Me Update!

Last week there were no posts because "Wifey" and I took a one-week long luxury cruise which stopped at 4 wonderful, sunny, tropical ports-of-call. We did it to celebrate the end of law school, our stay in Nash Vegas, and that whole chapter of our lives. Internet was like 50 cents per minute at dial-up speed, so there was no way TheRealDookie was blogging from the boat. But now, reality has set back in, and yours truly is back to being broke, moody, iconoclastic, dissatisfied, and blessed by God to meet some of the weirdest people and have some of the most oddest experiences in recent memory. Stay tuned, fans, for more strange stories, prolific prose, and, apparently, additional alliteration. I may even throw in a few pictures from the boat, if I can afford to develop them!

-- The R.D.

P.S. -- It appears as if both the Staffman and The Magic Williams have stopped blogging! Join me in my quest to smash their writer's block! If you are a fan of either of them, leave them a comment to let them know how empty the blogosphere seems without them!

True Grit

"...Some use pipes / others use injections..."

To all my loyal readers, I apologize for the lack of blogs lately. Between graduation, moving, engagement parties, remodeling our living quarters, and the blight to humanity known as dial-up internet service, I have been neglecting my blogging duties and I’m truly sorry. In good news, however, I am now officially a resident of the O.C.! The O.C., Florida, that is; not that pansy county out West. It’s great to be home. In fact, I have missed Tennessee exactly 0.0 times since I have left. However, I do not pretend that living here is perfect, or even fun sometimes. Here is one experience from earlier this week that has almost left me jaded, already.

You see, one of the problems about eschewing apartment living for living in a house is that everyone and their mother tries to pimp shitty services to you that you “need” and that “will save you money.” As one example, “Wifey” decided to sign up to get our tap water tested for free by an “expert technician” in the area. I soon saw the gimmick that this was when a 55-year old man came to our door with several cases worth of stuff. We had approximately 5 minutes of real water testing followed by 85 minutes of sales pitch. First, the man tested the PH and Chlorine levels of our water. Our water was relatively low in chlorine on the chart, yet he went on about how unhealthy it was, how debris in the pipes can make the levels worse, and how our level of chlorine would be great if he was testing a swimming pool, but was too high for human consumption (neither of which were true). He did the same for the PH level. Then, at perhaps the funniest part of the testing stage, he said, “Now I’m going to perform a very scientific test for parts per million in your tap water.” After putting some water in a mechanical device that looked like an oversized digital thermometer, he exclaimed. “Wow. Take a look. You have 135 parts per million in your water.” After hearing this, I asked the obvious question, “Parts per million of what?” He replied, in a very scientifical-like answer that was hard for me to fully comprehend, “Stuff.” Stuff? Stuff? What the shit are you coming into my house for? I’m supposed to be scared because 0.0001% of my tap water has “stuff” in it? If you believe that, I have a bridge in Brooklyn I’d like to sell you.

Anyway, the real funny part of the experience was not the water-testing portion, but the ridiculous things that this guy said to us which he thought would make us buy his product. The gist of the pitch was that he wanted us to buy a $5000 water filtration system that would produce cleaner, healthier water with, you guessed it, less “stuff” in it. Here were some of the things he told us, I shit you not:

1. The decision by the city to fluoridate the water is one of the biggest crimes ever perpetrated on humanity. It does nothing for your body but cause various severe health problems that are hard for doctors to find and cure, since doctors only treat the symptoms. You need a water filter to get it out.
2. Bad water causes a lot of illnesses in people that they are not aware of. When they go to the doctor, the doctor often gets it wrong. At best, doctors will only treat the symptoms of the disease, because this is an economic country, you see. Only a few doctors have ever stopped to think about it and figured out the source of the problem is the water that we drink.
3. Our bodies are so absorbent that taking one ten-minute shower is the equivalent of drinking 10 gallons of dirty tap water.
4. Chlorine in the water is very bad for you. Chlorine turns into chloroform. That’s why you feel good after you take a shower, because the fumes make you feel like you're refreshed.
5. We need a filter on our water because the State Senate in Tallahassee voted 29-7 to pump some sewage into a pure underground aquifer. [Note to legal process scholars – no word on whether the House or the Governor agreed. Note to geography scholars – that aquifer clearly does not service the entire state, and I’m almost sure does not service my town].
6. After he got a water filter on his house, he felt great. Here are some examples of how it has helped him – first, he hasn’t had anymore headaches. Second, he hasn’t been to the doctor in 17 years, except for when he hurt his ankle. Third, after he installed the filter, he noticed that there was a lot more grit in his bowel movements. He didn’t mean to gross us out here, but the point is that his body was releasing all of the “stuff” that you find in dirty tap water.
7. He’s ‘done the math,’ and we will save $103 dollars per month in soap, detergent, bottled water, cleaning supplies, and loss of clothing if we install this filter. So, we will actually make money over the $51 per month payment, especially when he ‘throws in’ some free cleaning supplies.

