is that she is an extremely logical person. Well, as far as estrogen and logic can co-exist.
You need to understand, I am probably one of the most clear headed people in an emergency situation. In non-emergency situations, I worry about everything. Everything. Hell, I make shit up to worry about just so I can have something to do. But an emergency? Nothing clears away all the mental noise in my head like an emergency.
Immediately, my mind covered the three steps necessary to getting out and avoid burning to death.
One, figure out how to get the wife moving in a productive direction. In this case, productive meaning 'not worry about how you look first thing in the morning so that you may have other mornings to worry about how you look because you didn't burn to death in a fucking fire because you were doing your hair.'
Two, corral Ben and Seymour. Immediately, I realized this was going to be problematic. I don't have a cat carrier. I'll probably get into more about Ben and Seymour, or the 'tards' as I refer to them at a later date, but for now all you need to know is Seymour is feral. He lets me pet him maybe twice a year, and I've had him since he was a kitten. He's just terrified of everything and hides all day. So I run into the closet and get a duffel bag and throw it on the bed.
Now the hard part. I had to corner Seymour. He's one of those cats that will run and run until he's out of options. So you need to 'funnel' him into a spot that he can't get out of. In this case, he made his last stand in the bathroom. Meanwhile, the alarm is blaring away. In reality, probably 40 seconds have passed, but I could swear I smelled smoke and felt the temperature rising, harbingers of my certain impending doom. At that moment, I resolved that if I died because of this retarded cat and my wife's hair, I was going to haunt the shit out of them if they made it out alive.
Anyway, once you get Seymour cornered, he freezes, and he resorts to his last ditch attempt at avoiding capture. The wily Seymour stares at you, as if to say 'look at me, I'm scared and really cute, are you sure you want to continue on this course of action? Maybe it'd be best if you just let me be...' So that's when I grab him. He's got back claws, but none in the front. I grab him by the back to nullify the claws, rush out of the bathroom and head into the bedroom and start the process of trying to shove him into the duffel bag.
What happened next? Well, it was a new one on me. Between me yelling 'Shove his goddamn head in the bag' and her yelling back 'I'm trying you asshole, he doesn't want to go in there,' a strange thing happened.
For some reason, Seymour was suddenly attached by his mouth to my wife's wrist. It took a second before I realized the ramifications of this. Then my wife let out a howl of pain and I thought 'huh, guess he really didn't want to go into the duffel bag.' It took a second to extract Seymour from my wife's wrist and we got him in the bag. Which he peed in just to annoy me further. Oh, and my wife was bleeding out of four holes in her arm. Quite a bit actually.
And Ben? Yeah, he was sitting on the floor, just watching all of this transpire.
Step Three, I throw the duffel bag on my shoulder, scoop up Ben and we start heading for the front door and the stairs.
Just as the alarm goes off.
Well, that sucks. So to recap, I have one 25 lb cat in one arm, a terrified cat in a peed in duffel bag in the other, and a wife with four new holes and mussed up hair.
It was one of those moments where you just think 'God fucking damnit. Was this really necessary today?'
My wife was now really irritated. She's in pain, and knows she now has to make a doctor's appointment. She ends up going to the doctor that day, and gets bandaged. Apparently, if it hadn't been a cat bite, it was deep enough to require stitches. I was shocked the little fucker had it in him to do that. He certainly never bit me in the eight years I had him.
There would also be scarring, and potentially an infection. So not exactly fun for my wife.
I try to be empathetic, I really do. But sometimes I fail on a monumental level. The next day, we were chatting back and forth. I guess maybe I was busy at work, but for whatever reason, I felt like she was going on an inordinate amount about the 'attack.' So I sent the following:
"Hey, we just got a get well card and it's signed by Siegfried and Roy*."
Maybe it was too soon. Maybe it was the bandages. Maybe the puss. Maybe the pain. Maybe the threat of infection. Maybe the knowledge that we now had a man (or wife)-eater living among us. Maybe it was all of the above.
My wife was not amused. Yet, she still managed to laugh. She showed the message to a co-worker who said 'Funny. Inappropriate, but funny.'
And it stuck.
My wife has threatened to put that on my headstone. So excuse me if I get a bit frightened by the delivery guy with a big headstone under his arm and my wife grabbing a stone chisel.
