The veal of humanity.

So Chris and I were discussing cannibalism a while back. I told him that he'd likely not taste very good. He'd be all stringy and gristly. He responded by telling me that I would taste delicious. Why? Because I'd stew in my own fat juices. How sweet. He's good like that.

Then I got to thinking. It's been argued that if people turned to cannibalism, it would be so wonderful, that we'd not be able to go back. Which made me wonder what the best tasting human would be. The answer: babies. All that tender, succulent goodness.

Mmmmmm. Babies.

Third Way Clients.

Third Way Clients are the one who believe there's a third way. You present two options, and they want the third. Conversations with such clients generally results in withdrawal from representation.

A watered-down example of such a conversation goes like this:

Client: I want to go to trial.

Me: Okay. We'll set up a trial date.

Client: When?

Me: At the very least, sixty days.

Client: That's bullshit. I've been in here a month and I have to wait another two?

Me: If you want a trial, yes.

Client: What if I cop to this today?

Me: With your record, no judge is going to give you more than six months. You'd likely be out at halftime, in two months.

Client: But I didn't do this shit.

Me: Alright then. We'll set up a trial date.

Client: Can you get my bail lowered?

Me: I can try.

Client: Think they'll drop it?

Me: No.

Client: Why not?

Me: Because you have a history of not showing up in court. You failed to appear on your last six cases. Your bail is $500, which I understand you can't post, but it's highly, highly unlikely that any judge is going to lower it with your history of defaults. It doesn't mean I won't bring you in for a bail review, but I don't want you to get your hopes up.

Client: I didn't do this shit, man. Can't you get it dismissed?

Me: No, I can't do that. I understand that you're frustrated, but I have no legal grounds to ask for a dismissal today.

Client: So if I cop to this, I get out in two months?

Me: Yes.

Client: And I'm stuck here for two months for trial?

Me: Yes.

Client: That's bullshit.

Me: You're right. It's total bullshit.

Client: Man, you're just not in my corner. You don't wanna fight for me.

Me: Hey, I agree that this is bullshit. I want to fight for you. But this is the reality we're dealing with.

Client: Fuck you. I want a new lawyer.

Me: You got it.

This is a sanitized version of such a discussion. Usually there's a lot more swearing on the part of the client, and a lot more interrupting. Often, there are more frequent attempts on my behalf to explain the law. The end result is always the same with these clients: A client wants out, and at the realization that he's going to be stuck in jail until his trial date, it becomes my fault. Luckily, I've had very few of these types of clients. But they never cease to annoy me.

I need advice.

I'm thinking of taking a swing dancing class. I wanted to take Spanish, but it's too late to enroll. And I really have no interest in wedding planning, accounting, or Microsoft Word for Morons. So swing dancing it is.

Should I? Ya think? Could be fun, right?

On headlines.

My undergraduate degree is in print journalism. But I was never good at writing headlines. On an exam, when given a story about a beer contest, I came up with:

Guinness Gives Good Head

My professor was not amused. However, it was not the worst I ever came up with. When given a story about a local teacher dying, and told to write a two deck headline with a specific character count, I came up with:

Teacher Dies
Due to Death

It was the nadir of my headline-writing career. (Note, however, how the characters line up; this was, perhaps, the only good thing about this headline.)

Fortunately, I was a better copy editor than I was a headline-writer. When people put errors in headlines, I caught 'em. Not so with my professor. Well, at least on one occasion. She told the following story:

As head copy editor working the night shift for the early edition, she was ultimately in charge of everything that was printed in said early edition. Prior to print, when the layout team was just filling space, they would put in mock-ups, or what are called "dummy" headlines or "heds." Imagine her chagrin when the following headline went to print:

Dummy Hed For Dummy Story

Quite tragically, the story happened to be about special education kids. Although my she was called into the publisher's office the next morning, she was not fired.

Nonetheless, it's amusing to see that these sort of things still happen.

Trial strategy.

I am at the office early this morning because I have a school zone case scheduled for trial today. This makes me extremely anxious and a little nauseated.

Since I've lost my taste for beef jerky, I've decided that today's trial strategy will include watching this in order to assuage my nerves.