After over an hour of this nonsense, we finally got him to start packing up. I offered him something to drink on the way out, and that almost got him started all over again. We finally got him out of the house, in time for me to mow half of the lawn. Our new rule is no more free demonstrations, tests, or displays of any kind. Hold on…..”Wifey” just interrupted me to tell me that we have a free demonstration from a home security company next week. Some people never learn.

The WB Stories, Part I

The following is a list of our best WB moments from high school, and is intended to be a companion piece to the following post. Enjoy!

Neutralized

One time, M.C. led a WB raid with the help of his LeBaron Convertible. The other participants were Savvy, Savvy's friend "Fernandez," a short, funny, Hispanic kid from the year below who was funny but careless, and yours truly. The projectiles of choice this night were strictly water balloons. The target: "Dryer," a tall, stocky, lower classman who used to be bearable but had gotten cocky as hell since his parents bought him a brand new sports car at age 16. None of us liked him so the choice was unanimously approved.

The problem: Dryer's dad was a cop. In fact, more than that, it looked like he had a pretty good chance of being elected Sheriff of the entire county. With this in mind, we knew we had to be extra careful to not get IDed lest we find ourselves spending a night in the county lockup with the dregs of the community, our cars searched, our parents audited, and God knows what else. I should have known, especially with the crew we had, that this one was above our current capacity for quiet assault. But we went, anyway.

We decided the best course of action was to make a U-Turn so we could shoot straight out of the street Dryer lived on in case there was any trouble. Also, I can't remember the exact details, but we decided to either all throw from right next to the car, or have 2 go up to the house and 2 stay in the car. Either way, we all got right up to the house to begin the assault.

Savvy and Fernandez jumped out of the car first, peppering the house and roof with quality-made water-filled grenades while Fernandez, throwing caution to the wind, screamed "Drrryyyyeerrrrrrrrrrrr!!!" Meanwhile, I stood up in the car, hauling long bombs onto the Dryer property. After a minute or two of high-quality assault, Savvy and Fernandez jumped back into the convertible and we went to take off.

M.C., the faithful driver, slammed on the gas. The car made a revving sound, followed by a high-pitched noise, but we went nowhere. We all looked around in stunned silence. M.C. checked to make sure the emergency brake wasn't depressed, but it wasn’t. He hit the gas again, and the car failed to move again.

At this point, Fernandez screamed "Oh Shit!," and Savvy and I made similar remarks. We heard a few noises behind us, and Fernandez started to get up, prepared to make a break for it on foot.

"Hold on!" M.C. screamed. M.C. moved our box of balloons out of the way and found the problem. Either as we out of the car, or got back in, someone had knocked the shifter from "Drive" to "Neutral." Like a scene from Independence Day, M.C. slammed the shifter back into place immediately, and the car lurched forward. We all slammed back against the backs of our seats, our skulls nice and frapped from the impact. The tires squealed and we made like a shepherd in getting the flock out of there.

The Black Bomber

One night on Halloween we decided it would be a worthwhile excursion to fill up a car with water balloons and go nail some trick-or-treaters. The assassins on this trip were me, Savvy, and "Slim," a year younger friend of Savvy's who really did not have the mind for the game but was more loyal and less reckless than Fernandez. I'm not sure if M.C. came or not, but, the major point is that we did NOT have the use of a convertible, meaning that drive-bys had to be up close and personal. When we were filling up balloons, I decided to try and fill a few as far as they would go. The result was quite a few destroyed balloons, but one major success -- a large blackish purple monstrosity that I instantly nicknamed "The Black Bomber."

Now, the BB was huge -- with three times the volume of a normal water balloon (maybe more), it clearly could only be used for a special target. Unfortunately, being the perfectionist that I was with my craft, I kept passing up the chance to use it. I was chastised as being a female body part numerous times on this night, and I have to admit now that it was probably warranted. But finally, the perfect opportunity presented itself.

We came across a group of about seven high school age kids loitering along the side of the street, ostensibly going trick-or-treating. We rolled up slowly but swiftly beside them. As we were about 10-20 feet from them, I poked my head out of the window and yelled "Blaaaaaaaaaack Bomberrrrrrrrrrr!" I will never forget the scream that followed. Some girl along the side of the road opened up her lungs and let out a yell that has absolutely no business anywhere but in a C-rate horror movie. Now, don't get me wrong, the scream was genuine fear, but it was not the scream normally associated with a surprise fright -- it was way too loud and guttural. Regardless, I was able to get my wits about me and heave the balloon in their direction. The Black Bomber wiggled in the air like Jell-O and hit ground zero at the feet of the group, gushing and splashing all over their shoes and pants. Many of them recoiled in surprise as we sped away laughing.

For many months, the phrase "Black Bomber" brought laughs to my mind and that of my partners. The fact that I yelled it out before the strike had surpassed the actual event in the minds of my partners-in-crime. I guess in some ways my friends were laughing at me instead of with me, but I didn't care. I never made another balloon so big.

The Getaway, It's Not

And now, the most ridiculous of them all. One night, we were looking to blow off some steam after some stupid school event that left us all angry and dissatisfied. We filled up a few buckets with a ton of water balloons, looking to wreak havoc on the community. The people along for the ride this time were me, M.C. (with convertible), Savvy, and two girls that Savvy knew, "Craze," a short, cinnamon girl who was absolutely insane and had a crush on both me and Savvy, and "Inconsequential Girl," a friend of Craze's. To this day, I have no idea how this team was assembled, and I don't want to remember. This was the most reckless, loud-mouthed, inaccurate WB group we have ever had, and it showed. We probably missed near 50% of the time, which I guess was part of the fun for the ladies. After we had caused a ruckus on one end of the town, I suggested we try another to lessen the chance of being caught. In transit, one member of our group broke the Cardinal Rule of WB-ing, and we paid dearly (well, kind of) for it.

Now, if you had told me someone was going to screw up, I would have put $10,000 on the chance that it would be one of the girls. But for some reason, it was M.C. who made the fatal mistake. As we were accelerating away from a red light, on a long, oft-traveled, and extremely well lit road, M.C. tossed a water balloon at a car driven by a classmate of ours, "Pudd." Pudd could clearly identify M.C., and, what's worse, since he was right freaking next to us, most definitely had the ability to seek revenge. And, that's what we thought he was doing when he and the passenger in the car, "Spork," began to chase us down the road.

What followed was perhaps the most ridiculous half-hour of my life. We packed so many mistakes, overreactions, and lunatic assertions into the event that you would have thought we were at a school board meeting in Texas. Listen to this:

First, while I to this day still do not understand what the hell M.C. was thinking starting an unprovoked, un-agreed to attack in the worst area of the town, he did make the correct first move -- he did not wait around in the area or confront Pudd on such a well-lighted street. He turned down a much more desolate road and slammed on the gas, leaving Pudd a good bit behind him. But rational thought did not last long. By this time, the girls, especially Craze, were frantic, screaming, yelling, and throwing the remaining balloons and boxes out of the car. I was practically pelted with cardboard, plastic, and water as they littered the side of the road with our munitions. Savvy tried to calm them down, but was clearly amused by the whole thing. Then the chase took a turn for the worse, literally.

At this point, all we had to do was keep going straight. M.C. was driving a relatively new Chrysler with a V6, 3.0 liter engine made by Mitsubishi, which packed roughly 150 horsepower at that time. Pudd was chasing us with some freaking jalopy, like a very early 1990s Dodge Shadow or Plymouth Colt, or something like that. It was not maintained well, and even right out of the factory only had about 100 horsepower it its weak 4 cylinder engine. All M.C. had to do was keep going down this road, build up a tenth of a mile lead or so, get on the Interstate (which was nearby after we hit the end of the road we were on), and go down a few exits, and we would be ghosts.

