Top Law Schools

coleslawblog.com: Two lawyers walk into a bar and other treaded-over conversations.

Law School: The Apocalypse or am I just taking a piss?

August 26, 2008

As I start my first day of law school there are several options that are available to relieve the unprecedented aggravation I will soon encounter. Sitting in my first class a few thoughts occurred to me as to how I could alleviate the coal-crushing pressure that I will be forced to impose on myself. I am only comforted by the hopeful notion that by the end of the semester I will shit out a diamond and retire happily (barring that it passes the Kimberley Process and doesn’t fall under “conflict diamond” status).

As I waited in horror for my name to be called, I tried to think of some ways that I could successfully get through this, relieve stress, and vent accordingly. This list included 1.) extensive complaining, 2.) taking a shit, 3.) a habitual regimen of chronic masturbation, or 4.) starting a blog. So I decided to do the most painful thing and start a blog. Besides, I’m chafing already as it is.

In the coming months I will subject you, my fortuitous reader(s) to my daily thoughts and grimaces.
Now I know that most people say that starting a blog is so bland and cliche, but so is that statement. By now, even that statement and this one explaining it is so largely unoriginal that you can go on in continuation for as long as you want to carry it. In this blog I will try not to be overtly unoriginal and will refrain from making stupid anecdotes, lawyer jokes, and overused idioms that everyone hates. But I digress.

A lot of people ask “why do this?” and my answer is that I “don’t know but don’t want a job.” From an early age it was institutionalized in me to be the ultimate self-loather, which essentially made law school a fucking inevitability. Others say that if you “don’t like to argue” then you can’t be a lawyer. I personally hate arguing but am good at it. Does being good at something mean that you should make it your pursuit, or do you have to like it? Either way, it’s better than getting a fucking job.

So join me on my journey and enjoy my transformation from introverted polite nice guy to introverted hermetic shut-in, douche. I can’t promise that this will be funny, as I just learned that this could be construed as a guarantee and hence make me liable for breach of contract. (You don’t have to laugh at that.)

If you like what I’m writing, then great. If you don’t, fuck yourself. I don’t give a crap. Speaking of that, I’m going to go see if number 2 on my list can do what this post has failed to accomplish. So until next time, fuck off.

Taking a piss

August 30, 2008

When you’re about to go to law school, everyone thinks that you need advice, especially lawyers. The thing with advice is that you rarely get any that’s as good as your own. So anyway, I'm talking to some lawyer guy and giving him all the head nods and keen eye placations that would indicate that I don’t want this guy to go fuck himself. Then he says to me, “remember, it’s a marathon, not a race.” I realize I’m out of shape. Way to rub it in asshole.

Law school is supposed to be an intimidating place. Everyone seems to be smarter than you, nothing you read makes any sense, and your books weigh more than your lower lumbar would ever care to support. Luckily, it seems as though I have some good, understanding professors to throw pixie dust over it all. But it’s what they’re sugar coating that I’m looking forward to with great disdain.

With the first week of law school behind me, I look ahead to the shit sandwich that will be the rest of the year. Although the week itself was not very strenuous, we all know what’s ahead of us, that it’s all going to get much worse before it gets any…less worse.

Some things I have learned include the following nuggets of truth:

1. A civil action is commenced by filing a complaint.
2. Lack of intent does not free someone from a conversion tort.
3. A Contracts book makes a very good coaster for Scotch.

Well, I’m off to the beach for the weekend to tan my white-picket chest while trying to refrain from operating any heavy machinery. The beach is a great place where no one judges you, and if they do, at least it’s to your face. It’s a place where if anything, you’re judged by the most appropriate of parameters, your drink. As I sling back drink upon drink to my liver’s glee, there’s still that voice in the back of my head, urging me to remember “it’s a marathon, not a race.” Thanks to the Scotch, I won’t.

coleslawblog.com

Hurricane Cole'Slaw: Should we rebuild the Watergate?

September 10th, 2008

A person has asked me to update the site with a new post, however, I ensure you that this is not pandering to that particular reader. I’ll write whenever I damn well please. Just be glad to get anything. Why do you need me anyways? Write your own drivel you 9-5 IBM pissant.

So, I guess that it’s only natural that I talk about the looming elections that will soon overtake some of our lives, only to return us unchanged and unresolved. I am of course talking about the upcoming SBA student elections for first-year law students. Our most promising candidate has based his entire platform on acquiring new Posturepedic chairs for the library. No sense in bettering the world or other charitable acts, there’s a guy over here with restless leg syndrome. This kid already has written a mock newspaper article with inside jokes from the initial two weeks of law school. As for me, I’d rather elect the Prince of Nigeria or that rapist Nixon. (Checkers still sore after all these years)

Politics and the law seem to be inextricably linked and with all of this election crap being slung, I ask myself one question: if I pretend to care enough about something, can I trick myself into actually caring about it? My answer has always been a resounding no. I think that I have sort of a weak stomach for that sort of business. Politics is not for people with Crohn’s. So, go ahead and delude yourselves anyway, just don’t ask me to write your fucking speeches, or your jokes for that matter.

As for actual work, it really isn’t that bad yet. Most of the work consists of reading and then writing case briefs, which are widely available on the Internet. They tell us to write our own briefs, but I liken it to flossing in that it’s probably better if you do it, but no one does it. I suppose that I could be putting in more of an effort, but December exams are far away. Besides, Seinfeld’s only on three times a day, I still have 22 and a half hours left to study.

I’m still thinking that this whole law dealie is having some drastic affects on my personal life. I’m currently seeing a girl who lives in The Watergate and I feel like a CREEP. I may not win an election but, hey, at least I’m fucking spongeworthy.

coleslawblog.com

Socrates Wipes Away My Clean Slate

September 17, 2008

Things are beginning to escalate as I begin recognize that my ability to procrastinate indefinitely has begun to turn into a sneaking inclination to make a concerted effort. I’m sure I’ll start to make one sometime in the near future.

One thing that I had purposely availed myself of was neglecting to disclose my penchant for silence throughout the first few weeks of class. I neglected to mention this for fear of jinxing such an admirable streak. Eventually though, my name was uttered and I was able to blurt out an answer with the coherent fluency of a Lil Wayne guitar solo. Since then, I have been called on about as many times as I have seen a bald eagle, or a law student without an Obama sticker affixed to his thermos.

In a lot of these classes, we deal with issues that have been discussed since ancient Greece. One of these key elements is causation. I think that I understand this subject quite well, although I am still somewhat perplexed at LBJ’s decision to send the homeless to fight in Vietnam. No wonder why we lost.

Speaking of Greeks, I would like to note that while Socrates may have invented a method by which great legal minds have been taught for centuries, he still didn’t have the sensibility to wipe.