After all, the only thing better than '80s music is fake '80s music.

Justice?

The courthouse where I work is called The Hall of Justice. It's a misnomer, which I suppose is vaguely entertaining.

What is more entertaining, however, is what is inscribed in two-foot tall letters on the front of the edifice:

Obedience to Law is Liberty.

Right. And war is peace

My type.

When I was younger -- in high school -- I found myself attracted to tall skinny-but-not-too-skinny guys. More recently, however, I've found myself attracted to a different type. Tall, yes. I adore tall guys. Six feet and taller is dreamy. (The dreamiest man I've ever known is about 6'6", I think.) But I find the bad-boy look to be sexy. I don't like bad boys, mind you. Just the look. Shaved head, ink, motorcycle-riding men. Larger built men who don't make me feel like an ogre when I'm naked with them. That's my type.

My boyfriend is not my preferred type at all.

(I must digress for a moment and state that few of my boyfriends have been my type. Serious Boyfriend #1 was 6'4", but huskier than I usually like; he looked like a wookie. Serious Boyfriend #2 was 5'9" and weighed about 230; he was shorter and stockier than I generally dig. Boyfriend #3 was my type, as described above. And Serious Boyfriend #4 was 5'8" and I'd be surprised if he weighed more than 120; way too thin for my tastes.)

Despite Chris not being the type I am traditionally attracted to, I realized something today: My boyfriend is hot.

You can't keep a good man (or sex offender) down.

Many of you already know about the saga of my sex offender. The one who plead to failing to register, and was then held on a violation of his community parole supervision for life because he was homeless. People who kept track of the story may also remember that I filed a habeas in the matter. And they may also remember that he was released the day before the hearing was to go before the judge.

Pesky little suckers. Not letting me litigate the issue of an unconstitutional imposition of lifetime community parole.

About a week after he was released, I got a call from his parole officer. "He has absconded," she told me. "He is in violation of his parole."

I haven't heard from him since his release. To my knowledge, he hasn't turned up yet.

I wish him well.

* * *

Post Script. What this means is that if he does turn up, I'll have another issue to litigate. He was already violated once. Another violation would place him in jail for six months instead of thirty days. And so the issue the next time around will be appealing the first violation as unconstitutional on the basis that the only basis for the purported violation the first time around was his homelessness.

On guns.

I have always professed to hate guns. In the abstract, ideological sense. Guns kill people. So do overzealous right-to-lifers, mind you. But guns make it a lot easier. There is no reason to own a handgun. It's not as if people go deer hunting with semi-automatics. The only reason, in my mind, to own a handgun, is to kill someone. That's it.

But damn, when they're not killing people, they're a lot of fun.

At lunch today, a colleague was expressing what a tough week she had had in court. It's true, too. From Friday until today, her job has been annoying and unfair. She's had to deal with a lot of difficult people and I do not envy her that. She mentioned cutting out a little early. To get away from it all. We all suggested she do something, some activity, to get out the negative energy.

Somehow, the idea of shooting came up. And so, five of us left a tad early today and went to the local shooting range. We had a minute long lecture of gun safety and operation. For $28, we could get a shooting lane, a gun, and a box of .22 caliber bullets. We purchased four lanes and had at it.

I was paranoid at first, paying more attention to safety than shooting. But it soon became evident that I wasn't going to shoot off my hand, and I began to relax. It was at that point that I realized that I am a crappy shot. I hit the ceiling more than I hit the target. Nevertheless, it was great fun. For me, it wasn't a power trip. I didn't feel powerful. Quite the contrary, I felt foolish. If given a gun in an uncontrolled environment, I'm way more likely to shoot my own foot than to ward off danger (or kill a would-be rapist or murderer before he raped or murdered me). But it was, quite simply, great fun.

I have always professed to hate guns. Guns kill people.

I just wish they weren't so much fun to shoot.

Part II: My boyfriend is a nerd.

I quit smoking yesterday.

Of course, it doesn't really count as having quit since it's only been forty-eight hours. Quitting smoking is merely a lull in smoking and is not actual quitting until ninety days have passed. Anything short of that is the inchoate stages of quitting. It's pre-quitting. It's not-quite-quitting.