Again, for some strange reason which I don't understand, M.C. decided to turn down a dirt road and try to hide. Now, I was very vocal about this. At first, I thought it might have been a good idea, because I thought he was turning around and was going to speed right past them in the other direction. But when I realized that was not the plan, I immediately said this was a bad idea. Down a dirt road, with our lights on, we would be visible for miles. And, of course, Pudd saw us and chased us. Eventually, we got so far in that we could go nowhere but back out, and there was Pudd, blocking us in. Savvy, M.C. and I prepared for a fight.

Did we get into a fight? No. Did a rational conversation follow? Of course not. Pudd, who was as thin as a twig and not very self-confident, walked over to the car. Spork, a husky and incredibly stupid kid who liked to pretend he was tough, stood a few feet from the car with his arms crossed, trying his best to look like a bodyguard or some shit. No one who opened their mouth made any sense. Basically, Pudd said he would not let any of us leave until M.C. apologized to him, which M.C. refused to do. Pudd made no sense in his reasons for demanding an apology. At one point, he said this:

"I just can't believe you threw that at me. It could have done a lot of damage to my car. I mean, [M.C.], what if it was a brick?"

This stalemate continued for about ten minutes. It was clear that no one wanted a confrontation. The weird part was that no one besides the two of them really talked. In fact, Pudd never even acknowledged that any of us were there besides M.C., which we all later thought was weird. For our part, I can say that neither Savvy, me, or the girls were scared, although we were all weirded out, and at least part of the reason was because none of us could think of anything to say that would end this debate. I mean, I could empathize with him being angry for being hit, but he wasn't angry at all. In all honesty, Spork was more angry than Pudd was. Pudd just seemed obsessed with the idea of portraying himself as a victim to M.C. I guess in Pudd's mind having his car hit with a water balloon constituted putting him in danger, but engaging in an 80 mile per hour chase put none of us in harm's way. Eventually, Savvy mentioned that we had to get the girls home, and we all drove away. I think M.C. ended up giving a half-hearted apology, but Pudd also expressed regret for keeping him locked into the conversation.

The Aftermath? Well, for the rest of the year, every time Pudd would run into M.C. in class or in the halls, he would be super-nice to him, practically offering to clean his pipes. M.C. never broke the Golden Rule of WB-ing again. The girls never went on another trip with us, but Craze did try to date both me and Savvy at different times during the year, to no avail. When we tell that story today, no one really believes us. It has become kind of like an old wives tale, a Keiser Soze-type story that people think we are telling them solely to scare them into not breaking the WB rules. But I can assure you that this story is true -- awkwardly, fully, and entirely true. The moral? Mess with the WB rules at your own peril.

Dubba…..Dubba…..WB!!!

“….I slay from far away/ Everybody hit the D-E-C-K…”

I grew up in a relatively small county in Florida. It’s not so much that there were no people there, but that it grew really, really fast, way ahead of commercial development, so there was absolutely nothing cool for teenagers to do within half an hour’s drive. So, many of us had to make our own fun. Now, as you already know, I’m not into drugs, violent crime, or skateboarding, and neither are my friends, so we had to come up with something else to do. “WB-ing” was frequently the answer. Let me explain.

My friends and I from high school started a dangerous tradition which we simply refer to now as “WB-ing.” The darn-near fine art of the WB has developed many forms over the years, so that WB now stands for multiple things, such as “White Bombing,” “Water Ballooning,” or “Wet Bystanders.” Basically, “White Bombing” is a variation of what many teens refer to as “egging,” although we gave it special rules. “Water Ballooning” is our form of egging with water balloons. “Wet Bystanders” are simply what results from all the madness.

My friends and I, who were clearly young, upstanding members of the community who were all going somewhere, were obviously risk-averse and thus we developed special rules for WB-ing. Here are the most important ones:

The WB Rules:

1. WB-ing should never, ever be implemented against anyone or anything that has the potential to turn around and chase the group. WB-ing is the art of the silent assassin. [M.C. violated this, the most sacred rule, once, and paid for it. But, that is another story].
2. No one inducted into the WB group is allowed to tell any WB victim that they or anyone else in the group was behind the WB raid. WB-ing is the art of the secret assassin.
3. If there is any objection to a potential WB target, it must be spoken clearly and before the act takes place. In other words, speak then or forever hold your peace. WB-ing is the art of the assassin in harmony with his fellow assassins.
4. One person shall ALWAYS stay with the car. WB-ing is the art of the assassin who always has a getaway plan.
5. As a matter of preference, WB-ing should be implemented against a bad person first, whenever possible. WB-ing is an art that should not offend notions of karma.