In more personal matters, my apartment has flooded in pocket Biblical proportions. My charming view of the city has has been mitigated by the pervasive stench of mold and mildew. Has G-d never heard of due process? At the end of it all, when it’s time for judgment, I’m definitely going to motion for a change of venue. There’s no way I’m letting him have home court advantage. Let’s just hope I have a good lawyer.

Some readers, and by some I mean one, have inquired as pertaining to my identity. Let’s just say that you wouldn’t want to steal it, even if it did come with free parking. As for my law school itself and its overall ranking, I would say that it’s more competitive than the presidential race and less competitive than the NFC East. If you haven’t picked up on the clues as to my whereabouts, don’t worry, as it’s immaterial and falls outside the scope of our case. I live in a town where there are probably more lawyers than cockroaches. I say probably because the line between them is thin and difficult to discern; lawyers don’t scatter when you turn on the light.

It appears as if the days of slacking are numbered. There remains ample time to rinse but none to repeat. Law school is turning me into a fucking Rastafarian. As for this post, I think that I’ll finish it later. I need a shower and the exterminator’s coming later to fumigate the apartment. For some reason, I have locusts.

coleslawblog.com

coleslawblog.com

A No Bull Cause of Action

September 24, 2008

As the Jewish New Year approaches, the Semitic demographic[1] is asked to analyze our decisions of the past year and atone for our yearly misgivings. One thing that I have learned from all of this is that we have to hold ourselves personally liable for our own decisions as the practice of scapegoating has gone out of fashion. Thanks Hitler.

After reflecting upon our sins, we are usually compelled by some sort of moral compass to change our approach to living; to behave in a more fulfilling and noble manner. Normally, I am not a proponent of change as the only people who seem to be clamoring for it are either homeless people or Democrats. That’s bad no matter which way you slice its head off. If you want change, wish for a penny fountain you damn hobo! And even if the fountain has been mined, look on the bright side, at least you can take a bath you dirty bastard.

There is one change that I am looking forward to and that is fall. By fall I am referring to the falling of trees and the foliage that presently foils my view of the city. Why can’t these trees just die without getting all yellow about it? I am fonder of perpetually warm locales that carry a small chance of natural disaster. Nonetheless, I suppose that a change of demeanor is necessary as I look into the fun house mirror and reflect upon my own mundane trespasses.

I guess my one regret is that I wasn’t honest enough this year and by and large failed to call people out on their bullshit. Also, that Israeli soldier I couldn’t close in June. Okay, two regrets.

Therefore, it is my resolve to change for the worse; to call people on their bullshit, even if it means being hated. Currently, I am hated by perhaps only one person in the world. But this is only passive hate and in all likelihood, was probably forgotten the following morning. In my defense, gas is expensive and the bus stop is right outside my house.

Anybody who really knows me will tell you that I’m a pretty nice guy. In the past, I have always prided myself on the ability to bend over, not necessarily backwards, for others who don’t seem to notice. In contracts class we have learned in the majority of cases that internal intent is largely immaterial in a contractual dispute (Lucy v. Zehmer). In this case, the court held that a contract is established by the external intent of the parties that a reasonable person would infer from the actions of the other party. It is time to present the world with the truth. For what good is being an asshole if you don’t objectively manifest it?

To actively and purposely go about being hated is a daunting enterprise. So far as I know, I have not given anybody a legitimate reason to actively plot my demise. Everyone has the natural instinct to be well-liked, socially accepted, and part of a group (high school/fraternity/country club/Heaven). But sometimes, our need to be well-liked can lead to personal detriment.

Issue: Whether it is better to be liked by everyone that I meet and not achieve my goals or whether it is better to achieve my goals knowing that I will be resoundingly hated by at least some people.

Holding: Being hated by some people is a sacrifice we must make to get what we want without making our moral compass point south. If you can’t remember the last time you told someone to go fuck themselves then you are doing yourself a major disservice.

To go against this cultural norm will take finesse and tact, two things that I lack. I am not a planner, a schemer, or a plotter. I’ll have to wing this whole inciting hatred business by being deliberately negligent and remaining absolutely ambivalent to the plight of others. Besides, given my chosen career path, I’ll have to get used to it. I just hope that when the slip and the fall do arrive, as they most inevitably will, I’ll have a medical malpractice attorney who owes me a favor.

[1] If you are unfamiliar with Jews, you may know us from our complaints about how hot/cold it is, or our family arguments in public places.

coleslawblog.com

Baby Bottles Up My Brain

October 4th, 2008

One thing that has been irking me lately is Civil Procedure, where I nearly puked in the middle of class the other day. It has nothing to do with the teacher, who is cool and looks and sounds exactly like Egon from Ghostbusters. No, its the kid who sits in front of me, (the same kid who was elected SGA president for promising Posturepedic chairs), eating clams casino in the middle of class. We’ve got Oysters Rockefeller over here having a grand old time shucking and sucking while I’m trying to learn about Federal Rule 11 and grounds for dismissal. Now I can’t eat in class unless a Rabbi throws up some fucking mistletoe. At least I had the good sense not to vote.

Law school is like being a baby all over again without the tits to suck on. You’re essentially learning a new way of thinking and everything sounds muddled like a Casino. The only enjoyment I am afforded is the gravy volcano that I make out of mashed potatoes and gravy between classes.

I look around at my classmates and wonder what the deal is with everybody caring about stuff. I guess some people want to tattoo their face on the ass of history. I would but Jewish cemeteries won’t give me a proper burial. Besides, there’s not much left to be claimed by the non-technological anals of history and I can’t run fast enough to break my legs. Most of the cast has been signed already by people like Washington, Churchill, and Jong Il. Music has waned since the White Album and writing has devolved into pointless blog posts and text messages with unnecessary abbreviations. If we had everyone acting on their initial brainstorms and rough drafts, maybe we’d have a social utopia[1] on our hands, instead of stagnation and the Alzheimer’s of original intent. The only rights we have are bragging and the only words we can live by are “covetous neighbors.” Let’s face it, the Renaissance is over and it’s not as bad as we thought it would be. At least there’s cable.

This city is much different from other cities I have inhabited. People in New Orleans worry about their next meal and/or beer, Miami their next lay, New York is next month’s rent, but here is next month’s administration. It’s the only place where the “I’m a lawyer/I’m in law school” line is likely to be met with “Oh my G-d me too?” More often than not though, it is met with a “So?”, a shrug of the shoulders, and a half-turn in the direction of someone more successful.

Yesterday I was in a cab on the way back from a bar that had more dogs than the fucking Iditarod. Instead of taking me directly home, the driver decided to pick up these girls on the side of the road. It was a nice part of town and they looked like they’d packed their toothbrushes and were good to go so I obliged. The girls piled in, five of us in a four person cab, and drunkenly offered me fries to which I declined. One of them asked what school I went to and I tried to tell them without sounding like a standoffish prick. Note: if law school is your second graduate school, this is impossible. I found myself bent over a barrel and dead in a ditch. The cab pulled up to my building and I went up and fell asleep on my couch and had a dream about my first wife.

I got to go now as I’m in the process of inventing an oven that blows you while you make Thanksgiving dinner. I figure that’s the only way I’ll get on the cast. Knowing me, it’ll probably be compromised and turned into an automatic gravy volcano maker. Plus, I need to go to the store. I’m out of milk. L8R MTHRFRS.

[1] Not to be confused with its vice-versa.

coleslawblog.com

My Analysis, Yer Analysis Part I: A Primary Source Account of Mardi Gras as told by my colon

February 25th, 2009 Edit This

While I’m not a big believer in “science,” the one thing they got right was craniometry, the inbred cousin of phrenology. Basically this now dead science was used to determine someone’s personality from their facial structures. This brings us to the present day and the Constitutional Law class I am currently attending. The girl sitting next to me has crazy bug eyes that basically writes “stalker” all over her face. Right now though, I truly feel for her. It’s not because she has crazy eyes that make her look like Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction but because she has the extreme displeasure of sitting next to me.

I’ve launched a full-scale MGM Body War on myself. I am currently typing this with a largely sprained pinky finger. My hands are shaking from some kind of withdrawal. I haven’t shaved since Thursday. I took a shower in a sink right before hopping a flight back home at five in the morning. It wasn’t until after said shower that I realized my deodorant was packed under a bevy of dirty clothes. At that point, the cab was already outside. Fuck it.

One of the many things I have a gripe about is the people here who eat complicated meals in class. The rule should be if you can eat it during a run (bar or candy of some sort), it’s fair game, otherwise, hold your stomach and forgo the nicoise salad.

Which brings us back to Crazy Eyes McGee. Swimfan’s meal is an anorexic’s ice cream sundae: three scoops of Greek yogurt and a shitload of walnuts. In addition to a tall glass of water there’s a bottle of something called NuStevia which I later found out to be a diet supplement that according to its website contains “absolutely no pesticides.” I also have a rash from two cats the two cats that I shared a couch/Aerobed with for the past four nights.[1] The final reason why I feel bad for her is that I need “to go” in the scatological sense.

The sounds coming from my body sound like a muted bass drum and over the past few days I have eaten like a death row inmate the night before the Electric Slide. Since arriving Thursday in New Orleans my Carbon footprint has gone from Chinese footbinding to human Sasquatch. The following is an almost complete list of things that have been ingested over the past 80 hours:

Start, Thursday February 19, 2009 - 10:15 p.m.

One 12 inch chicken parm sandwich

One sprite, lemonade, and Bankers Rum drink

Four double whiskey and cokes - $2 each[2]

Five miller lites

Three bud lights…

We now interrupt our programming to give you the final 3 seconds of the HBO Award Winning Series, The Sopranos.


[1] Not a euphemism for something more salacious.

[2] Yes, I know. Every single bar in New Orleans is better than every single bar in Washington.

coleslawblog.com

My Analysis, Yer Analysis Part II: A Primary Source Account of Mardi Gras as told through my colon

Friday, February 20, 2009 – 10:30 a.m.

Five cups of coffee strong coffee.[1], 2/3 of a carafe of orange juice, One sip of apple pear pomegranate juice

A three egg, chorizo cheese, jalapeno, and creamed spinach mess of crap with homefries and a biscuit.

One spoonful of guacamole

Three bites of cole slaw.[2]

12:30 p.m.

Five beers (four bottled, one canned)

Two red solo cups of carlo rossi jug wine[3]

One half of Spiderman sugar cookie

Eight 30 second intervals of cherry hookah

3:30 p.m.

Six inch duck po’ boy, six inch oyster po’ boy

Side of four fried green tomatoes with baby shrimp remoulade sauce

5:30 p.m.

Other half of Spiderman sugar cookie

Five more beers, one Water

Four double scotch and cokes

Four more beers

At this point, you could tell me as much as I could tell you

Saturday February 21, 2009 – 11:15 a.m.

Possibly three beads used inappropriately judging from what I’m feeling right now.

One ring pop.[4]

One corona

One duck pb

Two liter-sized Aquafinas

Using entrance as an exit for said duck po’boy, one corona, and two liter-sized Aquafinas.

1:00 p.m.

One hand grenade

Tropical Isle’s Hand Grenade is equal to 3-5 drinks depending on your tolerance. No one knows what is in this drink. Many believe it is just a Goombay Punch. Other websites say it includes the following ingredients: 1.5 oz. gin, 1.5 oz. grain alcohol (probably Everclear), 1.5 oz. of Melon Liqueur, 1.5 oz. rum, 1.5 oz. vodka)

One iced coffee

Three beignets

3:30 p.m.

Finish what’s left of duck po boy and water

Continuance and conclusion of same ring pop

I take a one mile walk to find a parade that ended up running about four hours late.

6:00 p.m.

Mass dehydration

15 handscoops[5] of N.O. city water from the sink of a boutique hotel bathroom.[6]

I return from my walk just in time to see a girl, no taller than 5’3’’, yelling at two 350 pound six-foot black guys trying to cut the theme-park sized line to the port-o-johns. After about 30 seconds of this, they turn around and leave.

7:00 p.m.

Still dehydrated, I walk across an ocean of drunkards to the gas station across the street. The line is about 60 people long for the convenience store. We wait about fifteen minutes to get inside. This seems longer because I’ve called my mom for some reason. Time passes really slowly at this point.

After exiting the store, we try to make our way back to where we had left our friends. In a straight line this is no more than 350 feet however the police barricades make the route much more circuitous. As we cross one of the streets, I am struck by a young black woman trying to catch a football. For some reason, I apologize. She says nothing but is fine and unhurt. However, some people have seen this and probably do not look favorably upon the 6’1’’ white dude who got in the way of the Immaculate Mardi Gras Reception.

Five seconds later

Leading the way for my friend’s girlfriend and accompanied by no one else, I am constantly saying “excuse me” and “sorry” as we attempt to get back to where our friends are awaiting the parade. I see a good path to get through and say “excuse me” to a 5’10’’ black guy with a red shirt, baggy jeans, and black winter cap. He’s standing on the curb of the street and I we have to walk by him to get to the relatively clear path behind him.

“Excuse me,” I say.

“Nah.”

I’m under the impression that he thinks that I am trying to stand in front of him to catch beads.

“Oh, we’re just trying to get by, we’re not trying to stay here,” I respond.

He’s stone faced, arms crossed, and looking like the front of a rap album.

“No, you gon’ hafta find anutha way.”