*For those of you who don't know, Siegfried and Roy were an act that decided playing with 300 lb tigers was a good way to make a living. Right up until the point where one of the tigers decided Roy (or was it Siegfried - I can't tell them apart) would make an excellent face-jerky treat.
We live in an apartment building. And like most apartment buildings, it has an alarm system in case of a fire. One weekday morning, I heard this blaring sound and lo and behold, it was the fire alarm.
So my wife gets out of bed and starts heading to her vanity.
I say 'what the hell are you doing?'
"Brushing my hair."
I was dumbfounded. Now you may take from the above that my wife is a vain woman, but this is not the case at all. Well, not any more vain than an average woman. Which in man terms is unbelievably, but somewhat tolerable occasionally, vain. But what was baffling is that she is an extremely logical person. Well, as far as estrogen and logic can co-exist.
You need to understand, I am probably one of the most clear headed people in an emergency situation. In non-emergency situations, I worry about everything. Everything. Hell, I make shit up to worry about just so I can have something to do. But an emergency? Nothing clears away all the mental noise in my head like an emergency.
Immediately, my mind covered the three steps necessary to getting out and avoid burning to death.
One, figure out how to get the wife moving in a productive direction. In this case, productive meaning 'not worry about how you look first thing in the morning so that you may have other mornings to worry about how you look because you didn't burn to death in a fucking fire because you were doing your hair.'
Two, corral Ben and Seymour. Immediately, I realized this was going to be problematic. I don't have a cat carrier. I'll probably get into more about Ben and Seymour, or the 'tards' as I refer to them at a later date, but for now all you need to know is Seymour is feral. He lets me pet him maybe twice a year, and I've had him since he was a kitten. He's just terrified of everything and hides all day. So I run into the closet and get a duffel bag and throw it on the bed.
Now the hard part. I had to corner Seymour. He's one of those cats that will run and run until he's out of options. So you need to 'funnel' him into a spot that he can't get out of. In this case, he made his last stand in the bathroom. Meanwhile, the alarm is blaring away. In reality, probably 40 seconds have passed, but I could swear I smelled smoke and felt the temperature rising, harbingers of my certain impending doom. At that moment, I resolved that if I died because of this retarded cat and my wife's hair, I was going to haunt the shit out of them if they made it out alive.
Anyway, once you get Seymour cornered, he freezes, and he resorts to his last ditch attempt at avoiding capture. The wily Seymour stares at you, as if to say 'look at me, I'm scared and really cute, are you sure you want to continue on this course of action? Maybe it'd be best if you just let me be...' So that's when I grab him. He's got back claws, but none in the front. I grab him by the back to nullify the claws, rush out of the bathroom and head into the bedroom and start the process of trying to shove him into the duffel bag.
What happened next? Well, it was a new one on me. Between me yelling 'Shove his goddamn head in the bag' and her yelling back 'I'm trying you asshole, he doesn't want to go in there,' a strange thing happened.
For some reason, Seymour was suddenly attached by his mouth to my wife's wrist. It took a second before I realized the ramifications of this. Then my wife let out a howl of pain and I thought 'huh, guess he really didn't want to go into the duffel bag.' It took a second to extract Seymour from my wife's wrist and we got him in the bag. Which he peed in just to annoy me further. Oh, and my wife was bleeding out of four holes in her arm. Quite a bit actually.
And Ben? Yeah, he was sitting on the floor, just watching all of this transpire.
Step Three, I throw the duffel bag on my shoulder, scoop up Ben and we start heading for the front door and the stairs.
Just as the alarm goes off.
Well, that sucks. So to recap, I have one 25 lb cat in one arm, a terrified cat in a peed in duffel bag in the other, and a wife with four new holes and mussed up hair.
It was one of those moments where you just think 'God fucking damnit. Was this really necessary today?'
My wife was now really irritated. She's in pain, and knows she now has to make a doctor's appointment. She ends up going to the doctor that day, and gets bandaged. Apparently, if it hadn't been a cat bite, it was deep enough to require stitches. I was shocked the little fucker had it in him to do that. He certainly never bit me in the eight years I had him.
There would also be scarring, and potentially an infection. So not exactly fun for my wife.