My friends and I had lots of informal protocols, as well. For instance, sensing that four 18-year-olds buying three dozen eggs at 9 at night looked kind of suspicious, I came up with the idea that we should also buy cooking ingredients, like vegetable oil, milk, and cake mix at the same time to avert suspicion. Then, a partner and I would openly talk about baking in the store, saying things like, “Does Mom need sprinkles, too?”, or, “Does that shit bake at 350 or 375?”, or “Man, they’re right,……NOBODY does it like Sara Lee!”

Now, I have TONS of great stories about WB raids gone wrong in the past, and if there is any demand out there, I would love to get into them. But first things first. M.C. has blogged about his dream team for basketball, let me tell you about my dream team for WB-ing. This will be helpful so that “The WB Stories,” possibly my next blogging misadventure, will not need a lot of introductory material. Here goes.

The WB Dream Team:

Name: Fat Stack
Intangibles: So nicknamed because his early physical maturity and brute strength allowed him to lift vast amounts of weight on the nautilus machines in our high school gym, Fat Stack has the tools to be a first-ballot hall-of-famer for WB-ing. He’s tall, accurate, knows a lot about his surroundings, and most importantly, is the most creative WBer of all time. Once, Fat Stack sprinkled cake mix and oil on top of somebody’s car, instead of giving them the usual WB treatment. He’s crafty like that. Also, as an added advantage, he’s a southpaw, a must-have because he can strategically be seated behind the driver with no complaints.
Killer Move: The Drive-by or Run-by Cake Mixing.
Weaknesses: Always working; Never returns calls; Not the best sprinter.

Name: M.C. Coppin
Intangibles: First of all, M.C. owns a Chrysler LeBaron convertible, making him the ultimate WB driving machine. He has perfected the art of the drive-by WB, which includes driving under intense conditions. Furthermore, at 6’1”, M.C. personifies his nickname, “The Vacuum,” as M.C. can WB all those hard-to-reach places. He is also intelligent and quick on his feet – M.C. knows the location at any given time of two or three assholes who could use a good egg in the back of their pick-up bed. Finally, he’s absolutely ruthless – against others’ wishes, he even once went after an old man walking his dog.
Killer Move: “The Lob” -- M.C. has perfected the art of accurately lobbing the projectile over the windshield of his convertible while driving at a high rate of speed.
Weaknesses: Lack of judgment; Tendency for reckless WB-ing; Too often breaks Rule #1.

Name: Leminem
Intangibles: Leminem, a wiry WB-er with a good attitude, is an ideal WB companion. He is often content with the less-coveted backseat and possesses great foot speed for those excursions which necessitate the lack of a motor vehicle. His most important attribute is that Leminem is extremely lucky, causing TheRealDookie to often comment “Leminem, you sleep with the Pope.” Often, his errant throws end up hitting their intended target anyway, much to the amazement of his partners-in-crime.
Killer Move: “The Magic Bullet” – an errant egg throw which miraculously bounces off of the grass and hits its intended target anyway.
Weaknesses: Lack of accuracy; Lack of “killer instinct.”

Name: Cue
Intangibles: Cue, an engineer with an eye for good design, is a key planner in the often over-looked planning stages of a WB raid. He is excellent with finding an inconspicuous site to buy supplies and another to load up the car and fill up the water balloons. He has an uncanny ability to remember who gets what share of eggs and how many each person has used. A master administrator. Finally, his unique laugh, which is as rapid and almost as high-pitched as a young schoolgirl’s, often re-energizes a WB group which is fatigued or suffers from low morale.
Killer Move: “The Shotgun” – 3 or 4 projectiles at a close-range target.
Weaknesses: Sometimes moody; Lack of arm strength makes him less than ideal for long-range targets.