Ooookkkaayyy… I understand where this could be going. I look at the other eight dudes with him, considerably taller, and they look back at me (white, 6’1’’, just bowled over their black friend). I think I can take them though. My friend’s girlfriend is a solid 5’8’’, 120 pound Spanish girl who has a black eye because a dude on a float threw a cup and popped a blood vessel in her eye. This is a fight that we can win! In response to the most threatened look I have ever been given, I do about the biggest eye roll in the history of eye rolls and walk away.

It’s only at five a.m. the next morning that I realize what I could have gotten myself into.[7] What, at the time, I had thought was a wanna-be gangbanger, was an authentic one.

Playing back what an asshole this guy was, for some reason, I remember the red shirt. What was it about that red shirt? His friends were all wearing that fucking red shirt. Why is this sticking out?

Ooooooooooohhhhhh shiiiiittttt!!!

It had taken me ten hours to realize it. I had just had my first of what will hopefully be a burgeoning relationship of close encounters with a division of the world famous Blood gang. [8]

I won this fight.

7:30 p.m.

One liter of water after pissing myself.

One liter orange Gatorade.

One turkey and swiss sandwich

One beer

My friend has been making out with his ex-girlfriend from 3:30 until 9:30. Somehow, he has still caught more beads than me and was later overheard asking her the following question:

“So…we’re having sex tonight right?”

We add an eighth to our clown car of seven and it takes a half an hour to drive three miles home in crazy after-parade traffic.

Footnotes:

[1] 2 tsp of milk, no sugar.

[2] Yeah it’s ironic. Shut up douchebag.

[3] Brilliant bouquet.

[4] I bought this along with the Spiderman cookie yesterday. I had wanted to wear this for quite some time but had never found an appropriate setting. In retrospect, it’s a pretty good parameter for an awesome city. The following is a small list of places it is perfectly acceptable for a 23 year old to eat a ring pop: New Orleans, Vegas, Austin, New York after 10 p.m.

[5] Thank G-d for this water as minutes before I had nearly fainted from mass dehydration. I somehow managed to scrounge up the last vestige of willpower law school has left me and fought it off.

[6] This bathroom was like the fucking grail, secluded in an alcove behind two double doors.

[7] I’m up at five a.m. because the cats are driving me insane with allergies and I’m finishing my second Wesley Snipes movie of the night through red eyes and a runny nose.

[8] Aside from the jeans, eyes, and balls, I wasn’t wearing any blue. If there are any Crips out there reading this, I’m in. Those Bloods are assholes.

coleslawblog.com

My Analysis, Yer Analysis Part III: A Primary Source Account of Mardi Gras as told through my colon

Sunday, February 22, 2009 - 12:35 a.m.

One Wendys Baconator,Three chicken nuggets, Fries w/sweet n’ sour sauce

Diet coke.[1]

Food coma

10:30 a.m.

I am awakened to the sight of a friend’s lower appendage. He made out with a girl at the parade for as long as I watched movies that night. He greets me with the following introduction.

“Wake up. Smell my dick.”

He doesn’t even have her number in his phone. (Can I move back here now?)

Two shots of tequila, One beer, One bite of a praline

12:30 p.m.

Okay, this is all in one sitting and marks the apotheosis of the trip:

At this point, I’d like to thank The Court of the Two Sisters $35 buffet, the Owner of a silver Saab, one couple who would have kept me up more than the cats had I decided to sleep in the spare adjacent room next to theirs, the girl who kept up with me at the buffet, and a friend who woke me up by saying “smell my dick.”

Eight waters, One bloody mary

Plate One

Two scoops of chicken curry salad

One scoop of regular chicken salad

Two cocktail shrimp with remoulade sauce

One small slice of cornbread

One scoop of crawfish pasta salad.

*I’d like to note that I got called a pussy right here.

Plate Two

(all on one medium-sized plate)

One gob of creamed spinach

One ice cream scoop of mashed potatoes

Three ladles of jambalaya with sausage

Three scoops of crawfish louise[2]

Duck l’orange

Sweet potato salad

Veal grillades

I order a sequel to my bloody mary. I dip my fingers into the warm lemon water finger bowls they just gave us.

Plate Three

One carrot cake

Three slices of bacon eaten concurrently with bread pudding

Three scoops of bread pudding

Four helpings of bananas foster

Plate Four

Three scoops of chicken curry salad

One chocolate cream cake

One piece of king cake.

These were mashed together on a dare and eaten in one bite. They were further mashed by “smell my dick” and I continued eating.

3:30 p.m.

One liter of melon Gatorade

Seven beers.[3]

I see the Budweiser Clydesdales and dalmation for the fourth time in as many days. A woman knocks on my locked port-o-john door and I open it. She’s hammered with raccoon eyes and a litter of kids. I’d call child services if I knew the number.

Three minutes after the parade, the city police empty an endless number of vans containing Orleans Parrish Prisoners. Apparently, the OPP have been assigned to clean up my mess.[4] Most of them are here because they made a mess themselves. Nine times out of ten, this crime is for pissing in public or some other minor ordinance violation they couldn’t make bail for. I feel bad but at the same time it’s a fitting punishment: Cleaning up beer cans from excessive drinking. Punishment for their own crime of pissing in public that undoubtedly stemmed from their own heavy drinking.

9:00 p.m.

1 cup of miso soup

4 cups of tea, 8 glasses of water

One wasabi laced mussel shooter.[5]

One plate of noodles and chicken

One bite of crab salad

One chicken tempura dipped in some kind of soy-based sauce

15-20 sushi rolls of 9 different varieties

It’s dead on arrival and I pass out on the couch.

Monday, February 23, 2009 - 4:51 a.m.

Three handfuls of New Orleans city water

Twenty-five tortilla chips from the lower-mid to the bottom of the bag

Airport 6:15 a.m.

One 15 oz chocolate milk

One raspberry jam filled, glazed Krispy Kreme donut.

Back home 11:38 a.m. Eastern Standard Time

One surprisingly unbroken scale.

Somehow I only gained seven pounds this weekend. This may be due to the recent amputation of my left foot to combat a random diagnosis of adult onset diabetes. No more spiderman sugar cookies I guess.

End, February 23, 2009 - 11:39 a.m.

One tingling left arm.

My esophagus and once small (Newly Extenze-did) intestine contributed to this report.

Footnotes:

[1]Movies watched due to Diet Coke: last 15 minutes of New Jack City, last 30 minutes of Reindeer Games, 4 minutes of Katt Williams standup, 60 seconds of Three’s Company, last 75 minutes of Die Hard, last 10 mins Gangs of New York (this is not a good movie and does not hold up, watch it again, it is really bad), The Fan (DeNiro, Snipes, the worst of the seven).

[2] It’s like stuffing crawfish and mashed potatoes had a ménage a trios and this is their freaky baby.

