Juggalo Law

Posts by Juggalo Law

Perhaps you remember them differently than I do. I remember a herd (and I don’t think it’s ungenerous to describe them thusly) parked at a table in our library. Bad skin, weight issues, nearsightedness — three-dimensional representations of a Far Side cartoon, hunched over the table in deep meditation. Wisecracks that weren’t wise at all bubbled up from the corners of the action. These were the jesters of this unfortunate royal court. And then suddenly! Action! One of the herd leaned over and subtly, but deftly, turned a stack of playing cards ever-so-slightly to the right. MAGIC!!!!!!???

Magic: The Gathering appeared at my high school seemingly out of nowhere. It appeared, to these eyes, to coalesce the scattered nerdery into a tight circle of “fun.” Lunches were now solemn affairs, after school was now not just a wasteland of sports and athletic enterprise. Time was filled with a card game that combined all the sexiness of Dungeons and Dragons with all of the mental dexterity of Go Fish. Pre-internet, you have to understand, this must have seemed like a godsend to those whose dance cards never involved dances.

And so it is that Magic: The Gathering reappeared on my radar this weekend as the New York Times ran a piece about its continuing popularity and recent beneficence. Specifically, the dorkiest game of all time is doing its part to make law school more affordable for the few, the proud, the Poindexters…

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I met Robert F. Kennedy Jr. once. In college, a group I padded my résumé with hosted Mr. Kennedy for a speech. I remember him being a bit of a frosty prick, but he didn’t seem uniquely so. As aloof as a successful person who was born into “American royalty” might be expected to be. His vocation was saving the world via environmental activism and his voice was reedy and fragile, seemingly one solid throat-clearing away from productive use. There was a dinner held for him. It was lame and sad. A wan salad and food-service chicken breast, covered in food-service tomato sauce. During his speech, Kennedy upbraided a young idealist for his recycling, which wouldn’t accomplish much in Kennedy’s mind. Corporations wouldn’t be moved by this crunchy college kid’s quixotic trash-collection fetish.

I remember all these details from a thoroughly unremarkable speech and event and yet today I feel like my memory is somehow porous and unreliable. Because in all those bits of detail, I don’t have any memory of a straight-up horndog, macking on the finest ladies the University of Kansas had to offer. Must have been a “victory” day for RFK 2 (explanation to come).

Yesterday, the New York Post published a few scant details from a “sex diary” Kennedy allegedly kept in 2001 — a tale of sexual conquest and Catholic guilt. According to the Post, this environmental lawyer and Kennedy bro unfortunately chose to memorialize his own insane solipsism.

There are those who look at famous lawyers who leave a trail of incriminating evidence and ask why? I dream of sex diaries that dare to be read and ask, why not?…

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Click the picture for the full story on Deadspin

From: juggalolaw@gmail.com
Date: Thu, Sep 5, 2013 at 08:25 PM
Subject: I don’t see the sports law thing…
To: “AbovetheLaw Tips”

…coming tonight. On top of the first game of the season, this is a dead *$#*ing week for sports law stuff. More concussion news? Who gives a ****? I don’t. I wrote everything I’m gonna write about that crap last week. I realize you may not view my cri de coeur re: Abraham Lincoln stone genitals as the end-all-be-all on the concussion crisis, but I don’t curr. Concussion crisis? I swear I just used that formulation because it’s alliterative. Concussion crisis crab cake concubine. Christ, I’m sorry. You know I go long with these emails….

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Bet you can still get through that thing to someone’s brain.

Jefferson, are you injured or are you hurt?–James Caan, The Program

Yossarian was moved very deeply by the absolute simplicity of this clause of Catch-22 and let out a respectful whistle.–Joseph Heller

A few years ago, ESPN’s Monday Night Countdown used to do this bit where their assorted chuckleheads would sit around reviewing the biggest hits the NFL’s weekend action had to offer. At the soaring crescendo of each smash, one of the giggling ninnies would shout “You got JACKED UP!!!” And everyone would dissolve into further paroxysms of laughter.