I try to be empathetic, I really do. But sometimes I fail on a monumental level. The next day, we were chatting back and forth. I guess maybe I was busy at work, but for whatever reason, I felt like she was going on an inordinate amount about the 'attack.' So I sent the following:
"Hey, we just got a get well card and it's signed by Siegfried and Roy*."
Maybe it was too soon. Maybe it was the bandages. Maybe the puss. Maybe the pain. Maybe the threat of infection. Maybe the knowledge that we now had a man (or wife)-eater living among us. Maybe it was all of the above.
My wife was not amused. Yet, she still managed to laugh. She showed the message to a co-worker who said 'Funny. Inappropriate, but funny.'
And it stuck.
My wife has threatened to put that on my headstone. So excuse me if I get a bit frightened by the delivery guy with a big headstone under his arm and my wife grabbing a stone chisel.
*For those of you who don't know, Siegfried and Roy were an act that decided playing with 300 lb tigers was a good way to make a living. Right up until the point where one of the tigers decided Roy (or was it Siegfried - I can't tell them apart) would make an excellent face-jerky treat.
Monday, November 9, 2009
The Terrence Incident
Prior to the cook that I worked with that needed time off in the middle of the shift in order to consummate a drug deal, the worst example of employer/employee relations I had witnessed was:
The Terrence Incident.
Terrence is just one of those guys. You know the guy. He's cool, savvy, and everybody's friend. Now, let me be clear, I like the guy. We liked the same music, had some good talks during our shifts, and generally got on really well. However, Terrence was not very cognizant of time. Especially when that time related to the time he was supposed to come in. During one of my first shifts, I was supposed to come in on a Tuesday night after my day job. So I dutifully show up at 6, only to find Terrence is not there and the day shift cook is pissed as he needs to get out. He doesn't want to leave me alone, because I didn't know the whole menu at that point. So we call Terrence.
Oh, he's coming in, he's going to be a bit late, the bartender tells us. He was due in at five. It's now 6:20. Like I said, Terrence operated on a different clock from the rest of us.
Anyway, he shows up, finally, and his excuse was he hurt his knee while working out. Did he go to the doctor? Not exactly. He went to his 'Dr. Feelgood.' His words. My manager shows up, and reads him the riot act while I'm in the kitchen. Is there anything more uncomfortable than being in the same room as someone who is getting yelled at? Yeah, not fun.
So the manager basically says that you need to give notice if you're going to be late. Common courtesy, etc. etc.
The next day Terrence decides to show up an hour and a half late to his next shift. He gets fired.
Now, as I said, we all liked Terrence on a personal level. So he would come to the bar every so often to hang out. There were no hard feelings. Terrence was one of those guys that could probably walk in on his girlfriend getting gang banged by the Knicks and he would shut the door and never give it another thought.
So Terrence is in late one night, after the bar has closed. I didn't witness this first hand, but heard from the main participants who all related the story to me the same way.
The bartender is there, a waitress, a cook, and Terrence. A word about Jim, the cook. I love Jim. He's funny as hell. But, the down side is he tends to like to drink during his shift. I'm certainly not one to think negatively about someone for that, I merely offer this as background. So by 2 a.m., Jim's pretty well hammered, given the fact that he was done his shift at 1.
Jim's in the bathroom, which is downstairs. He hears some noises coming out of the walk in refrigerator where all the food is kept. As he comes out of the bathroom, Jim bumps into Terrence. He tells Terrence he doesn't work there anymore and he can't go into the employee area. So that was it.
Fast forward a half hour and Jim's bothered by something. He notices that Terrence's coat pockets are bulging. Even in his inebriated condition, Jim knows something's up. So he goes over and looks in the pocket. On the top of the pocket, there's a hamburger. Raw, wrapped up and prepped for when we use it on the line. So Jim pulls it out. Under it is a chicken wing and thigh. And some ham. And some cheese. He empties both the pockets.
Terrence apparently thought it was ok to do his grocery shopping in the walk-in.
Jim says 'Seriously?' And starts laughing.
The bartender can't stop laughing. Well, right up to the point where it came time to pay the tab, of around $40, and Terrence tells him he only has $2. Not so funny after that.