[3] While having a conversation about the fall of Sandra Bullock, my friend and I are alerted to the mental state of the seven people we have met up with. I overhear the following line. Keep in mind that he is standing no more than two feet from a cop. It is not loud and the floats have not started yet: “These shrooms are awesome.” No repercussions from this. Awesome.

[4] Yeah you know me.

[5] One sinus attack

coleslawblog.com

Going Down On Pandora’s Box

October 7th, 2008

The Jewish holidays are among us and Thanksgiving is ten weeks away. A time when we will rejoin our families, eat food, and remember why we left them in the dust. Here’s a word of advice for the kids out there. If you think that your parents have emotionally damaged you, please be sure to file your complaint within three years of your legal independence at eighteen. The statute of limitations only lasts three years so you have until you are twenty-one to file a tort for intentional infliction of emotional distress for that time your mom told your prom date that she looked great but could probably stand to lose a couple pounds before the big night. So much for that $400 deposit on the limo with the waterbed. I wasted fucking three hours making that Teddy Pendergrass mixtape. But I’m over that……starting……..now.

There’s a kid in class who starts each of his questions with “this may not be important but…” or “I have a technical question that may not pertain to the thrust of the…” or “I was strangely fascinated by…” This kid sucks.[1] Please! Nobody has been “strangely fascinated” by a book over 1,000 pages in length since the one about the guy who turned a fish into blood and his body into Melba toast.[2] Law school, or at least the first year of it, is not about being “strangely fascinated.” It’s about what you know and what you don’t know; working stiff, grinding your teeth until you need a mouthpiece and a fucking blow job to get through your Contracts class.

As I have previously alluded to, it seems as though we’re regressing in age and comprehension of immediate surroundings. In addition to learning the language of legalese, everyday things are reverting back to the second grade. Every question seems to beget another one and the answers that have pertinent meaning become muddled with the rotten fecal matters of other ridiculous inquiries. It’s been six weeks now and the shit is beginning to pile up. Does anybody have a plunger?

Adding to my grade school theory, I have been on a juice box binge and have downed about eight Juicy Juice four ouncers since two sentences ago. No product has ever described itself more accurately. However, despite my rediscovered love for juice boxes[3] and already well-documented use of baby oil, I am worried about the other side effects. Although my depth perception is still intact, when I finally do handle a case, the opposing attorneys really will be able to sue the shit out of me. Although I previously mentioned that I don’t believe in things the homeless ask me for, I will probably need a change of diapers. I will then proceed to crawl on the floor and roll up in the fetal position. At least then I’ll be fascinated by what the hell I’m doing.

Footnotes:

[1] In the interest of full disclosure, this is the same kid who wears the law school orientation shirt to class and wears the most unnecessarily large helmet when he rides his bike to school.

[2] Personally, I haven’t read it, but I hear it’s this year’s Da Vinci Code.

[3] And children’s cough syrup.

coleslawblog.com

Class Wore: Scarves v. Turtlenecks

October 31st, 2008

I’m sitting in my Torts class and we are discussing some kind of negligence, don’t ask me what kind. Basically I walk into class at 8:59, turn on my computer, and try to remain hidden behind my monitor while willing the professor’s call sheet away from my name. Although I did read for today, I am largely uninterested in the topic for the day. Not to say this isn’t how I feel every day but come on; I have important stuff to do here, like read ESPN and google myself.

The next step beyond laptop screen invisibility is the looking intently at the teacher while also remaining low key and unassailable. I have found that if you put your index finger on the side of your head, the middle finger above the mouth, and the thumb below the chin, you give off all the appearances of a student who seems to be genuinely interested in the class discussion while still reading ESPN. I suppose I should show more consideration to the classroom but I’ve adopted a new definition of the term that absconds me from my non-contractual moral obligations. Besides, what’s with all this letting-girls-off-the-elevator-first business? Their priorities are out of order. When it comes to elevators, women need to be more interested in going down than they are about getting off. (This is to apply only to elevators.)

Two days later and I’m in torts again. We’re doing some such medical malpractice case about causation. Teacher told us that lawyers are the second biggest substance abusers in a profession aside from doctors. Since when is crack whore not a viable profession? My handwriting is so bad now that I could probably write a prescription to something abuse-worthy. As an aside, I swear that the kid sitting next to me is wearing the exact same white sweater as the girl sitting two rows in front of me. Shit, I think he knows that I’m talking about him. Shit, I should probably stop staring at him and judging him while talking about him. I should also probably stop saying all of this out loud.

Right now, 71% of the girls in class are wearing scarves. These meaningless rags cover up the only thing that helps me forget that I’m in law school. Turtlenecks are slightly better but still are an annoying shiv in my side. These girls are taking the Wu a little too seriously. Ladies, there are more important things to protect than your neck.

In lighter matters, exams are a month away and a few things have changed for the even worse. It’s almost November and a group of girls have aligned their menstrual cycles after continuous hours spent in the library. There is also a new faction of people that I call the shhh people. These are the people who say shhh during class when other people are talking out of place. I’m not friends with any shhh people for a reason. Aside from drivers who throw their cigarettes out of their windows and right into my windshield, girls at bars who are engaged, and scarves, there is nothing I hate more than the shhh people.

Actually, I’d like to amend this complaint as I’m now remembering that which I loathe most: the fake laughter that the class emits from lame puns and terrible jokes that the professors make throughout these lectures. We just discussed a case where a girl got raped twice on her walk home after she was forced to exit a train in the middle of nowhere. The teacher precluded the case description by calling it a “fun and interesting” case.

As for election day, I’d be a lot more excited if it was being held in China. Let us all remember to shun our consideration and that the Old English prefix of chivalry is shiv, something that you get stabbed with while starring in your very own reality rendition of The Shawshank Redemption. Shit, I can’t wait to get out of here, sit on my couch, read ESPN, and google myself while I look at girls who don’t wear scarves or turtlenecks. First though, I’m off to the pharmacy.

coleslawblog.com

Making a deference

November 15th, 2008

Last week I was on the bus and holding my Contracts book when a cute girl sat down beside me. I nonchalantly stuck the book in her eyeline with the thought that she would see how successful I may become in 36 months and open up her…mouth for…further negotiations. I was surprised when this did not work. This brings me to the dull-bladed point of why I went to law school: chicks.

When I first entered law school, I thought that passing the bar was a euphemism that meant that when it was all over you could go into a bar and get any girl you wanted. Turns out, it’s some sort of test.

We’re at the time in the semester when I stop feeling sorry for myself and just start feeling myself. Consequentially, I have developed tendinitis in my right hand and told my doctor it was probably from typing 2,000 words per class every day. [1] I took his advice and I’m now a switch hitter.