I digress.

I got home today and brought in the mail. Among the pieces of junk-mail was an envelope with only my first name written on it.

Ah-ha! Chris is at it again, I thought to myself.

I went into the kitchen and took the bottle of water I take to work every day but don't drink out of my bag. I saw an envelope on my kitchen table propped up by the salt shaker.

I carried both envelopes upstairs with me to my room. I wanted to change out of my suit before I read anything. And then I saw another envelope on my bed. So I took the three envelopes into my office/den so I could sit on my couch and read 'em. There on the coffee table was another.

He left me cards again, encouraging me to keep not-smoking.

He's the best.

On smoking.

I had my first cigarette when I was fourteen. But I didn't really start smoking until my freshman year of college. I was shy and it was an easy way to meet people. "I can stop whenever I want," I told myself, in my moronic eighteen-year-old fashion. I was wrong.

When I graduated from college, I decided to cut back, rationalizing that I would eventually quit. I went from a pack a day to about a half a pack a day, give or take, and than remained my cigarette intake for about two years (give or take).

Then, the summer prior to law school, I moved in with my parents for three months (something I swore I'd never do), worked out five days a week, lived on something nearly as absurd as nine hundred calories a day, and quit smoking. I didn't smoke for two months shy of two years. I currently smoke as few as two cigarettes a day and as much as eight cigarettes a day.

I decided on Thursday that I would quit on Monday. Someone in my office quit back in June (had a brief relapse, and I think re-quit) and did the patch thing. We heard a lot about it at the office -- heard about the quitting and about the patch and all that jazz. I know that for some people, it's easier to talk about it. But I don't wanna be that person. I'm not doing the patch or the gum or any of that stuff. I'm just stopping.

So like I said, I decided that I would quite on Monday. I had one (one!) cigarette yesterday. And since I'd not smoked today, I thought to myself, "Self, why bother smoking at all today? May as well quit a day early." I had two smokes left in my pack, so instead of throwing 'em out, I ran 'em under water and then threw 'em out. I knew if I didn't do that, I'd be the pathetic person taking them out of the trash.

And now? Now I wish I hadn't watered 'em down.

Calling all the ladies.

I was talking to a friend of mine about going to the gynecologist. I hadn't gone since November 2002. She was appalled. When asked why I hadn't gone, I explained that I hate being told how unhealthy I am. And I hate being weighed.

She explained that going to the gynecologist isn't all that bad. She explained her last visit. How her lady doctor (and I don't mean lady parts doctor; her doc is a woman) warmed the instruments before inserting them. She held them under the light and them ran warm water over them. She made the trip to the gynecologist like a spa for the pussy. She probably even sprinkled my friend's vagina with tea tree and lavender oil, too. They do that sort of stuff in Crunchy Town, where my friend lives.

And then the lady doctor inserted her finger into my friend's rectum.

This has never happened to me before. No one has ever digitally violated me at the gynecologist's office. I always thought that they were separate parts, and that the gynecologist had no business going there. She got me all paranoid that I'd be getting something shoved past my most southern sphincter during my doctor's visit this afternoon. I am happy to report that this did not happen.

My question to all you ladies out there is: Is it normal to have a digital rectal exam during a regular maintenance trip to the gynecologist? I'm curious as to what others have experienced.

Time to change.

I went for my annual today. I was not happy about this. I knew they would put me on their evil scale and then prod my lady parts with their devil tools. Truth is, the worst part was the weigh-in. I'm at my top weight. This is not good.

When I asked the doc about birth control (even though I smoke), he told me that he'd give it to me not because it's a good idea, but because even though I'm a smoker, I'm under thirty-five.

In the end, he essentially told me what my last doc told me at my last annual exam in 2002 (albeit in a more polite manner): I've overweight, don't exercise enough, have blood pressure on the high side, and really need to take better care of myself.

