|Before Dad KILLED his finals. Post-Christmas tree set-up. Good job, amigos.|
Last week I had an exam for a class called Professional Responsibility, which is all about ethics. Everyone knows about ethics, but lawyers have special ethics. Like you can't sleep with your clients. Which puts lawyers a step above the guys from Def Leppard. So I memorized that rule, and I think it came up a few times on the test. BAM! Can't do it. The answer is C, for "can't." Then I flip the page with authority so the guy taking the test next to me comprehends without question that I. Know. This. Junk.
I think I had a couple other exams, but they were so far beneath me that I forgot what they were about. I vaguely recall something about cod fish and Wrigley Field, but it's like a fond memory of a vastly overmatched foe that succumbed meekly to the sheer force of my intellect. KILLED my finals. Hold on. The Supreme Court is on the phone. They want to go in halvsies on a book called "Things We Think About All the Time that You Can't Even Spell, and Other Ways We're Superior to You." I don't know. I just don't feel like I need to prove anything to the world, you know? Look, I know that if I concentrate hard enough I can set a MacBook Pro on fire just with my intelligence, but does everyone need to know? Probably not. All this talk is interesting and all, but I have a hankering to flush a toilet and watch the water spiral, sooooo... I'm out.