Juggalo Law

Posts by Juggalo Law

On Tuesday, I wrote about my own student loan debt. And how someone needs to do something quick about it before it, and things, get out of control. It took a great deal of personal responsibility on my part to own up to the fact that the government needs to bail me out. While I agonized over the decision of whether to come out against my own financial ruin, I eventually decided that if I could save one student from a lifetime of crippling debt, one adult from poverty, one person from pawning off their Billy Ripken f**kface baseball card just to buy eggs, well… I hope that one person is me.

In related news of Randian pluck and rugged individualism, America’s baseball teams have been swallowed whole by a hungry horde of destitute billionaires. The latest in this very proud lot is the Ricketts family, who bravely spent close to a billion dollars of someone else’s money to buy the Chicago Cubs. This week brought news that the clan may move the Cubs out of Wrigley Field, their home and frat boy toilet for close to one hundred years. And why is such an iconic urinal being threatened?

Because the owners of the Cubs don’t have as much money as they pretend to have. And because someone must pay. And that someone is someone else.

Let’s play two…

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“I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked.”

– Allen Ginsberg, Howl

I am supposed to be paying something on the order of $2,500 a month in student loan repayments. I currently make a shade over $55,000 a year which, after taxes, comes out to a tick under $3,200 a month. Please don’t mistake me for a braggart, dear reader, as I am a man much like yourself. I get up every morning and slip my cheap suit on one pant leg at a time. Just like you! It’s just that, after my threadbare suit is hanging from my gaunt frame, I have dozens of dollars to my name. Dozens.

If you are reading this website, you are well-acquainted with the state of student debt in this country. Above The Law, once a bastion for bottles, models, bonuses, and benefits, covers the hangover now too. The hangover is a useful start for any consideration of debt in this country, as it turns out. Shot through with the morality that only the descendants of Puritans can muster, debt in this country is treated not unlike a sexually transmitted disease or pleated pants: it’s moral turpitude that led you here.

Remember kids, banks will never ever ever forget your student loans. They may forgive them, though. As if they’re handing out papal dispensations from on high, banks are passing moral judgment even when your duties as a debtor may be discharged.

This is the moral universe we currently reside in. And it’s one that has seriously warped consequences.

This story is about Nazis and sex slavery…

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In honor of last night’s first round of the NFL Draft, I decided to scrap my usual routine this week. That routine consists of combing the internets for sports stories that ever-so-slightly touch on legal matters and bringing those stories to you with a healthy dose of deranged non sequiturs. This column rarely makes sense and when it inexplicably does, it may be even more unreadable. No matter, as last night’s auction of human beings gave me an idea that, I hope, will really knock your socks off your now-naked feet.

Because football players are largely detestable human beings, I thought it would be interesting to take a stroll through the last twenty years of NFL drafts to recount the first round draft picks who have had scrapes with the law. From felonies to misdemeanors to a sidebar on the bizarre physical specimen that was Mark McGwire’s brother, herewith is the Rap Sheet Roll Call of the NFL Draft, Round One. The 31st and 32nd picks do not have a twenty year history and were, thus, omitted.

All facts cited come from the players’ Wikipedia entries, unless otherwise linked. Because I’m not going to the trouble of hyperlinking everything while the NFL Draft is on.

Let’s talk Mel Kiper’s hair and Mark Mayock’s lateral lisp…

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The only good things to ever happen to the city of Cleveland occurred in the movie Major League. From “Wild Thing” Ricky Vaughn to Willie “Mays” Hayes, the Indians were never such a joy to watch as they were during that fateful summer, when they climbed back into contention against the cretinous Yankees and their slugger Clu Haywood (“Haywood leads the league in most offensive categories, including nose hair.”). With a roster that resembled nothing so much as the Island of Misfit Toys, the Indians were an absolute delight to watch.

In real life, Cleveland is an angry, festering boil of despair. The Indians suck, the Cavaliers suck, and the Cuyahoga River catches fire likes it’s made of charcoal briquettes. If there is a God, and he is a vengeful one, that God hates Cleveland. There is no other explanation for the singularly awful string of events that have befallen Cleveland sports during my lifetime. The Drive, the Decision, the Fumble, the Shot. God hasn’t sodomized a town like this since Sodom.

Yesterday, news leaked that the Cleveland Cavaliers were considering rehiring coach Mike Brown. While hilarious, this has nothing to do with the law. Instead, we are here to talk about Jimmy Haslam. Haslam bought the Cleveland Browns just this past October. This week, it was announced that the FBI and the IRS had raided the headquarters of Haslam’s company, Pilot Flying J. Yesterday, the feds announced why they had done this.

Let’s talk misery. Let’s talk despair. Let’s talk Cleveland.

Let’s talk sports…

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“You do it to yourself, you do. And that’s what really hurts.”

– Radiohead, Just

A few weeks ago, I blew your collective mind with a post about marijuana cigarettes and the lawyers who love them. Everyone agreed that it was a true revelation and a rare insight into the human condition. Lawyers stopped each other on the Subway, put down their five-dollar foot longs, and talked about pot use and what it means for lawyers who are still struggling to find jobs in an economy that deems them superfluous and sometimes even magnanimous about their superfluity. The words. They just pile up sometimes, one after another.

You know what else takes the edge off?