After looking at Parker Posey’s imdb page,[2] I now realize how totally worthless I am. From what the other students are saying, it really is time to start taking all of this stuff seriously. I don’t go to the library as there is a two hour limit on the meters outside the law school. The hell if I’m going outside to put in more quarters. Besides, if I did that I’d only be studying 20 minutes every two hours. People are in the library constantly and if I was anybody but me I would probably be disconcerted. The only thing that I find more amusing than the library dwellers is the school girl crushes that have developed. Some of the girls have fostered unhealthy infatuations with our professors, eliciting widespread giggles every time they have to answer a question. It’s like Stockholm Syndrome without the missing limbs and tattered clothing.[3]

The other night I was at the bar and taking some batting practice with somebody else’s girlfriend. She said that she admired what I was doing because I was “making a difference in the world.” I quickly laughed off this notion and forgot about it completely. As one of my friends told her, if you want to make a difference join the fucking Peace Corps. But I guess it’s like the Christian Children’s Fund asks, “another day another dollar.”

To be thought of as a “difference maker” greatly strained my subconscious and recurred in my frontal lobe only after I neglected to vote in last Tuesday’s proceedings. Yes, ladies, I did not vote. Yes, I’m a bad person. Yes, I’m aware that I shirked my civic duty. If anyone in my class found this out I’d surely be ostracized from Torts class and my student discount card would be revoked at the deli down the street.[4]

As for me, I’m just glad that all of our problems are solved. Outside my apartment door, screams and shouts of glee could be heard from my neighbors as the winner was proclaimed. It was like the end of Return of the fucking Jedi! In case you skipped over the last three sentences, I am optimistic about the situation. Recounting the Peace Corps girl I have learned that if history has taught us anything, it’s not to take anything at face value, especially if that girl is really ugly.[5]

A few weeks ago, I was out with some friends doing everything that you would expect. At the end of the night, my friend and I found ourselves locked out of our other friend’s apartment with no means of securing other accommodations. At this point, things were not looking up and, upon looking down, I found the tile floor outside the apartment door to be the only solution. After spending the night sleeping in an unheated stairwell, we were kicked out by the building’s sour-mashed superintendent who was not sympathetic to our cause. His face was alcoholic red and he had a pony-tail covered by a faded hat. I was afraid to look in the mirror if I was a miscreant to this individual but it appeared that now was the time for self-reflection. Wearing my Halloween costume at a moment like this was like having a vision quest at an Indian casino and, as I patrolled the streets of the city looking for shelter and just about any area with heat and large deposits of coffee, I realized that I had finally hit the bottom of the community pool. Also, that it might not be a good idea to reprise Risky Business as a Halloween costume in any city north of Atlanta.

I guess that what I’ve learned from all of this is that hitting bottom isn’t so bad. It’s time to roll with the rabbit punches. Let’s just hope where I’m rolling isn’t the gutter where I fear a long awaited reunion with my head. People are asking me what classes are like now and I try to respond with something obscenely profound, but usually it just ends up being obscene. Sitting through class is like playing naked twister with Ron Jeremy, either way you look at it you lose…especially if you look at it.

After the last three months, I’m tired of taking all this crap lying down. I just wish I hadn’t eaten that turkey sandwich. I’ve spun the board and I’m putting my right hand on red. Just don’t ask me where the other one is.

Footnotes:

[1] I think he bought it.

[2] Who cares how bad Josie and the Pussycats was, 66 jobs in 17 years is absurd.

[3] Don’t forget the list of demands.

[4] Eight bucks for a Reuben? This is bullshit.

[5] Or if you can’t see their face. Never trust a man in a mask that offers you free cable.

coleslawblog.com

April 15, 2009

Robbing The Venetian Blind Part III: A Cyst to Please Turn Over Ratio

Not wanting to leave…

“Unless a girl’s dancing on tension wires, I’m never getting an erection ever again,” says JewJo.

We’re still in a stupor from last night. We’ve seen things that have altered our perceptions about what is possible. We can never go back to the way things used to be. We’ve been to the top of the mountain.[1] After taking in the view, now begins our climb back down.

This is not to say last night was a total bust. What has hopefully come out of all this is a newly instilled sense of false self-confidence that will transcend to our adventures on the east coast with average girls who have similar delusions of grandeur. The four of us stood toe-to-fake-tits with the best that Vegas had to offer. We realized that although we weren’t the best, we could still stand with the best for a $30 entry fee.

We recap last night at an empty Jack-in-the-Box over 99 cent tacos and Mr. Pibb.

“As great as it was, I’m burnt out. Four days in Vegas is enough,” says Jammy.

As much as I want to tell him he’s an idiot and has no idea what the fuck he’s talking about, that he’s made $10 bets on games the entire weekend and finished plus $17 and violated the code of go big or go home, I have to agree with him. Today, I am ready to go home. Vegas has kicked my ass once again. I’m down about $800 for the week and it’s getting increasingly harder to sit. I’m ready for my red eye flight home and bad movie that comes with it. Plus, I have International Law about three hours after we land.

Maybe you should sit down for this

There is no greater disparity than the looks on the faces of the new arrivals and departures at McCarran International Airport. The people coming are happy and have the smirk that they’re going to take it down and have the best time ever. Then there are those leaving, who, although they’ve had the best time ever, have the thousand yard stare affixed to their faces, zombies ready to get the fuck out of here and in some cases flee the scene of the crime.

Everyone in our terminal looks guilty, like they’ve done something they shouldn’t have done. Whether it involved someone with an “I” at the end of her first and only name I cannot say for sure. 12% of people have seen something inserted into somebody, 37% of people have inserted something into them. Regardless of which contingent demographic you fall into, I’m tolerant enough to sit next to you on the plane.

The only problem is that I’m standing now. Sitting has become virtually unbearable. The pain is excruciating in my aisle seat and I grimace through the entirety of Quantum of Solace, struggling to fall asleep. Two cross-country flights, 12 hour days watching games, and averaging probably 15 hours a day sitting through law school, television, and other assorted lethargic activities has taken its toll.

A cyst to turn over

Three days later I’m at the hospital. I have a cyst and the doctor says she has to remove an abcess that has formed where my back meets my ass. There’s a large needle involved and it easily clinches the top spot of the three most excruciating experiences I’ve ever had, neatly nestled in between my future first wife and planar fasciitis. Despite all the pain that came from the weekend, I’d still adamantly say it was a good time. Aside from the minor ass surgery, I wouldn’t change a thing.

I hope that I’ve offered a good guide to March Madness in Vegas for future partakers. Although I literally got my ass handed to me, I know that I will be coming back for seconds. Then again, it’s probably best not to listen to someone wearing disposable underwear.

I’ve taken it all sitting down and now it’s time to do something different; to truly change my stance. I’m going to lie down. It’s time to sleep.