I’m not going to tell you that I knew what was being displayed on the TV was morally reprehensible back then. Quite frankly, I’ve never been on the vanguard of moral consciousness. I was recently shocked to find out that beating your pets is not only frowned upon, but deeply taboo in almost every social circle. This late life come-to-Jesus moment does nothing for Rascal, who’s still smarting over my intemperate outbursts.

The point, if there is one, is that the arc of the moral universe seems to be about as long as my patience with animals. Everyone I know is getting gay married these days, weed is damn near legal, and slobberknocking hits are now, if not wholly condemned, quietly enjoyed in the privacy of one’s home (like samizdat or BBW porn). Strange days, indeed.

Yesterday, the NFL settled a major lawsuit filed against it by former players who claimed the league had failed to protect its players in the face of mounting evidence that concussions were making them permanently stupid or crippled or sad or worse.

Let’s talk which side got JACKED UP.

Let’s talk sports…

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A brief tangent. I was shocked and appalled to find out that I wasn’t asked my thoughts about being no-offered by your summer firm. As, perhaps, the only ATL writer who found himself in such a situation, I thought my insights would be particularly valuable. Instead of cobbling together that fake-as-hell gchat (“I think that is a fine point, sir. As I cogitate on this question, allow me to interject a brief few words in support of the fair maiden whose plight we now consider.”), they could have asked me: straight up, what did you do when Baker & McKenzie no-offered you?

Excellent question, Lat. I let a single teardrop roll down my cheek like I was Denzel in Glory. Then I picked myself up, slapped my dog in the face and did, like, 16,000 biceps curls. I determined that I wasn’t going to let some dumb dumb law firm dictate my life’s trajectory. I was going to be a huge success, someday reaching upwards of two dozen people as a writer for the Internet’s preeminent website for law firm bonuses and women’s shoes. I was also not going to let Baker’s decision get in the way of my life’s dream to one day work at a terrible office filled with half-wit lunatics who either don’t know I’m a lawyer or don’t care. To quote Matthew Wilder, I decided that no law firm gonna break-a my stride, nobody’s gonna slow me down. Oh no. I’ve got to keep on moving!

I also considered taking a huge dump outside Baker’s offices.

Let’s talk sports…

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You go to war with the army you have, not the army you might want or wish to have at a later time.–Donald Rumsfeld

That line, besides being a viciously subtle slap at this great nation’s servicemen and women, also contains a great amount of wisdom. Rummy’s lines had a way of doing that (known knowns, unknown unknown, gnome noams, etc.). For instance, today the sports world stands on the precipice of two wars. And as we survey the looming battlefields, sabres drawn, guns loaded, war analogies wild and unkempt, we face the very real prospect of going to war not with the army we want, but the army we have. Namely, Alex Rodriguez and Johnny Manziel.

But go to battle we must. Our nation’s sports, all teetering precariously on a foundation of absolute hypocrisy, threaten to come crashing down. We are aghast at the mere presence of performance enhancing drugs. At least, that’s what some dude at GNC told me. And while we believe in the free market reflexively, we do not believe a 20-year-old should share in the fruits of his labors. These are the motivating paradoxes of our current sports age and they are threatening to unravel right before our eyes. Isn’t this exciting!? It’s like when the Berlin Wall came down and the kid in your class brought the little pebble and he said “Look, this was the Berlin Wall.” And you squinted and shivered at the mere sight of such an important artifact but, seriously? You wanted to beat that kid in the face and take his history rock.

Let’s talk something other than that jerk kid and his cool commie gravel…

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Dwyane Wade with his new girlfriend (ex-wife not pictured).

Love and marriage, love and marriage,
Go together like a horse and carriage.
This I tell ya, brother, you can’t have one without the other.

Less than a mile from the Buckingham Fountain, a woman plopped her butt down on the pavement, arranged her various cardboard signs and proceeded to hold court. Sitting mere feet away from a man who blows a loud whistle and holds signs accusing the FBI of rape and Obama of… something, the woman’s protest wouldn’t have registered here in Chicago if it weren’t for one thing: the woman was Dwyane Wade’s ex-wife.

