Upon hearing Bobby Teenager had a “non blog” I immediately realized I had to stop paying attention to whatever the hell my professor was saying and write something.

                I go to law school. It’s a pain in the ass. While I don’t work nearly as hard as my friends who have jobs in New York, I do shove more useless shit into my head than idiot savants. I am currently sitting in my torts class discussing why you can get 5 million dollars from your landlord if you let your unchained pit bull kill a small child.[1] For those of you who don’t know, “torts” is Latin for “someone fucked up.” As you can assume studying “guilt” is a pretty subjective - and ultimately useless - subject. For example, most of the classes involve me trying to figure out who’s liable for Darryl getting shot after him and Billy Bob went hunting at 4am after drinking 19 beers. (The answers are: their parents for thinking abortions are a sin; Buy-Rite Liquors for inducing fetal alcohol syndrome; God).[2]

As you can tell, I’m already pretty disenchanted with this whole process, and I have decided that I am going to hate everything about the occupation I am entering. So why keep going? Being a lawyer is the only thing that is going to get me laid over the next ten years. Straight up, that’s what I think about every time my professor asks me to explain section 28 USC 1347 of the United States Civil code.[3] Also, it’s the only job in America left where being an alcoholic is not only expected but contingent upon your licensing.

I know myself and realize I have a penchant to lose my mind a little when things become extremely repetitive. And I know the one activity that I will be forced to engage in for the next 10-40 years is writing interoffice memorandums. An interoffice memorandum is the tedious work they give to junior associates at law firms where the JA researches various bits of case law in order to determine whether a client could prevail in their lawsuit. Having already written about 25 mock memos, I am more than certain that this will be the lynchpin of my sanity. And so, without further ado, I have decided to zoom 7 years into the future and give you what I believe my last memo will look like once I go all “Clinton Portis Interview” on my peers.[4]

INTEROFFICE MEMORANDUM

To: Senior Associate Fuck Head

From: The Junior Associate on your front lawn waving a pistol and a bottle of Wild Turkey

Subject: Why I am on your front lawn waving a pistol and a bottle of Wild Turkey

Date: 11/12/15

Brief Answer: You’ll all pay, I promise you’ll all pay.

Issues: Why does your office smell like someone who was forced to work until 2am poured a combination of piss and curry powder all over your carpet? Did one of your junior associates really take two Thai escorts to dinner and bill it to a client? Is the vinyl siding on your house flame retardant? Which poor fucking sap will we screw over with this lawsuit?

Statement of the Facts: Bob Blevik is an overweight, greedy douchebag who has an emotional maturity level of which a dog turd might be envious. He makes millions of dollars somewhere on Wall Street doing who knows what; I can only assume “sodomizing children.”

Chesty Larue Blevik is his whore of an ex-wife with tits you could rest a water glass on. She does nothing all day except drink like a southern frat boy. On a personal note, she has routinely fellated me behind the copier on the second floor, claiming that “anyone in a suit looks good after a couple Mai Tais.”

The Bleviks have three children: “pants shitter,” “put-his-slimy-hands-all-over-the-signed-Sandy Koufax-ball-in-my-cubicle” kid, and “two-years-away-from-sucking-it-like-mommy” girl. For some stupid-ass reason, Mrs. Blevik is suing for custody.

The trial court ruled that all five of these people should be murdered with a rusty hatchet.

Discussion: According to state law, Jim Hughdecker spilled a beer on me and went home with the chick I liked at the Student Bar Association Christmas party 6 years ago. Four years later, he was promoted above me. This is why I sold him an eight ball of coke last year and framed him for the death of that hooker they found in his trunk. Now I believe he goes by the name Helga and puts on a Weimar Burlesque show for the local Aryan party in state prison (Section 48 (b) of the SHE WAS MINE YOU ASSHOLE! LET’S SEE THAT CAN CAN FUCKER statute).

The courts have been very specific in their reasoning: had I not been forced to work past midnight every night for five years, I wouldn’t have started hallucinating and doing weird things to everyone’s lunches. I won’t tell you what - guessing is half the fun, after all. (My dick v. Gary’s Cold Slaw, 28 NJ.RPTR 1778)

Accordingly, in Me v. The Firm, the courts ruled that if Michelle Sloan doesn’t stop farting and trying to pretend it’s not her I will hunt her down and make the movie Seven look like a Muppet Movie. I KNOW IT’S YOU MICHELLE! JUST CAUSE YOU’RE A GIRL DOESN’T MEAN YOU CAN DO IT WHEREEVER YOU PLEASE! (Michelle’s rank ass v. My foot 24 NJ.RPTR 994)

Conclusion: Van Halen rules.

Your office will smell like a bathroom in Islamabad for the next 6-8 years.

The slutty whore gets the kids because the courts have always signed with lifeless succubae.