Thursday, July 29, 2004


My daughters will never date men named Glen.  I trust Glens even less than I trust Mikes or Matts and you couldn't PAY me to entrust them with anything of even the slightest importance.  Matts are date-rapers and test-cheaters. Mikes skim off the register and steal your girlfriend.  Glens, however, are on a whole other level of fuckedupedness.

Glens have wispy, prematurely thinning hair,  permanent skin and fingernail discoloration from a lifetime of chain-smoking, and they look at least 10 years older than they actually are.  They are the fat, pasty-white guys at your 15 year high school reunion who are camped out at the end of the open bar swilling gin and inhaling the Chex Fiesta Mix like the bottom of the bowl holds the secret to eternal youth.

The product of an inordinate amount of time spent indoors, in the dark, prone in front of the television staring at late-night Ronco infomercials, Glens are those guys with zero muscle definition who look like heaps of Jell-O poured into molds purchased from the Failure-At-Life Store.

Glens befriend the bartender and the waitstaff--making painfully-forced small talk as they get drunker and drunker in an attempt to block out the comments their classmates are making about them under their breath:

--Who’s Glen?­
--Jesus, what happened to Glen?
--Hey, I didn't know we went to school with Louie Anderson
--God must really hate Glen
--Hey, that fatass is eating all the Chex Mix!

The indignity is almost too much to bear, even for Glens.  But, when you consider that the only reason Glens attend their reunion in the first place is the free food and free booze, it should be no surprise that Glens are the first to arrive and the last to leave.

Glens live at home in the basement surrounded by half gallon milk jugs and Tupperware containers of varying shapes and sizes filled with their bodily fluids.  Why is this? you might ask.  Well Glens rarely take care of business where business is normally taken care of.  They are always too something--too tired, too sweaty, too lazy, too comfortable, too pre-occupied.  It is, after all, much easier to roll to one side and rub one out into yesterdays lunch Tupperware than it is to go to the bathroom or the bedroom and risk missing Ron Popeil "set and forget" another fucking Lamb shank in his counter-top rotisserie oven.

Glens also like the weird porn.  I'm not talking bondage or foot fetish either.  I'm talking anal bukkake gangbang and fisting pregnant Asian women who are missing appendages. 
Hop Sing she rike you put you hand in da poo poo hole rong time.  Shove big hand rike jackhammah make Hop Sing scleam velly roud and want to rick you finger.

Glens love to visit Thailand. They go in small groups with people they meet on the internet--armed with $5000, a small duffel bag, and a stack of mail-order bride catalogues [dog-eared, highlighted, and underlined] that have a number of pages mysteriously stuck together:
Hmmm, BT4565. "Penny." 5'2" 95lbs. Loves to cook and clean.  She's 18 (wink, wink) and dreams of moving to Hollywood and meeting Dustin Hoffman

 Glens are mouth-breathers and I want them nowhere near my end of the gene pool.  They are the Dutch Elm disease of the family tree.  Let a Glen park his lemon Jell-O ass on one of your branches and you might as well soak that limb in napalm and strike the match…at least it's quicker.

Everybody's Kung Fu Fighting

I sleep with a flat-head screwdriver.  It's lodged between the mattress and the boxspring because I've seen too many Jean Claude Van Damme movies. I have convinced myself that deep in REM sleep and snoring like I invented it, I will sense the presence of a malignant force and--in one fluid badasskungfumotherfucker motion--pull the screwdriver, flip out of bed, and shove it through his neck.

Paint the fence, Daniel-san, paint the fence.

Who am I kidding?! I'll probably just pretend I don't hear him and hope he doesn't try to steal my anal virginity or my Raiders season tickets; if I even wake up in the first place.

Do I get credit for having an impeccable sense of style even if I'm too lazy to put in the effort necessary to pull it off?

I'm inclined to say 'no' unless I pursue a career as a wardrobe stylist or an interior designer.  Unfortunately, I hate Liza Manelli and love I'm kind of screwed.

Lazy-Eyed Mormon just told me that her uncle said the reason she was single was because she doesn't like football!  HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHAAAAAAAA!  FOOTBALL IS THE REASON SHE'S SINGLE!?! How about the fact that she's 5 feet 7 inches of pasty-skinned, lazy-eyed, snaggle-toothed, double-chinned Mormon idiocy?  Oh, well yes...there's that.

Wednesday, July 28, 2004

Stepping in Shit

It's 9:10am and I'm already in trouble with the judge for disrupting court proceedings. Let me give you a piece of advice: if you are exhausted in court and need to find something to keep yourself awake do NOT tell yourself all the dirty jokes you know--especially if you're renowned for cracking yourself up. It also helps if you're not fucking retarded...

Just before the end of lunch, I went to the men's room to take a leak and wash my hands.  The stench was over-powering.  Whoever was in the handicapped stall was exorcising some serious rectal demons.  As I was washing my hands, the owner of the offending ass emerged from the stall repeatedly looking back over his shoulder with a worried look on his face. I noticed this in the large mirror in front of me and turned to see what he was worried about...

The toilet was overflowing.  Large, lincoln-log type turds were floating up over the bowl and onto the green tile floor amidst a river of toilet water, and urine.  It didn't seem like it would ever stop.  The man stood nervously next to me and started frantically washing his hands--obviously trying to get out of there as quickly as possible.  I didn't know what to do, so I did what came naturally:

"Jesus Christ buddy, what'd you eat for lunch? A family of four?!"
--no response
"If you can do this to a public toilet, I can only imagine what you do to your toilet at home. It must be a Superfund site."
--no response (his head hung over the sink getting red with embarrassment or rage as he finished drying his hands)
"If I get shit on my shoes, I'm sending you the bill. Do you even work here?"

With that statement he shot me a very stern look, turned and headed for the door.  As he reached for the handle, it was pushed open from the other side by one of the clerks from the Records Dept.  The clerk shuffled around the man and said, "Pardon me, Your Honor."


While at trial here in DC, we are working at the offices of co-counsel in a small building near Dupont Circle. They employ as the head of their Office Services Department, a short, shameless black man named Darrell with the personality of a diva--in a non-gay way.

Darrell has yellowing eyes, a missing top front tooth, and a taste for Bud Ice Tallboys (by his own admission as well as the sweet stench of an Anheuser-Busch plant that he wears every morning like cologne).  Darrell is always chatty and always smiling--probably because he's drunk. In fact, this man talks to anything with a vagina...and I mean ANYTHING!  Coming back from court this afternoon, Darrell came downstairs to help me haul some boxes back into the office. I was pushing the hand truck and he was walking in front clearing a path down the sidewalk when a "woman" passed us going the same direction.

This "woman" was a big girl. A BIG girl. A BIG BIG BIG girl.  She was very dark, very fat, and very ugly.  She is the kind of girl that might make you and I say "oh sweet jesus, my eyes! My eyes!"  Darrell? He shouted at her, "Heeeeey Baaaaaby," then gesturing back toward me, "where you goin'? Come back here and meet my friend Bernard!"

Bernard!! I nearly pissed myself--partly because Bernard is a funny name and partly because she stopped in her tracks like a buffalo that heard a noise in the grass to consider Darrell's proposition.   At this point, I just start pulling the cart toward the front door of the building laughing hysterically and watching Darrell spit game; completely oblivious to anything, for instance, the fact that the glass front doors were closed. Two steps later--SLAM!--the side of my head and my shoulder go straight into double-paned glass. Nice work, NP. Nice work.

Tuesday, July 27, 2004

Court is Fun

Spending three straight full days in a courtroom listening to expert testimony about semiconductor chips and fighting the impulse to throw yourself in traffic, you start dreaming up some really fucked up things. I noticed this early on and started jotting down the thoughts that crossed my mind. Here is a Greatest Hits Album from the last 3 days:

July 26, 2004 (11:30am EDT)
"Chinese food for lunch today. I'd love to find a restaurant that gives you fortune cookies with fucked up fortunes inside. You could call them MISfortune cookies. I wonder if anyone's ever thought of it? (authors note: it turns out--thank you Google--that I was not the first person to come up with this idea.  Apparently I'm not even the TWENTY-first person to come up with this idea ) I could come up with some funny shit:

--you're significant other just slept with your next door neighbor
--Congratulations, you have cancer
--You're adopted
--Your family hates you
--Your pork chow mein was made with cat.
--Rape isn't a crime. It's a past-time
--that's not baby're just ugly

July 27, 2004 (2:46pm EDT)
"I wonder what would happen if I cracked a beer in the middle of court? I should bring in a small igloo cooler with a six-pack of no no. I should arrive in a suit with a beer helmet on. OR, I could roll a pony keg up to counsel table and ask anyone who makes eye contact with me if they want to do a kegstand."

July 26, 2004 (1:55pm EDT)--25 minutes after chinese food
"I wonder if the judge would get upset if I farted. A LOT."

July 23, 2004 (8:25am EDT)
"I just found out that the attorney for opposing counsel who is examining our expert went to Stanford for undergrad. I immediately hate him. I consider him the most despicable kind of human being and I have not stopped staring at him with utter and complete disdain since I found out. If I catch him looking at me I am going to jump over the table and hit him in the face with a binder."

July 27, 2004 (10:50am EDT)
"I think the court reporter and I have developed a connection.  I'm sitting right near her and she keeps looking over at me and smiling. She's pretty cute...I wonder if I can distract her enough to make her mess up the transcript? 'Dr. Farr is it your testimony that the manufacturing of semiconductor chips require that goddam he's cute I want to have sex with him in the bathroom at lunch strict adherence to MO-220 Industry Standards.'. OH NO, she has a big round potbelly! No wonder she wears so many pants suits!"

July 27, 2004 (3:44pm EDT)

Opposing counsel looks like they were pulled from a comic book convention or the ticket line from the opening night of Lord of the Rings. When I look at them I am at once intrigued and disgusted by the type of pornography these people most likely watch...especially Gus Johnson.
Johnson is probably in his mid-50s with beady eyes, a lipless grin, a pale ashen-colored face and a long sloping angular nose reminiscent of New Yorker political caricatures from "Talk of the Town." His suits fit like tarps over mounds of dirt--it's not all his fault really. He's a fucking mess. He's the kind of fat man who looks like he would leak out onto the floor into an amorphous pool of blubber if it weren't for the constrictive, form-shaping nature of men's business apparel.
I don't know if it's just me but I'm pretty confident that if I went to Bangkok next week and asked the cab driver to take me to the section of town with the fellating 10 year old schoolboys, I'd probably run into Gus Johnson

A Tranny is Not Just a Car Part

I had dinner at Pepper's last night in D.C. That, in and of itself, is nothing extraordinary.  My BBQ chicken sandwich got its "bbq" straight out of a bottle from the Safeway across the street, my Guinness was served in a plastic water glass, and I actually think I saw the cook slice open the Ore-Ida bag that held my "signature waffle-cut fries."  What made this dinner special was the scenery.

If you weren't already aware, 17th St NW on the other side of Connecticut Ave. is D.C.'s own little Castro District.  Like The Castro, this little stretch of 17th is remarkably clean--even the homeless look showered and shaved--and well-appointed. Rainbow flags and flower boxes dot the stoops and storefronts along both sides of the street.  It hosts a bevy of over-priced, faux-Italian bistro style restaurants that almost dare passers-by not to come in and spend too much for too little for fear they might seem cheap or pedestrian in their tastes.

Coming from San Francisco, what surprised me about D.C.s mini-Castro was the degree to which it seemed a complete cliche of gay culture.  I spent most of my time during dinner people-watching--people dining on the patio around us, people walking up and down the rain-soaked sidewalk, people serving our food.  They all seemed to be wearing their Gay Costumes.  Nearly every single gay man I saw had short, neatly cropped hair and wore tight fade-front BR jeans and a tight sleeveless t-shirt.  I was unaware that sleeveless t-shirts were issued to all gay males once they joined the Gay Army.

I was similarly surprised by the lack of lesbians.  Fag-hags outnumbered lesbians by a good 6 or 7 to 1.  How would I know, you ask?  I'm from San Francisco motherfucker.  I own standard-issue San Francisco Gaydar.  It was hilarious watching these gaggles of people chatting and laughing and carrying on.  Each gaggle had their requisite D.C. gay boys, one super-butch lesbian, and--somewhat oddly--a phalanx of obviously straight girls who think that gay guys just have more fun and won't hit on them (note to straight girls: no one is going to hit on you. Why? BECAUSE YOU'RE FUCKING UGLY!)

There was one great moment from last night, however.  About half-way through dinner, one of the guys I was having dinner with called over the waitress to get another plastic-cupped Guinness. He started lightly flirting with her because...well...he could.  She reacted like a startled doe.  Her eyes widened and she froze in her tracks.  Apparently she hadn't been flirted with by a man in some time.  This girl was pretty young looking and you got a sense from her reaction to my buddy and to her surroundings that a few months ago she got e-tarded at a Queer As Folk Marathon, hooked up with a girl for the first time, woke up in some house off of 17th Street, and hasn't been able to find her way home since then.  I guess Gretel and Gretel ran out of breadcrumbs. 

The whole exchange felt like a scene from a Lifetime Movie of the Week.  An undercover agent infiltrates the compound of a psuedo-religious cult in order to save a young girl who was drawn in using ill-founded means. He finally gets her alone in  a backroom during work detail and exposes himself to her as one of the good guys who is there to get her out.  I think the awkward silence at our table lasted a good 30 seconds. As we sat there frozen, a woman walked past our table and, in an effort to maneuver around our waitress-en-tableau, clipped my head with her elbow. The bitch just kept walking!  I turned around and stared but she was completely oblivious. Finally, I yelled out "hey lady, usually cold-cocking someone is worthy of an apology unless you're French and don't need an excuse for being a complete bitch!" 

As the word 'bitch' flew from my lips, she spun around and came charging back toward my table.  I wasn't worried until she got closer and I noticed her abnormally deep voice. And her five o'clock shadow. And her Adam's Apple.  Uh-oh.  She started screaming.  She's bellowing at the top of her lungs like an enraged Harvey Firestein. "You are the rudest person I've ever met!"  "I bet you don't even have a girlfriend!" "No woman would stand for someone like you who doesn't know how to treat a lady!"  Mind you, at this point my buddy is nearly falling over in his chair laughing.  I have a screaming transexual to my left and a cackling attorney to my right.  Good times. 

Then she broke out the clincher: "As a woman, I find your conduct abhorrent and reprehensible!"  I couldn't take it anymore. "As a woman! AS A WOMAN!  Dude, YOU'RE A DUDE!  You have facial hair! You have an Adam's Apple! Fuck that, that's thing's so goddamn big you must have an Adam's Apple Orchard.  You sound like the illegitmate love child of Kathleen Turner and Isaac Hayes!  If you're a woman, I'm Marie Antoinette you fucking freak!  Now get your tranny-ass away from my table before I call the tranny police, the manners police, and the fashion police to cart your broken-down ass to tranny jail.  You're a disgrace to trannies everywhere. Get out of my fucking sight."

That put her over the edge.  Now she's bawling and screaming.  The only thing that saved me from getting clobbered and probably sent to jail for assaulting a she-male was the friend I was eating with.  The whole time this tragic comedy is playing out he is bent over, crippled with laughter.  Finally, when I told the tranny that the fashion police were going to cart her broken-down ass to tranny jail he fell over in his chair, hit his head on the concrete patio, and knocked himself unconscious.

Now I have a sobbing tranny on my left and an unconscious attorney on my right. GOOD TIMES!

Sunday, July 25, 2004

Lazy-Eyed Mormon

I'm on the road this month for trial in a case that, before the day I left, I had never heard of.  Working with attorneys I've never met in a town where the people I do  know work all day and head to the shore every weekend, I have been blessed with the opportunity to work closely with a fat girl from one of our other California offices. Her name is Katrina and she's a lazy-eyed Mormon.  She's got graying, snaggled front teeth, the fashion sense of an 8-year old Down's Syndrome child, permed red hair, and a huge HUGE ass.  She's the anti-viagra.  Don't try to throw the football through the tire swing when she's around. 

She wore denim capris the other day and I think I threw up in my mouth.  There's nothing worse than inadvertantly looking up from what you are doing and catching a glance of a gigantic, denim-clad ass passing in front of you.  It felt like I was staring into a denim sun. I quickly averted my eyes so as to avoid the onset of blindness.  Unfortunately, all that did was direct my gaze toward her pale, sausage-like calves that--you could tell by the stubble pattern--had been shorn sometime that morning (undoubtedly by an industrial-grade Black & Decker lawn product).  A little side note:

there is nothing more unappetizing than the freshly-shaved legs
of a fat girl who doesn't get much sun.  Because her skin is translucent,
you can see the black hair follicles that have retreated just below the skin
 after being cut by her (Fat)Lady Bic.  Their retreat actually leaves tiny
dimples in the skin that make Fat Girl's legs look like they've been walked
on by golf shoes.  It's a horrible, horrible sight and one I don't wish on anyone

Anyhow, as I fought off yet another wave of fat-enduced nausea, my eyes fell upon another horrible sight--her feet  (Jesus Christ, I can't believe I am forcing myself to relive this experience. Isn't this what they make incest-survivors and rape victims do in therapy to get past their mental blocks?)  Her toes looked like vienna sausages with knuckles and hair.  HAIR!!  And, like most fat girls swimming in denial, she had her 10-pack of vienna sausages bound inside a pair of Payless Shoe Source sandals that were at least 2 sizes too small.  They looked like corsets, the straps of which dug into the pasty flesh of her feet like butcher's twine around a pair of stuffed pork tenderloins.
This is what I am sitting across from everyday all day for the entire month of July.  I can't even make eye contact with this land manatee because her left eye looks toward the door.  LOOK AT ME WHEN I'M SPEAKING TO YOU! GODDAMNIT LOOK AT ME! WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT?! THERE'S NOTHING OVER THERE! I'M OVER HERE, IN. FRONT. OF. YOU. 

Saturday, July 24, 2004

Fun with Hotel Staff

I've been living out of a 5th floor hotel room in D.C. for the last three weeks.  Room service sucks, the cable package sucks, the pay-per-view movies suck, the porn sucks, the coffee maker sucks, and the comforter smells like someone wiped their ass with it and soaked it overnight in bleu cheese dressing.  Mercifully, thanks to the demands of trial and poorly prepared attorneys, I spend little time in my haven of discomfort.  Last night, after my keycard demagnetized twice in a span of 15 minutes and room service refused to take my order because I called five minutes after they closed (due to the time I spent convincing some Sudanese reject that I wasn't trying to make her life difficult or stash keys so I--and I quote--"could have loud pahtees in room with many friend."), I decided to have a little fun. 

I sat in my room fuming over the indignity of not being allowed to purchase chicken tenders and a bowl of crap-ass soup.  Finally, after twenty minutes of pouting, I threw the room service menu against the opposite wall, got dressed, and walked down 17th St to a CVS that was open til midnight.  I strolled down the cosmetic aisle and bought two of the brightest richest reddest lipsticks I could find.  As I made my way to the counter I started to get a little self-conscious--like the first time you buy condoms or tampons for your girlfriend.  What would the clerks think?  To balance out the lipstick, I grabbed a Mountain Dew out of the fridge case and a bag of Funyuns.  That's when I realized that instead of giving off the impression of being a transvestite, now I was exuding the aura of a transvestite who was going to run home, dress up, and beat off to a pirated copy of Lord of the Rings in front of my computer. 

Not good.  I should have known better considering where I was.  This CVS just happened to be on the periphery of D.C.'s gay neighborhood.  A muscular 6'5" white guy with close-cropped hair buying two tubes of bright red lipstick from the CVS on Connecticut and 17th at 11:30pm?  For you, that might be weird. For these clerks, that's called Tuesday.  So I tossed the Mountain Spew and Funyuns on the floor in Aisle 4 and slapped the lipstick down on the counter.  They didn't flinch, of course, and I was back at the hotel before midnight.

To preface this even further, my first few days in the hotel I noticed that the staff was an extraordinarily devout group of disenfranchised African immigrants.  Nearly everyone wore some sort of necklace with a cross dangling from it.  There was a bible on the coffee table in the lounge.  At the bar, there was a bible next to the drink menus and stackable plastic ashtrays.  I heard the word "Lord"  in the lobby more times over the last three weeks than I'd heard in the last three years of my life.  Ultimately, I figured if I was going to fuck with these people, that's how I'd get to them.

I got back to my room just before the midnight edition of Baseball Tonight went into the opening montage.  This was going to be great. I was going to fuck with the entire staff of a major hotel chain AND I would get to hear Rob Dibble and Peter Gammons bemoan the state of the Red Sox organization (again) after choking (again) against the Yankees (again) in the first game of a critical weekend series (again).  Turning up the volume on the TV, I grabbed my toiletry scissors, the Gideons Bible on the bedside table, the bag of lipsticks, and I went to work:

Step 1:  cut out every page except page 666.  You'd be surprised how long this takes with a pair of toiletry scissors.  I've spent 4 years in a law firm in front of a computer and I think shearing out the pages of a complimentary bible is going to be what gives me Carpal Tunnel Syndrome

Step 2:  write something on every page.  In lipstick.  This part kept me up until 4 a.m.  The hard part wasn't coming up with something to write.  The hard part was writing it in lipstick on 750 pieces of thin bible paper.  To make things easier I settled on a trio of phrases:

               1.  JESUS HATES ME

               2.  END IT ALL LORD

               3.  THIS YEAR'S THE YEAR

Step 3:  pick up all 750 pieces of lipsick-covered bible and throw them in the air like I just graduated.  The blast radius was beautiful.  They scattered gleefully all over the hotel room floor like a psychotically hate-filled Rorschach ink blot.  I slept like a baby.

Step 4:  before leaving for the office in the morning, place the gutted bible in the middle of the bed, open to pg. 666. 

Step 5:  laugh hysterically to yourself all day

I got back to the room around 8:30 tonight.  It was UNTOUCHED.  I called down and inquired as to why my room wasn't clean.  The Sudanese refugee on the other end replied, "maid service refused to clean your room sir.  They say it is bad luck because you are a sinner who is going to hell and eternal damnation."  I was agape.  I didn't know what to say--partly out of shock, partly because I couldn't stop laughing.  Finally I collected myself. I said, "well yeah, that's all well and good but tomorrow someone better clean my fucking room," and I hung up.

to be continued, I guess...