The summer before I went to law school, I got in shape. I went to Curves with my mother. Yeah, I know, Curves is for old folks and out-of-shape losers. That was my thought, too. However, last time I went, I also quit smoking and lost twenty pounds in two months. The best part about it is that I actually, you know, go to Curves. When I had gym membership, I never went. The lack of structure at the gym puts me in an amotivational state. The time commitment is too much. Curves, I go, I spend my thirty-five minutes, get my exercise, and but for the awful music (which I secretly enjoy, in a We Built This City sort of way), it's painless.

It's time. Again. It's time to get myself in better shape. I have an appointment for my weigh-in and measure-in tomorrow at 5:30. I am quitting smoking when my current pack is finished, or on Monday, whichever comes first. I am going to eat better, particularly at work. No more Dunkin' Donuts sandwiches for lunch. Time to change. What excitement.

The perfect crime.

Saucy Vixen will go to jail for ... Carrying around a gun shaped like a penis 'What sexual activity will you go to jail for?' at QuizUniverse.com

A guy with a shaved head and tattoos is hot.

A guy with a shaved head and tattoos and a motorcycle is hotter.

My best friend, Mike (who happens to have a shaved head and tattoos), drives a pickup truck that doesn't go over fifty-five miles per hour (sixty at best). He paid five hundred dollars for it this past winter after his Neon got totaled and Geico decided not to pay for it. To add insult to injury, he's still making payments on the no-longer-functional Neon.

Unfortunately, Mike and I have not seen enough of each other lately. But we'll be seeing each other a lot more often coming up. And why? He's getting a motorcycle and I'm gonna be his bitch. It may only be a crotch rocket, but it still rocks.

Sure, it's a foolish purchase. Sure, the money would better be spent on, you know, a car that runs. But it's not for me to tell him how to spend his money.

Speaking of foolish purchases... I gotta get me some chaps.

Thoughts from the Ladies' Room.

Every now and then I walk into the public restroom in my office building and think to myself, wow, it smells like shit in here.

And then I think: Well, at least it's the appropriate place to smell like shit.

I'm not a nerd!

I totally stole the following from Chris's LJ.





I am totally not a nerd, y'all. This comes as a bit of a surprise. Of course, it was all computer and science based. If they had word nerds, though, I may have scored higher. But then again, I believe that Scrabble is the worst game ever. So I guess I'm not a nerd after all.

Judicial discretion?

I am not making this up:

Authorities are investigating allegations that now-suspended Mobile County Circuit Judge Herman Thomas periodically removed prisoners from Mobile County Metro Jail and spanked them in a room at the courthouse, according to courthouse sources involved in the inquiry.

Once inside the room, according to the sources, the judge would ask the young men to drop their pants and prepare to be spanked with what they described as a wooden or fraternity-like paddle.

I can tell you don't believe me. But I'm sure you'll believe MSNBC.

The worst game ever.

I had never played Scrabble before.

"But Saucy Vixen," my friends would tell me. "What with your penchant for words, you'll rock at Scrabble."

It never seemed like much fun to me, though. It seemed like work. But not wanting to completely dismiss it, I decided I'd try it out.

Saturday I had some friends over. Chris cooked dinner. I bought a cake. And we played Scrabble.

And you know what? It's the worst game ever. When I say, it's the worst game ever, what I mean is: Scrabble is the WORST game ever.

You know what happened? Guy From Work won. He won. This is not surprising unto itself. What is surprising (and downright irritating) is how he won. At this point, I must take a slight digression: I don't like the challenging part of Scrabble. It's stupid. I lose a turn if I challenge the fact that Chris chose to spell the word "null" with only one "L"? Not cool. Not cool at all. So instead of taking the chance that I'd lose a turn, I kept a list of words I thought were bulltwaddle so I could look 'em up afterwards.

Guess what word Guy From Work used. Oe. What the fuck is oe? Spell check doesn't even pick it up! It's not even a word! (I apologize for offending the delicate sensibilities of my readership by using the f-word. I generally don't do such things, but this oe nonsense really cooks my goose.)

Oh, but it is. It's a damn weather formation off the coast of some African island. Even though you won't find "oe" on dictionary dot com, it was in the Scrabble dictionary. Total bull. Oe.

I hate you, Scrabble. Damn you. Damn you, Scrabble, to the Hell I don't believe in. Die, die, die. I hate you.