Cole’S Law Blog

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.