• Milk, Milk, Lemonade, Judicial Debacles, and Furry Lovage

    Not too long ago my grandfather committed a felony. Ahh, maybe misdemeanor. And, knowing him, it isn’t the worst thing he’s ever done. He gave my little cousin what he thought was a sparkling lemonade. It was a Smirnoff Ice. My cousin, sneaky bastard that he is, of course didn’t say anything until his mom caught him drinking and then he blamed my Grandpa. My Gramps, incidentally, looks like a gingerbread man—all toasty brown with white icing hair and goatee. For whatever reason, I always imagine him climbing a rope with a knife in his teeth like a pirate. Savage.

    I had an opportunity to read through some anonymous juror questionnaires the other week. People try really hard to get out of jury duty. They’ll admit to being “slightly racist” Evangelicals. In response to “do you have any negative opinions about defense attorneys?” one guy wrote, “lawyers are like a box of chocolate…” I get the Forrest Gump shot out, but seriously, why would you respond that way? A lot of people wrote “don’t understand” on all the answer blanks and claimed not to be able to speak English. I kind of hate that excuse because I feel like if you’re here in this country, and you’re driving a car and you’re voting, I don’t know, you might need to be able to understand some basic English. You need to be able to participate in systems we have in place like jury duty. Am I wrong? But I guess on the same note, if I’m looking at doing hard time in the clink, I’d like people who understand what the hell is going on. What a crummy conundrum.

    One of our clients was recently granted an order to wear normal clothes at his trial. This is important because the second you see a guy in the orange jumpsuit, you automatically assume certain things. Like, he’s an asshole criminal. Hence, the order. The attorney generously pony-ed up some money for the client’s parents to buy him some decent, presentable, court-worthy clothes and so they took that money to Burlington Coat Factory and went to town. Hells yeah! They brought back a crapload of acceptable and boring pre-packaged shirts and ties, slacks and a pair of generic dress shoes. Somehow the client caught wind of this and asked his mom to return the clothes and get new ones because he wasn’t “trying to look like a choir boy.” He got his wish. Hanging in our office are the new-and-improved clothes: dress shirts with whacked out sparkly designs and loud insignia. Embroidered nightmares. Oh, and a pair of sweet Adidas.

    My cat molested me the other day. It isn’t something I’m proud of, or even really that comfortable addressing, but I think I need to just get it off my chest. I was lying on my bed reading a magazine and he was cuddled up on my back. I suddenly felt some rhythmic, furry grinding on my back and turned around and saw the kitty lipstick. It was real awkward, I’ll say that. Our eyes met for a quick second before the horror set in and I stood up and screamed his most hated words, “what are you doing!?” He ran away and the next day I found that he had worms. I don’t know that there is a link there, but he is a filthy beast.

    One of the Glamour “articles” I was reading while I was getting assaulted made mention of the town of Mt. Isa, a remote-ish Australian mining town where the mayor gave a newspaper interview in which he urged “beauty-disadvantaged women”, asking them to move there where the man-to-woman ration is something like 5-to-1. I wonder how effective this plea will be. Do you think this was a topic at the town meeting?

    Any finally, fresh from Facebook, my friend posted the following video. It is hot. It is sexy. It is highly choreographed. I have now watched it 5 times. Enjoy: