What’s a Law School?

The Animal Kingdom is big on defending itself against predators. Survival often depends  on the successful ability to ward off threats.  Whether it’s scales, shells, quills, camouflage, ink, shit-mist, claws, fangs, or venom, the skill to avoid being killed and devoured is one of the most vital advantages in this vicious free-for-all called life.  

Thus, as the world has modernized, so too has the methods of defense. No longer does a person need to rip and gouge, climb and run, or puff up and scream. These days the means of warning can be subtle, appealing to a potential rival’s sense of prolonged entanglements. The spider has its web, the army ant its pheromones, and the legal community its threat of interminable litigation. 

To the point: 

I was walking through the parking lot of my neighborhood supermarket the other day when I chanced to see just such an example of cutting-edge evolutionary defense. It was a bumper sticker that read: 

                                            Attorney’s Car: Do Not Tailgate

Wow, I thought. Not since the milkweed bug’s bright coloring has there been such an overt signal for something to back the fuck off. Impressed as I was, I was also filled with concern for the attorney. While the bumper sticker served as a warning, it might also end up being an invitation to attack. Generally speaking, a lot of people—doctors with sky high malpractice insurance, broke cheaters who lost everything in the divorce, workers with garnished wages—don’t like lawyers. So to openly identify as a practitioner of this morally dubious profession to a mass of edgy motorists could be dangerous. 

The more I thought about it, the more I decided it was a bad idea to openly threaten the driving community with legal action. Lawyers would do better to camouflage themselves rather than stand right out in the open, particularly out on the highway, where anything goes. Maybe the bumper sticker was a joke? If it was, it was a bad one. I could see something like ‘Terrorist’s Car: Do Not Tailgate’ but a lawyer? 

While the owner of the car may have been an attorney, he (or she) was definitely insane. Oh, I forgot to mention that the car itself was a late Nineties Saturn. Nothing against late Nineties Saturns or the owners that own them, but a bumper sticker that seems to refer to how effective an attorney may be at personal injury litigation may not seem intimidating if he (or she) can’t afford anything fancier than a beige flivver covered in city dirt. 

So I started to see, quite clearly, the ENTIRE bumper sticker, kind of rolling off into infinity like the opening sequence of any Star Wars movie. 

                                         Attorney’s Car

                                        Do Not Tailgate…

Not only do not tailgate, but do not honk. Do not rev your engine at me. Do not pass on the right hand side, for I am a passer of the bar exam. Do not extend your middle finger, or tell me to go fuck myself.  Do not shoot a gun at this car. Do not let the air out of the tires, or pour sugar into the gas tank. Do not take a giant, steaming crap on the hood of my car. For I am a seeker of justice, Righter of Wrongs, diligent servant of the arc of moral history. Do not try to run me off the road, for I am not that kind of attorney. I represent the downtrodden and dispossessed against the giant corporate concerns and their insatiable greed. Do not pull that sadistic move in which you run into my back bumper and edge me out into oncoming traffic till I am t-boned and comatose. Do not wait until I pull into a gas station and get out of the junker that is oddly incompatible with my professional status, and then carjack me in order to drive wildly all over the city, giving my ill-considered bumper sticker a whole new level of absurdity by pulling dangerous stunts around terrified motorists, who will call the police to report some deranged lawyer who, while not wanting to be tailgated themselves, is up the ass of every car it can menace. Do not do that thing in which you pass by me, pull into my lane, and then jam on the brakes so I rear-end your car, knowing that I’m a respected barrister with deep pockets and so will pay off big time while you complain that your whiplash has left you with PTSD and sexual impotency. I’m not some big wheel. I’m not a slick fleecer of the sick and the old. I do not chase ambulances. I do not  stalk the funeral homes looking for the wrongful death lawsuit that can win me a seven-figure payoff. I clerked for peanuts, damn you, thus my beat-up Saturn. One day I’ll get a Mercedes or something, but for now I’m a humble public defender who doesn’t want angry faces in my rearview mirror. I represent the indigent. I plea bargain. I’m being stalked by an ex-convict who thinks I suppressed evidence. Stay away from my back bumper, or I’ll kill you all! Oyez, oyez. Res ipso loquitur. Ipse dixit.  In flagrante delicto. Corpus delicti. Actus non facit reum, nisi mens sit rea. Factio vestri aevum, non vestri calceus amplitudo. That last one means, ‘Act your age, not your shoe size, mother-fucker.’ Really, let’s all be grown-ups. A little civility on the road, a little civility in life. On second thought, I was lying. I bought that bumper sticker as a goof. Ha, ha, got you, didn’t I? I got a zero on the LSAT. No institution of higher education would ever have me. The only institution I’m eligible for is the fuckin’ booby hatch. Help. Help. I’m a big fat liar. In fact, not only have I never been to law school, I’ve never even seen a law school. 

Drive Safe! 

More Alembics to come


From the looks of the local billboards and the ads on the sides of transit buses it seems that there are two really big problems in my part of town. Bad pipes and car wrecks. I’ve reached this conclusion because every available advertising space has been taken by plumbers and personal injury lawyers. The puns are out of control. Particularly for the plumbing concerns. These shit-heads have taken scatology to a whole new level. They don’t give a crap. They’ve made a mess with their big, splashy adverts. They’ve strained to drop every disgusting metaphor they can digest. Egads. They’ve got me doing it.

It’s a good thing that the plumbers advertise so aggressively because without it hell knows who I might call when my toilet is stopped up. I may be tempted to phone a roofer. Then an electrician. The carpenter I call for a quote will probably just hang up on me. The landscaper will be confused. My car mechanic will think I’m daft. The cleaning lady will shrug. The Yoruban high priest of Santeria will cast some chicken bones.  As a last resort and with nothing to lose I may call a plumber, who through some mixed miracle will actually be able to fix what was ere an absolutely insoluble dilemma. 

It makes me wonder if the plumbing competition is so clogged up (lawdy!) that there is a need to grab every available billboard within a ten-mile radius of my house. Do they have one of those powerful, predictive computer models that suggest my neighborhood is backing up, sewage-wise? That as a group we’re headed for disaster? Thus the personal injury folks are everywhere too.  When the enormous fecal monster rises up out of the ground and begins trampling through houses like Godzilla, we’ll have the right legal counsel. The sharp lawyer with the horse teeth and dyed hair will sue the shit out of everybody. (Getting ridiculous, I know.) 

I have nothing against advertising. It’s good to know that there are people out there with the knowledge and experience to fix problems, provide advice, get you what you need. We’ve come a long way since the days of Burma Shave, the exciting new brushless shaving cream from the fifties. The Burma Shavers developed the ingenious idea of peppering the highways with quartets of billboards that could advertise to a whole new demographic, the highway traveler, who has nothing to do but drive and await each sign for the next line in their clever jingles. Whiskers in the way… Your face is a’bristle… so cut it away… make the women whistle… Burma Shave. I made that one up, but you get the idea. Passengers would eagerly await each billboard for the full stanza. 

But now the landscape is crowded. “Plumber on doody.” “Turn your wreck into a check.” “Get yourself a full head of hair and turn yourself into a casanova,” declares the billboard for the $2-a-graft hair transplant system, complete with bald man looking glum alongside his twin self, now with thick mane, big smile and new wife, hugging him. I’m not sure how many “grafts” it takes to achieve follicle fulfillment, but it won’t be long before his new wife castigates him for his $20,000 debt-ridden head. A loser with hair is still a loser, really, and no amount of grafting will fix that. I once saw a cheapskate who decided to cut some corners and “graft” a lower hairline, while leaving the rest of his dome to the natural receding process so that eventually he had a kind of sparse fence of hair plugs and behind that a vast and shiny pate of nothing. His head looked like a glass lake with some dying reeds at the edge of it. It was the most unnatural looking cosmetic enhancement in creation. Even the poop monster that stalks through my neighborhood was like, “Man, you look stupid.”   

I often wonder why the ambulance chasers don’t just advertise directly on the ambulances. It could be a way to subsidize the rising cost of healthcare. “Turn your smash into cash. Today he’s riding in an ambulance, tomorrow it’s a limousine.”

The social fabric is becoming frayed. The toilets don’t work and people are being run down by callous motorists with deep pockets. When my friends from other parts of the country call me and say “What’s up?” I now tell them, “Turds and civil liability.” That type of answer, unexpected as it is, will usually take any conversation in an entirely new and uncharted direction. I must say, though, there is one billboard I really like, because the guy on it has to be the craziest bastard in the city. He advertises himself as THE diamond merchant of Atlanta and he even puts his picture on the billboard, big as the sun. What better way to alert the cat burglars and jewel thieves than to take out a full billboard along a major highway advertising yourself as the proprietor of millions of dollars of precious gems. I keep driving by it, waiting for the same billboard to advertise a new diamond merchant guy, after the untimely kidnapping and murder of the old guy by wild bandits. 


Aroma-rama and smell-o-vision were experimental ideas that were toyed with in 1950’s cinema. Various odors would be wafted through the theater at particular times to coincide with points in a movie like a villain smoking a cigar, or a woman walking through a rose garden, or a house on fire. It never really took off, which is a bit of a relief. I don’t know why I was thinking of these two concepts the other day while driving. Maybe I was a little put off by all the plumbing ads and then somewhat relieved that I only had to see them and not hear them or smell them. It’s a catchy title. Aroma-rama, except it is a Pandora’s box of downright awful possibilities. Imagine what would happen in a packed theater if the air fans began blowing the smell of carrion through the vents as people watched Leo Dicaprio in The Revenant climb into that dead horse. Rambo in that pig slop. Those Nazis burning to death at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark. Horrendous. 

I am off to my neighborhood pool. I am going to drop in and sink to the bottom. I’m going to let the pressure of the water make strange percussive sounds in my head. I will not be bothered by smells or sights. It’s a place where the advertisers can’t get to me. For a brief time, I will be free.

Happy Memorial Day. Thank a veteran.

More Alembics to come.