Taxi Driver

To conclude, I will now leave you in the hands of our very capable cab driver Mr. Ronald Bennett:

So there’s little Johnny, eight years old, and loves his parents. One day he has a nightmare and as he often does, opens his parents’ door where he finds his father and mother; the old man giving it to her from behind. The kid is aghast, speechless. His father and him lock eyes. Still banging away, his father begins to laugh hysterically.

“Close the door and go to your room. I’ll be in to talk to you in a few.”

The father finishes up and goes down to his son’s room. He knocks on the door. There’s no answer, just a strange, creaking sound.

“Johnny?”

The father opens the door to find little Johnny and own mother; Johnny giving it to his grandmother from behind.

The father doesn’t know what to say. The room smells like White Diamonds and Buick LeSabre. The father’s eyes begin to water as Johnny continues uninterrupted.

“Johnny! What the fuck are you doing!?”

Johnny turns to face the old man.

“Not so fucking funny when it’s your mother, is it?” Johnny replies.

Footnotes:

[1] Paying $30 entry fee, not an upward climb of social mobility.

coleslawblog.com

April 15, 2009

Robbing The Venetian Blind Part II: A Cyst to Please Turn Over Ratio

Pursuing an Eiffel Tower

I’m up at 7 a.m. for the third morning in a row. There’s a morning ritual to be maintained and Jammy and I leave the other two in their beds sucking their thumbs. By “their beds” I am really referring to “our beds” as the four of us are sharing two queens. When you’re 24 and jobless sleeping with another man is a risk you have to take. One person sleeps over the sheets and the other sleeps underneath to prevent any awkward breakfasts. This rarely happens. Almost no one goes to breakfast.

The recovery on Saturday morning involves three slices of breakfast pizza, two eggs benedicts, and our daily stop at the sportsbook. Since the games begin at 9, by the time I’m done stuffing my face, it’s time to start a new day of sitting on my ass and doing absolutely nothing. I’ve been doing a lot of sitting lately and I’ve noticed a strange twinge has emerged in my lower back. I shrug it off as the small price of being a lazy bastard and resume watching the Utah v. Arizona game. There’s a group of rowdy Arizona students on spring break sitting next to us.

Arizona’s Chase Budinger throws a successful alley-oop. They’re up by double-digits.

“Yeah!” says one of them.

“Yeah bitch! That’s what I’m talking about! Where you at Utah?! Where you at Utah?!”

“Obviously not in a sportsbook,” I say to Jammy.

Cousin Monkey meets up with us and we resume watching the games. JewJo is in the poker room at the Bellagio. Besides the waitresses scrounging for tips, the sportsbook is a Polish, Italian, and German sausage convention. This isn’t surprising.

March Madness is the ultimate male weekend in Vegas. When I boarded the flight I counted a total of 20 women on a plane of 110 passengers. It’s not that there’s a dearth of women though. In fact there are plenty here in Vegas. Just not in the sportsbook. After realizing that we’ve been sitting in sausage heaven for ten hours, we amend to a change of venue.

The three of us take a timeout from the games and head over to the Bellagio. When I was in Copenhagen, they said that walking around the main part of the city for an hour was the equivalent to smoking a pack of cigarettes. Putting that figure in Vegas terms, I’ve probably smoked the equivalent of four packs in the past two days. I’ve had a cough since Thursday afternoon and my fingers keep reaching for something that isn’t there. Monkey, a habitually trained smoker, has had three cigarettes in the past two days and can’t figure out why he still has a full pack.

I pick up another daiquiri on the way to our destination. The container is a yard-long, plastic beaker that holds 96 ounces of liquid courage. (other daiquiri containers include the electric guitar and the Eiffel Tower).[1]

Call Me Israel

By the third day of our trip I’m down about 600 bucks, excluding expenses. As with any unfamiliar city you have to get your ass kicked a few times before you figure it out. In Vegas this takes several trips.

For instance, when someone tells you that they’re staying two hotels down it can easily translate into a ten minute walk. This makes cabs a viable alternative, which if you’re from any urban area on the east coast, you’ve been instinctively programmed to avoid. The cab drivers are awesome here, engaging, talkative, informative, and some of them can get you sweet deals on strip clubs and other shit for no additional charge (I assume).

Our cab driver’s name is Israel. I’m not sure he knows that he is currently transporting four of people from his namesake.

“If you guys want here is my card, I can get you good deal on a strip club. Free drinks.” JewJo takes the card. “Good deal, good girls,” he insists.

“I’m not really interested in any honey, but you’re saying that there will be milk?” I ask.

The other three Jews in the car crack up. Despite his name, I’m not sure that Israel’s a regular at the Vegas JCC.

We slowly amble out of the cab and into our tenth casino since Thursday, meeting an old school friend who just moved out here as an engineer. We give Monkey a ride to the airport and somehow end up at a nightclub. Standing outside the velvet rope, we see a guy approach a bouncer and point to his wrist. On it is a gigantic jewel-encrusted wristwatch. He doesn’t even have to say anything. The bouncer parts the red rope and the dude walks in with the rest of his crew.

We’re worried that they won’t let us in. JewJo looks and is dressed exactly like a twelve-year old tennis player. Fearing rejection, I take off my jacket and hand it to him, not caring that he’s got a frame three inches and sixty pounds lighter than my own. He looks like fucking David Byrne.

After they admit all the hot people for free, they let the normals inside for just $30. All four of us have to pay $30. We look like the Beastie Boys, only gawkier and more Jewish. How’s that for a fucking crew?!

March Madness is not a valid insanity plea

I’ve done spring break, Oktoberfest, and Mardi Gras but what now transpires is indulgence and excess at an unprecedented level. Two weeks later, I can still barely comprehend the whole thing.

We enter a club that could easily double for a great rap video; girls dancing, strobe lights, songs with Autotune, and faint cues that would lead one to suspect the bathrooms aren’t just for applying eyeliner and taking a shit.

Ten minutes at the bar and I have a $9 Bud Light that’s half-finished by the time I find the rest of the group. They don’t acknowledge me and I can’t blame them when I see what they’re looking at: two girls in skintight dresses dancing up on each other while dangling from tension wires. These are not strippers, these are not dancers, these are regular patrons.

That isn’t even the crazy part about the ordeal. What’s absolutely mind-blowing is how everybody else in the club seems to be taking it; that it’s commonplace and completely normal for gorgeous women, who aren’t even being paid, to dance on poles, girders, and makeshift monkey bars for five blissful hours.

We don’t talk for about five minutes and I think JewJo says “Oh my G-d” about a hundred times. In terms of communication with the opposite sex, we all good-naturedly agree that it’s a futile endeavor. Talking to one of these girls would be as much of an otiose exercise as a unic reading the Kama Sutra.