Good old ‘bating. Partner drops a big ol’ pile of suck on your desk at 5 p.m.? Might as well ‘bate. Judge says your motion is denied? ‘Bate. Your client is found guilty of ‘bating? Well, we’ll get to that.

When it comes to lowering stress, there’s not a single thing better than masturbation. It’s sex with someone you love, as Woody Allen once said (before he impeached himself on issues of appropriate objects of love).

Yesterday, New York Magazine highlighted a movement to deny oneself… oneself. And if you or David Lat or anyone else not named you or David Lat thinks I can’t stretch the connections between that New York Magazine article and the legal community into something approaching an entire post, you’re sorely mistaken.

Because we’re about to talk about the most Learned of Hands….

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My dear sweet girlfriend Stephanie doesn’t understand sports. To nothing and no one in particular, she will say “How can anyone get upset over the results of a game?” I mentally catalog my responses. That it’s a shared culture and every result arrives like a cascade of memories, connecting fathers and sons and entire families. Place and time all wrapped up and held within a blowout victory or a narrow loss. I get frustrated. I realize that she could never understand this compulsion. I would have better luck explaining what the color blue is. Words fail me as this column attests to on a semi-weekly basis. And my mind instinctively reaches for every illogical thing she does, from the interminably long morning routine to the row of bras, neatly displayed on a table in her living room. Explain the bras, Stephanie! If you’re such a cold, calculating machine, explain the terrifyingly ordered row of bras on the table!

This all happens in the span of fifteen seconds. And at the end of the psychic meltdown, I look over and see Stephanie staring off into space, not caring about sports or even those who care about sports. She doesn’t care about the question or the answer, I realize.

My dear sweet girlfriend Stephanie trolls me on a regular basis.

Let’s talk sports…

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That was the day that Nancy Grace’s nipple popped out on TV. Her nipple popping out was what caused that home run.

Brandon McCarthy, pitcher for the Arizona Diamondbacks, wildly speculating as to what could have caused him to give up a home run during a game played in 2011. McCarthy is referencing Nancy Grace’s “wardrobe malfunction” that occurred during her stint on Dancing With the Stars.

Yo, You Smoke?

You were going to read this post, until you got high.

Yo, you smoke? I mean, you like to get high? I like to smoke pot on occasion. I don’t remember if the character and fitness application for bar admittance asked about drug use, but I think it probably did. It doesn’t matter, of course. Just another brick in the wall of hypocrisy that our nation’s drug laws and attitudes have become. Or have always been. I don’t really know. But seriously, you smoke?

I’ve never been terribly enthusiastic about smoking weed. To be honest, I’m too lazy to develop a serious pot habit. To me, it’s no different than collecting stamps or reading literature. It takes effort. And that’s just something that I don’t have much of in large amounts. This is all to say that if I were a harder worker or had more motivation to do something/anything, I’d probably be a pothead. I mean, I like smoking pot well enough.

This weekend, the New York Times blew up your bubby’s spot. And Rand Paul went on national television and said a whole lot of sensible things that no one in their right minds could disagree with. And, well, it got me thinking.

Yo, you smoke?

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I’m currently watching the NCAA tournament (Elie Note: I went to school in Boston, well, not IN Boston!) and absentmindedly typed an entire introduction for a post based on the paternity suit filed against Michael Jordan. To give you a peek behind the creative curtain, I started with a Smiths quote (“I am the son, and the heir…”), discussed the Sports Illustrated article that gave us Shawn Kemp’s three dozen children, and managed to even cobble together a joke that traveled from Heir Jordan to Herr Jordan to Michael Jordan’s Hitler mustache. I was particularly proud of that one.

Well, wouldn’t you know it, but that very lawsuit was covered at length by our own Staci Zaretsky a few weeks ago. At any rate, the lawsuit against Jordan was dismissed this week but you wouldn’t and shouldn’t care about any of that. Seriously, though, that introduction was dope as hell.

So I’m currently watching the NCAA tournament. I might have mentioned this. And if you think that I’ll be able to focus on this post about the intersection of sports and law and whatever else I care to mention (The Smiths!), you’re a stone cold dummy. So as a testament to your humble sports columnist’s devotion to, well, sports, this week’s offering will be a bit more scattershot and blessedly short.

VCU-Akron just tipped and Akron looks scared. Let’s talk sports…

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You mean the guy who allegedly killed a tree over a football game might be crazy? WHO WOULD HAVE GUESSED?

I don’t mean to brag, but I took two different classes dedicated to studying the First Amendment during law school. The first, a semester-long meditation on the ideas behind that bill of right, was much like war: long stretches of boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror. I don’t remember the two or three interesting things I learned in the class, but I remember feeling vaguely alive a few times. The second class, a more straightforward survey of the law, didn’t leave a mark on my consciousness the two times I actually went.

I’m a bit of a First Amendment scholar.

I do know that this most holy and invoked of all our rights has been the refuge of not a few rascals and reprobates. The adorable Larry Flynt is always available to slur a few words in support of free speech. And while I hate Illinois Nazis too, they play an outsized role in the history of the First Amendment.

To this estimable list of patriots comes an unabashed piece of redneck trash from the great state of Alabama. May it please the Court and roll damned tide, let’s talk Harvey Updyke, let’s talk sports.

Roll tide, y’all…

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