Name: Savvy
Intangibles: A tall, athletic, and creative WB-er with tons of baseball experience, Savvy is close to the total package. He can hit long and short range targets with ease, and is always game for a raid. A popular individual, Savvy also often knows of local parties where both cars and assholes are clustered together, allowing the WB team to conduct a more efficacious raid.
Killer Move: Any long-range throw of an egg.
Weaknesses: Possesses all of the physical tools, but often suffers from a need to invite less-reliable and more reckless cohorts.

Name: TheRealDookie
Intangibles: A strong, stocky, intelligent assassin, The R.D., like Cue, is an excellent WB planner, with a mind for flawless preparation, virtually undetectable evidence disposal, and rule-making, and the ability to enforce those rules across a wide spectrum of would-be assassins. His throws are powerful and largely accurate, and he’s also quite creative with all kinds of projectiles, large and small. A good all-around assassin.
Killer Move: The Denter – a hard, fast throw of an egg that dents mailboxes and cars. Sometimes, he can even make the egg come to impact the projectile on one of its ends, creating a loud “bang” before the egg falls and splatters on the ground below. A true master of the “Shock and Awe” Campaign.
Weaknesses: Worries a lot; Experiences a lot of bad luck with water balloons; Often accidentally pops a water balloon on his lap, making it look like he “Dookied” his pants.

More to Come!

In the Name of the Father, Son, Holy Spirit, and, the Stickiest of the Icky....

“I let my tape rock ’til my tape popped/ Smokin’ weed and bamboo, sippin’ on private stock…”

First off, let me sincerely apologize for the filler for the last two weeks….it was finals time at law school, and this was my very last set of finals, so I had to go out with a Bang. So...raise your glasses, because as of this Friday, it’s now “The Real Dookie, Esquire,” to you. But for now, enjoy this post.

As my friends and I prepare to graduate from graduate school (and drink ourselves into oblivion while we wait), we have all pondered or reflected recently upon some variant of the statement, “I’m getting old.” This is either because we are too emotional, can’t party like we used to, can’t eat whatever we want like we used to, are doing things our younger selves never thought we’d do, or for some of us, a combination of all of those things. I really did not pay my friends much mind as they commented on how they were getting old, because, considering I was married with child at 20 years old, I have never really felt “young.” But then, it happened. I had my old fogey moment, too, and I’ll share it with you.

This semester I took a pass-fail elective class (I know, I know, but it was my last semester, and I was sick of the law) on the Roman Catholic Canon Law. It was taught by a sixty-something Catholic priest out of the divinity school. The class was largely uneventful by blog standards, until one time after class I had the opportunity to talk in private with one of the priests who lived with our teacher. I’ll call this priest “Padre.” Padre liked to talk about his younger days to us, and we were more than happy to hear about them. I personally find the lives of priests totally interesting and also was hoping to hear his views on some areas of Catholic doctrine that were fuzzy to me, so I was stoked to get this opportunity. Also, as you could tell right away, Padre was a great guy. If I knew him better, I’d kind of characterize his personality as that of a priest like Robert De Niro’s character in “Sleepers” – not a priest who was your friend, but, a friend who just happened to be a priest.

Ironically, and shittily, my “I’m so flipping old” moment came when I realized that Padre’s life could run circles around mine. Not too long into the conversation, Padre revealed himself as the most liberal, laid-back, socially-gifted priest-slash-party-animal I’ve ever freaking met. Padre talked to us about how much he hates Bush, how stupid the Supreme Court was when they upheld a state law which banned sodomy, how disappointed he was about the election of Benedict XVI, how priests should be able to get married and have kids, and, as the bombshell, how much weed he used to smoke when he was younger. Oh, that’s right -- Padre smoked some doobies back in the day. Padre talked about how he used to get drunk and high and listen to music, and how mary jane was a “great” drug for improving musical skills and a musical ear, and (another bombshell), how Congress was stupid for encouraging the legalization of pot across America. Like, if I closed my eyes, and heard this shit, I would have thought I was watching like “Politically Incorrect,” or “The Daily Show,” or some “objective” take on the state of the law on ABC News. But no, this was my representative of Jesus on Earth.

As Padre kept revealing to us bombshell after bombshell, we were cracking up line after line. However, as the smile on my face got bigger and bigger on my face (as I thought his honesty and humor were awesome, though I didn’t agree with much of what he said), a part of me felt like I had been kicked in the balls by a wild stallion. How screwed up is my life that a Catholic priest is more worldly than I am? How much of a reject am I that I’m less socially adept and waaaaay more conservative than a clergy member who can’t even marry? I mean, we didn’t get into it, but Padre probably got more ass than a toilet seat in high school, while I was falling asleep with an AP Calculus book on my lap at 9:30.