A woman I work with announced it rather blithely Friday afternoon. “Dwyane Wade’s ex-wife is across the street protesting something about money.” Those of us who care deeply about basketball and freakshows and anything that will distract us from our awful jobs immediately ran to the window. And there she was (picture after the jump).

Siovaughn Funches was Dwyane Wade’s high school sweetheart. I imagine she had lived a fairytale life as her young beau climbed the rungs of basketball success and made his way to untold millions. Or maybe not. I can’t say I know exactly what Siovaughn Funches thought about her marriage. What I can say is that Siovaughn Funches sat on the ground and showed how powerless the law can be when it comes face-to-face with profound mental unbalance.

What if I told you Siovaughn Funches wasn’t the craziest story involving a basketball player’s love life this week? What if I told you about an abortion contract? Is that something you might be interested in?

Let’s talk sidewalks and abortions…

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“I am hyper-sensitive when it comes to name calling and ethnic slurs — just look at my name. I bristle when people are derided as dumb Polacks, greedy Jews, smelly Pakis, stupid beaners, camel jockeys, frogs and gooks. There are many more but no reason to list them all.”

Deyan Ranko Brashich

Brashich, an NYU Law School graduate and attorney, just wrote a gem of a column for the Litchfield County Times. Let’s check out more from his bats**t editorial, shall we?

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This world is absolutely crawling with DUI attorneys. You wouldn’t know it to look at this website, but it’s fairly clear out here in Amurrica that DUI attorneys outnumber other attorneys by at least a seventeen or eighteen-to-one margin. If you don’t believe me, perhaps you’ll believe Google? A search for “DUI attorney” returns over 27 million hits. Whereas a search for “clown gingivitis” only returns 638,000. So yeah, there are a ton of DUI attorneys in this world.

If you’re wondering why I’m wasting your time and mine on hilarious Google searches, it’s because this is the week that sports figures decided to get all sorts of liquored-up and go on joyrides. Well, this is the week I decided to write about sports figures getting all sorts of liquored-up and going on joyrides. Because, truthfully, athletes and those who employ them have a long history of drunk driving. I refer you to my first paragraph. Those lawyers didn’t multiply like wet Gremlins because work was hard to come by. Indeed, drunk driving is a crime that is enjoyed by a wide swath of Americans, from a young me to a slightly older me to those who aren’t even me. Now, this is not to downplay the seriousness of the crime. It’s a terribly reckless thing to do and it should be punished harshly.

Let’s talk boozin’ and cruisin’…

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Hernandezing!

When I’m watchin’ my T.V.
And that man comes on to tell me
How white my shirts can be
But he can’t be a man ’cause he doesn’t smoke
The same cigarettes as me

–The Rolling Stones

(FYI, this post was written while watching the NBA draft, so it is especially sloppy. I do not, however, have a good excuse for the picture of Elie after the jump.)

Fashion is hard. No one knows that better than I. Currently, I have two suits at my disposal. Two. One’s blue and stretches at the seams when I put it on and the other is brown and it billows out around me at the slightest provocation, looking for all the world like a suit my older brother gave me that I just need to grow into. Brown and blue. I try my best to religiously switch back-and-forth, but most weeks are taken up by only one of the suits. This week has been brown in case you were wondering. I used to rock a charcoal number, but that thing was so big, I appeared to be doing a very sad David Byrne impersonation.

If you’re wondering why my patented “Who gives a f&*%?” personal anecdote this week is dedicated to couture, it’s because we are on the cusp of a revolution. Not since Kriss Kross wore their Starter jackets backwards (R.I.P. the one who died) has a fashion statement arrived with such force and absurdity. And not since Mike Tyson made everyone run out and get face tattoos has a menacing athlete changed the aesthetic game so boldly. This week, Aaron Hernandez got arrested for murder. Miranda means he didn’t have to say anything. It was his right to remain silent, for christ’s sake. Something something something…FASHION STATEMENT!!!

Let’s talk white shirts worn just so…

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