Finally managing to move past guttural fragments and into coherent sentences, we all agree to move to the west coast (or at least I’m in).

Footnotes:

[1] Additional ideas for daquiri containers to be sold in Vegas:

a. A ball and chain mace. Chain acts as curly straw of vengeance.

b. A skull.

c. A Dirk Diggler trademark with a straw in it. Reasoning includes the incredible number of bachelorette parties in Vegas, bros trying to be ironic, regular people trying to be ironic, homosexuals, and people who just find it hilarious to drink out of a giant cock. Bonus points for people who order the small.

d. A gun that can spray daiquiri. it – reasoning includes, bachelorettes, ironic, homs, and people who think it’s hilarious to drink out of a giant.

coleslawblog.com

April 15, 2009

Robbing The Venetian Blind Part I: A Cyst to Please Turn Over Ratio

I’m waiting to place an order. Largely ignored, I put my elbows on the counter to look anxious. I haven’t had much to drink today. There’s a girl at the other end of the counter who looks like she’s been waiting awhile. She’s blonde and she appears to be alone, tight jeans and a black sweater. I try to stare while not looking like a suspect.[1] The guy on the other side of the counter goes over to take her order.

“I’m sorry ma’m, but we don’t seem to have your Yaz in yet. Could you come back tomorrow?” asks the man.

I’m at the pharmacy waiting for my prescription to come through. There’s a hospital bracelet on my wrist where I was discharged about an hour earlier. Just four days ago a similar looking bracelet adorned my wrist and admitted me into a much happier place; a place where girls dangle on tension wires and the cheapest drink is a $9 Bud Light; a place where anything is possible if you have enough cash, cars, and Quaaludes. But now, as I wait in line for my own prescription, all I can think about is how much my ass hurts.

The pharmacist is calling up the distributor for her.

“Yes, I need more Yaz,” I hear him say. The girl sort of recoils as the volume is a tone higher than you would want your pharmacist to use when refilling your birth control prescription.[2] At least we know she’s up for it.

As much as I’d like to pursue this issue further, I quickly remember my own disposition. I recall that if it magically does come down to shirts and skins at least one of us will be wearing disposable underwear. It’s not her…my butt hurts.

Round 1: One Week Earlier

I was wide awake for the first Friday morning in recent memory. Already I’d forked over $200 for the day’s games, checked my bracket, ordered a Denver omelette, and finished my fifth cup of coffee. After placing our bets, we walk through the casino floor en route to the cab stand. A man is gently escorted out of the Heart Bar by several large security guards, his grey Wisconsin Badgers shirt slung over his head like it’s the end of Children of Men. No one looks twice. The grandmas turn back to video poker and the cocktail waitresses continue to serve free drinks. It’s 8 a.m. on a Friday morning in Las Vegas.

It’s hard not to laugh at something like that while also imagining a black car on a single-lane highway, a hungover Wiconsinite in the trunk, lots of duct tape, some vultures, and a cozy hole in the desert. Whatever, it’s March Madness and there are better things to do.

Although many would call it a waste I maintain that there’s nothing wrong with spending an entire day inside a smoke-filled, movie theater getting free drinks while watching other people be active. It’s 6 p.m. and we’ve been sitting in the same lounge chairs since breakfast ended. Sprawled out in front of us are at least 30 HD screens showing four games.

Three others have joined me on this gambling odyssey including JewJo, Jammy, and my cousin Monkey. I excuse myself to the bathroom for the first time in twelve hours. The urinals are equipped with splashguards and cigarette holders for those who don’t want to put out their cigarette and reach for another one just because they have to take a piss, the fact that thousands of other people who haven’t washed their hands all day have used this is small beans compared with having to reach into your pocket for another.

The cab line is at least thirty people deep. JewJo[3] looks pissed. He needs to get back to the poker room.

“Fuck man, this line’s gonna take forever,” he sighs.

“No it won’t,” says Jammy.[4]

“There’s at least 15 cabs in front of us,” JewJo retorts.

“There’s definitely not more than 11,” Jammy responds.

A sudden smirk slaps itself across JewJo’s face. I know what’s coming.

“Wanna bet?”

It’s sidebet time.

Sidebets are the wagers made between friends that can range anywhere from sports betting to more personal agendas. I lost my sidebet to Jammy yesterday, saying that JewJo’s’ first word upon entering our room would be either, a.) Yo., b.) Up, c.) Big,[5] d.) Yao[6]. Jammy took the field. When JewJo’s first words were “My amigos” and I lost three bucks.

There are exactly eleven cabs ahead of us and JewJo hands Jammy a five dollar bill in complete disgust.

Returning to the hotel I’m down 300 for the day. I’m one drink and a hundred dollars away from accepting someone’s indecent proposal. With not one to be found I settle for a daiquiri. Actually make that two daiquiris…sorry…three daiquiris in preparation for a Cirque de Soleil show.

Four daiquiris later and I’m in the lobby of another hotel. Monkey, who I believe has matched me daiquiri for daiquiri, is singing Andrea Boccelli in the lobby at a very high decibel level. Once inside the theater, a performer/usher wearing eyeliner and dressed in a cape tells us to keep it down. Apparently someone in the row behind us didn’t like my cousin’s Amistad joke.[7]

“Take me to your emperor!” Monkey demands, “There’s an urgent matter I must discuss with him.”

Miraculously we don’t get thrown out of the theater. None of us have a good memory of the show due to either a daiquiri induced sleep or a daiquiri induced drunken haze. Looking back, the three things I recall are flaming bows and arrows, a man in a turtle costume, and a shitload of backflips.

A man dressed as a ninja pulls another ninja towards him with a rope.

“Get over here!” roars Monkey.

“Finish him!” he continues.

“Fatality, Scorpion wins.”

Footnotes:

[1] A skill mastered after years of walking to class and getting caught looking.

[2] From what I’m told apparently Nuva Ring is better though I’m not sure telling her that would put me in her good graces.

[3] This is short for Jewish Jordan. The original Jewish Jordan was named Tamir Goodman. He played high school basketball in Baltimore and was almost recruited by the University of Maryland until they realized that he sucked at basketball and couldn’t play games on Shabbat. JewJo has stolen this nickname as he once tried out for our high school basketball team but never made it. He said it was because “the system was against him.” We say it’s because he’s Jewish and slower than a banana slug.

[4] Jammy got his moniker because he still wears pajamas when it’s time for bed, which for him is around 9:30. He can basically fall asleep at any time and it is my suspicion that he has borderline narcolepsy. There have been many occasions where people have placed certain appendages on his face and he didn’t bat an eye.

[5] As in Big Worm. Long story.

[6] As in, Yao Ming. As in, “you know what I mean.”

[7] Some jokes are better left untold.