So Terrence gets banned. A few weeks later, he bumps into the owner. He makes good on the check. When the owner asks him 'why the fuck would you steal from me?' Terrence replies brilliantly:
"I'm not the worst one there."
For some reason, his ban remains in place.
Oh, and did I mention? He lives at home with his parents. He didn't need the food.
The Terrence Incident.
Terrence is just one of those guys. You know the guy. He's cool, savvy, and everybody's friend. Now, let me be clear, I like the guy. We liked the same music, had some good talks during our shifts, and generally got on really well. However, Terrence was not very cognizant of time. Especially when that time related to the time he was supposed to come in. During one of my first shifts, I was supposed to come in on a Tuesday night after my day job. So I dutifully show up at 6, only to find Terrence is not there and the day shift cook is pissed as he needs to get out. He doesn't want to leave me alone, because I didn't know the whole menu at that point. So we call Terrence.
Oh, he's coming in, he's going to be a bit late, the bartender tells us. He was due in at five. It's now 6:20. Like I said, Terrence operated on a different clock from the rest of us.
Anyway, he shows up, finally, and his excuse was he hurt his knee while working out. Did he go to the doctor? Not exactly. He went to his 'Dr. Feelgood.' His words. My manager shows up, and reads him the riot act while I'm in the kitchen. Is there anything more uncomfortable than being in the same room as someone who is getting yelled at? Yeah, not fun.
So the manager basically says that you need to give notice if you're going to be late. Common courtesy, etc. etc.
The next day Terrence decides to show up an hour and a half late to his next shift. He gets fired.
Now, as I said, we all liked Terrence on a personal level. So he would come to the bar every so often to hang out. There were no hard feelings. Terrence was one of those guys that could probably walk in on his girlfriend getting gang banged by the Knicks and he would shut the door and never give it another thought.
So Terrence is in late one night, after the bar has closed. I didn't witness this first hand, but heard from the main participants who all related the story to me the same way.
The bartender is there, a waitress, a cook, and Terrence. A word about Jim, the cook. I love Jim. He's funny as hell. But, the down side is he tends to like to drink during his shift. I'm certainly not one to think negatively about someone for that, I merely offer this as background. So by 2 a.m., Jim's pretty well hammered, given the fact that he was done his shift at 1.
Jim's in the bathroom, which is downstairs. He hears some noises coming out of the walk in refrigerator where all the food is kept. As he comes out of the bathroom, Jim bumps into Terrence. He tells Terrence he doesn't work there anymore and he can't go into the employee area. So that was it.
Fast forward a half hour and Jim's bothered by something. He notices that Terrence's coat pockets are bulging. Even in his inebriated condition, Jim knows something's up. So he goes over and looks in the pocket. On the top of the pocket, there's a hamburger. Raw, wrapped up and prepped for when we use it on the line. So Jim pulls it out. Under it is a chicken wing and thigh. And some ham. And some cheese. He empties both the pockets.
Terrence apparently thought it was ok to do his grocery shopping in the walk-in.
Jim says 'Seriously?' And starts laughing.
The bartender can't stop laughing. Well, right up to the point where it came time to pay the tab, of around $40, and Terrence tells him he only has $2. Not so funny after that.
So Terrence gets banned. A few weeks later, he bumps into the owner. He makes good on the check. When the owner asks him 'why the fuck would you steal from me?' Terrence replies brilliantly:
"I'm not the worst one there."
For some reason, his ban remains in place.
Oh, and did I mention? He lives at home with his parents. He didn't need the food.
Was That Wrong? I Didn't Know You Couldn't Do That!
So I got back into cooking, and since I haven't cooked professionally for about a decade, some training was required. The place I work for was undergoing some changes in the kitchen staff and I was brought along with a couple of new guys. One of those new guys, Albert, was a bit off. Here's two of the first things he told me about when we met on the first shift we worked together.
1) He had a bet with his uncle on the 1980 Superbowl and his uncle never paid up.
My thoughts: let it go, man. Let it go. It was 29 years ago. My response: A look like 'is there some point to all of this?' Ok, to be fair I'm not the most patient man on the planet, and I typically have an awful 'bedside' matter.
2) He caught his wife in bed with not one, not two, but three guys. At the same time. Strangely enough, this led to his divorce.
How on earth this had anything to do with, well, anything, was beyond me. I told him 'that was the luckiest day of your life.' He didn't seem to agree. I was going to explain it, but as my wife has cautioned me on numerous occasions I am 'inappropriate but funny.' This seemed like one of those times. So I let it go.
I ended up working with Albert several times. You ever get a vibe that someone is a bit off, but you can't really put your finger on it? That was Albert. One of the first shifts we worked alone, he kept throwing food away. He said it was 'not good.' I would smell, taste, and go over the food, as the place I work for has the following maxim in place: Don't serve it if you wouldn't eat it. And that is the law, I've seen every cook there throw something away at some point because they wouldn't eat it.
But not like this. I finally had to say to Albert (after the fifth container of something went in the trash) 'Yo, is there anything you think is ok to serve tonight?'
'My taste is off, I might be stuffed up.'
I looked at him like 'you are a fucking retard.' I still double checked all the food, actually, triple checked, to make sure it was ok. It was all fine. Anyway, my shift ended and I went home.
After the Terrence incident, which I'll get to a later point, I did not think that you could find a worse employee. Two weeks later, I was proven wrong. VERY wrong. By Albert.
During my Friday night shift, I was talking with the owner, who told me the following, 'yeah, we're thinking of moving you to Sunday days because we're letting Albert go.' I figured it was a cost measure because all of us had our hours cut lately. Not quite an 'overhead' firing, as I would come to learn.
Me: 'Man, sorry to see him go, just couldn't keep him around?'
Owner; 'Well, no. He had to leave on Friday to do a drug deal.'
Me: 'Heh, no really?'
Owner: 'I'm not kidding, the kitchen manager told me about it today.'
Ok, that right there sealed it. On Sunday, I work at night, but my manager was in early, so I stopped in yesterday to talk with him. I grab a beer at the bar and ask my kitchen manager:
'What happened with Albert?'
'You're not going to believe what this motherfucker did. We're working on Friday, and he says to me 'yo, I got to go out around the corner for ten minutes.' I said 'what for.' He said 'I have to deliver a package to my friend.' I said 'What kind of package?' He said 'Coke, but it's my friend's.'
My manager was stunned. I mean, who wouldn't be? We all tell little white lies to get out of work sometimes. Maybe you say you're sick when you're just hungover, or you have jury duty, or Grandma died. Again.
But to tell your manager you need ten minutes to deliver drugs? In what world does that constitute 'the best excuse to leave for ten minutes in the middle of my shift.' Fuck, 'I took Viagra and I've been hard for five hours' would have been a more appropriate excuse. By the way, someone needs to try that and tell me how it goes with their employer.
So I ask my manager: 'What did you tell him?'
'I told him to bring me a paper on his way back.'
Me and the bartender had tears in our eyes, we were laughing so hard.
'So you didn't fire him right then and there?'
'No, I was just too shocked over his honesty to think about it.'
So I showed up for my shift last night, and my manager was in, sitting at the bar. I walked up to him and said: 'Hey man, I need to go around the corner and rape a busload of nuns. You want me to bring you back a paper?'
Inappropriate, but funny. I hate it when my wife's right.
1) He had a bet with his uncle on the 1980 Superbowl and his uncle never paid up.
My thoughts: let it go, man. Let it go. It was 29 years ago. My response: A look like 'is there some point to all of this?' Ok, to be fair I'm not the most patient man on the planet, and I typically have an awful 'bedside' matter.
2) He caught his wife in bed with not one, not two, but three guys. At the same time. Strangely enough, this led to his divorce.
How on earth this had anything to do with, well, anything, was beyond me. I told him 'that was the luckiest day of your life.' He didn't seem to agree. I was going to explain it, but as my wife has cautioned me on numerous occasions I am 'inappropriate but funny.' This seemed like one of those times. So I let it go.
I ended up working with Albert several times. You ever get a vibe that someone is a bit off, but you can't really put your finger on it? That was Albert. One of the first shifts we worked alone, he kept throwing food away. He said it was 'not good.' I would smell, taste, and go over the food, as the place I work for has the following maxim in place: Don't serve it if you wouldn't eat it. And that is the law, I've seen every cook there throw something away at some point because they wouldn't eat it.
But not like this. I finally had to say to Albert (after the fifth container of something went in the trash) 'Yo, is there anything you think is ok to serve tonight?'
'My taste is off, I might be stuffed up.'
I looked at him like 'you are a fucking retard.' I still double checked all the food, actually, triple checked, to make sure it was ok. It was all fine. Anyway, my shift ended and I went home.
After the Terrence incident, which I'll get to a later point, I did not think that you could find a worse employee. Two weeks later, I was proven wrong. VERY wrong. By Albert.
During my Friday night shift, I was talking with the owner, who told me the following, 'yeah, we're thinking of moving you to Sunday days because we're letting Albert go.' I figured it was a cost measure because all of us had our hours cut lately. Not quite an 'overhead' firing, as I would come to learn.
Me: 'Man, sorry to see him go, just couldn't keep him around?'
Owner; 'Well, no. He had to leave on Friday to do a drug deal.'
Me: 'Heh, no really?'
Owner: 'I'm not kidding, the kitchen manager told me about it today.'
Ok, that right there sealed it. On Sunday, I work at night, but my manager was in early, so I stopped in yesterday to talk with him. I grab a beer at the bar and ask my kitchen manager:
'What happened with Albert?'
'You're not going to believe what this motherfucker did. We're working on Friday, and he says to me 'yo, I got to go out around the corner for ten minutes.' I said 'what for.' He said 'I have to deliver a package to my friend.' I said 'What kind of package?' He said 'Coke, but it's my friend's.'
My manager was stunned. I mean, who wouldn't be? We all tell little white lies to get out of work sometimes. Maybe you say you're sick when you're just hungover, or you have jury duty, or Grandma died. Again.
But to tell your manager you need ten minutes to deliver drugs? In what world does that constitute 'the best excuse to leave for ten minutes in the middle of my shift.' Fuck, 'I took Viagra and I've been hard for five hours' would have been a more appropriate excuse. By the way, someone needs to try that and tell me how it goes with their employer.
So I ask my manager: 'What did you tell him?'
'I told him to bring me a paper on his way back.'
Me and the bartender had tears in our eyes, we were laughing so hard.
'So you didn't fire him right then and there?'
'No, I was just too shocked over his honesty to think about it.'
So I showed up for my shift last night, and my manager was in, sitting at the bar. I walked up to him and said: 'Hey man, I need to go around the corner and rape a busload of nuns. You want me to bring you back a paper?'
Inappropriate, but funny. I hate it when my wife's right.
An Introduction
The title says it all. I'm working night and day.
By day, I'm an attorney.
By night, I'm a cook at a local restaurant.
How did this happen? Well, the legal industry, contrary to popular belief, isn't what it once was. Lots of folks have lost jobs, pay has been cut dramatically, 'tort reform' might as well be titled 'unemploying lawyers' and the insurance industry has done a bang up job making sure many of today's future lawyers will barely be able to survive, much less thrive. I'll get more into that at a later date.
Anyway, my hours at work got cut. With no new matters in the office, overhead got too high for the small firm I work for, so I fell back on the only other skill I have: cooking. I got a job at a local restaurant.
So I get to see both ends of the spectrum. And there's definitely some funny shit I see at both jobs that convinces me that humanity is a failed experiment. I would counsel ending it, but alas, I do enjoy breathing. I'll post about the funny stuff I see, because frankly, real life is often funnier than fiction.
By day, I'm an attorney.
By night, I'm a cook at a local restaurant.
How did this happen? Well, the legal industry, contrary to popular belief, isn't what it once was. Lots of folks have lost jobs, pay has been cut dramatically, 'tort reform' might as well be titled 'unemploying lawyers' and the insurance industry has done a bang up job making sure many of today's future lawyers will barely be able to survive, much less thrive. I'll get more into that at a later date.
Anyway, my hours at work got cut. With no new matters in the office, overhead got too high for the small firm I work for, so I fell back on the only other skill I have: cooking. I got a job at a local restaurant.
So I get to see both ends of the spectrum. And there's definitely some funny shit I see at both jobs that convinces me that humanity is a failed experiment. I would counsel ending it, but alas, I do enjoy breathing. I'll post about the funny stuff I see, because frankly, real life is often funnier than fiction.
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