Then, as I got to thinking, I realized that I am the oldest mother-funker I know. “Wifey” always used to say that I was never young – that I went from 18 to 41. The worst part is, she’s right. Here is just a partial list of how Goddamned old I am:

1. I hate clubs. I absolutely hate clubs. I hate clubbers, the club scene, going clubbing, dancing, drinking at clubs, club-hopping, club music, glow sticks, girls who frequent clubs, men who frequent clubs, club D.J.’s, club owners, and the club lifestyle. I hate clubs so much, I hate the Ace of Clubs. ‘Nuff said.

2. I have never used any form of any illegal drug, ever. I have never even really smoked a cigarette. This is pretty amazing, considering I have attended the “Harvard [of Party Schools] of the South,” and the actual “Harvard of the South.” Meanwhile, my priest has apparently hit enough bongs to single handedly prop-up the indoor fluorescent light bulb industry for a decade.

3. I hate strip clubs. I’m supposed to degrade these women, but I feel like they get to degrade me. I feel like the piece of meat. Why, God, why?

4. It’s a pretty safe bet that I am at least double the emotional age of both my father and my former step-father. In fact, sometime within the next year or so, at the ripe old age of 25 or 26, my marriage will have lasted longer than my parents’s.

5. I am crotchety and crabby and cranky like my grandmother. When I don’t get enough sleep, everything annoys me. Even the littlest things set me off. Like the other night, when I walked out of a bar when some fake slut insinuated that I was “cheap” because I would not give in to her request to “tip the band.” Tip the band? Who in the hell tips the band? And the band was ass, anyway. Their cover of “Something Like That” made the original version by Tim McGraw sound like Johnny Cash. And a few nights later, when a waitress refused to let me pay for a pizza because the Staffman insisted on paying. I got so pissed off, I stopped talking to her. Then she was like “Are you mad at me?” I ended up stealing her gold-plated Cross ® pen before the night was over and driving home with it, if that is any indication of my answer to her question.

6. I just realized that not only does me getting mad at these things make me old, but my piss-poor ideas of what constitutes adequate revenge makes me look even older.

I think that gives you an adequate idea. My only hope is that a summer of being away from law school, lawyers, and Nash Vegas will be like the fountain of youth for me. If not, though, maybe Padre can hook me up with some Chronic to ease my glaucoma.

Absolute Worst Pun in a Published Law Review Article

I came across this law review article today and almost laughed myself out of the library. It includes the worst pun I have ever read. I keep asking myself, how can anyone with any intellectual integrity write this? More importantly, how could anyone publish this? See for yourself......

"ANTI-VIBRATOR LEGISLATION: THE LAW IS ON SHAKY GROUND
Nicole Schilder

"I think this is an uncommonly silly law." [Justice Stewart]

I. Introduction

Are women getting the shaft when it comes to the constitutional right of privacy? According to a handful of state legislatures and the Eleventh Circuit, states can criminalize the sale of sexual devices, based primarily on the idea that the privacy right does not extend to that arena. Alabama, Georgia, Mississippi, Texas, and Virginia currently have such statutes. Similar statutes were struck down by the Colorado Supreme Court in 1985, the Kansas Supreme Court in 1990, and by a Louisiana court of appeals in 1999. The existing statutes prohibit the sale of what the legislatures have chosen to term "obscene devices," which are almost uniformly described as instruments designed or marketed as useful primarily for the stimulation of human genital organs. This Note addresses whether such statutes should be struck down as unconstitutional...

[....]"

The full cite to the article is 29 Hastings Constitutional Law Quarterly 89, Fall 2001. I still can't believe they printed this slop. The article concludes that ALL state laws banning the sale of sexual devices should be struck down as unconstitutional under the "fundamental implied right to privacy." Oh, and by the way, sweetie, note that your introductory quote, by Justice Stewart, dissenting in Griswold v. Connecticut, was followed by the statement that although a law might be silly, unwise, asinine, or impossible to enforce, it doesn't follow that it can be held unconstitutional. They should have given this article "the shaft"!!!!!