Back

I figure now that I have been absent for over a month it is now possible to start my comeback. I’m like, that one guy who, you know, was gone for a while. And then he came back. And stuff. Except I have an uncomfortably large cock.

How has the last month been? Well thank you for asking. I believe “fucking horrible interspersed with periods of excessive drunkenness” would explain it. The bar exam was horrible. I called my mom not too long after I got out on the second day; she asked how it went. I responded honestly, “Um, well, have you ever been raped by an elephant?” She responded, “No, but that doesn’t sound pleasant at all.” It wasn’t. Not at all. There wasn’t even a smidge of pleasantness involved. It was decidedly unpleasant. However, that night, which involved the ingestion of amounts of alcohol easily measured in tons, was amazing. The next morning, however, not so amazing. There was so much hurt everywhere. I felt pain in places I forgot I had.

And then I packed. Oh lord did I pack. And then I moved. Motherfucker I hate moving. I hate moving more than I hate herpes. And I really hate the herp. Of course moving led me to the biggest clusterfuck ever. You see, I was offered my job as a public defender in March sometime and I was happy. Because I had a job before graduation. Or so I thought.

I was supposed to start work the middle of last week. I say “supposed to” because I managed to lose my job six days before I was supposed to start. Let me reiterate that: I lost my job before I started. I didn’t even get a chance to miss my first day of work or to show up my first day drunk off of my ass. Six days before I was supposed to start as NDC: King Public Defender of the World I got a call from someone in the office. It wasn’t so much a “hey, how’s it going; can’t wait for you to start” type call as much as it was a “hey, how are you; sorry, but the funding for you job has been cut and you are no unemployed after you took the time to move and sign a one year lease at a new apartment so now you’re royally fucked” type call. So that was fun.

Even better, I got that wonderful happy phone call around 3:30 on a Friday afternoon which left me basically no time to accomplish anything of any significance aside from leave a frantic voicemail and send a frantic email to a contact I had. Then I did the only real thing I could think to do: I spent that night, and the following two nights, drinking myself into a drunken stupor and beating off.

Of course, as awesome as I am I didn’t expect the unemployment to last long. Because I’m awesome (I’m not sure if I mentioned that fact or not, but even if I did it bears repeating; because I’m awesome). After sending out my resume and photocopies of my uncomfortably large cock I ended up with two interviews at PD’s offices: one Monday morning and one yesterday afternoon. The interview Monday went great; I dazzled them with big words and proudly showed off my manly hairy testicles. They oohed and aahed and promised they’d be in touch.

The interview Tuesday went just as well, except this time I took a different approach: I unzipped my pants and let my cock hang out so that the uncomfortable largeness would shock them (because it looks bigger in real life than it does when photocopied; trust me; or just ask your mom). Again, I used big words (two of which, I’m certain, were actual words and not just shit I made up). I was told I have a very impressive..............resume and they promised they would be in contact soon.

After that interview I drove back to where I’m living now. And by “where I’m living” I mean “a bar I could drink at because I was done with my interviews and felt like getting drunk.” I got to the bar and started drinking and fifteen minutes later I got a call from the office I interviewed with Monday offering me the job there. This was slightly surprising because I didn’t expect to hear from them until Thursday. Then, somehow, forty five minutes after that, which would have been only two hours after finishing my interview earlier that day, I received a call from the second office offering me that job as well. I mean, I knew I was awesome, but it usually takes people more than two hours to realize this. I’d understand if they had three hours, but two hours is kind of pushing it.

So somehow, in the span of less than two weeks I went from having one job, to having no job, to having two job offers. I now had the opposite problem: instead of not enough jobs (i.e. no fucking job) I somehow had too many jobs. I relished having this problem because, well, basically because I love it when people want me. It’s great because it really strokes my huge.............ego. And there are only I few things I like more than people stroking my ego (hint: these things rhyme with “shmourbon, shmlow shmobs, and shmucking shmot shmadies).

But now there are no worries. I made my decision and picked my job and called the other office to inform them they, sadly, would not be seeing my beautiful, beautiful face around the office. Basically I am now in the exact same position I was when I first moved. I’m staying in the same place because it will be about the same driving distance as it would have been to the job I lost. The only real difference is I’ll miss out on my first two weeks of pay. Whatever, though. I’ve now had three interviews for jobs after law school and I was offered all three of them. I’m not very good at math, but I’m pretty sure that’s like a 78% success rate, give or take. And I’m ok with that.

Promises, Promises

I swear I'll be back at some point soon-ish. Give or take. Bar exam is Tuesday and Wednesday. Wednesday through Sunday is drinking/packing. Monday is moving/drinking. At some point here or there I may actually have internet access. Additionally, Friday is my going away party at the bar (coupled with a friend's going away party) which guarantees I will either A) die Friday night or B) not get out of bed Saturday until sometime after 10:00 p.m. Whatever though.

Back to studying. I fucking hate my life right now.

One Story About Clothes

I was just standing at the bar (shocking, I know) on a Monday night when a bachelorette party came into the bar. And my god, it was the rowdiest bachelorette party I have ever seen in my entire life. There were four, count them, four women. And while they were there each woman had upwards of two drinks. It was amazing. If you’ve never seen a large group of women go crazy like that, you have yet to live. Granted, it was a Monday night when all of the six other people in the bar were going batshit crazy as well, so the party didn’t stick out as much as it could have.

I was standing at the bar watching whatever was on T.V. and generally just being as awesome as I possibly could (note to others: that’s pretty goddamn awesome). Suddenly someone appeared at my side and asked if I would do them a favor. I responded, “Only if that favor is letting you suck my dick.” Then I realized I hadn’t actually said anything so I asked what she needed.

“Um, this might sound kind of weird, but it’s my friend’s bachelorette party and we’re playing this game. . .

“Yeah.”

“Well, can I have one of your socks?”

“Excuse me? Just one sock?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know about that. Then I’d be uneven the rest of the night and it would totally just throw me off.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I just can’t give you one sock.”

“Well, actually the card says to ask a man for his underwear and get him to sign it, but I thought if I said sock it would be more likely you’d say yes.”

“My underwear?”

“Yeah.”

“What underwear do I have on? [Pause to check underwear; pause to think] Yeah, sure, I’ll give you my boxers.”

“Are you serious?”

“Of course.”

“You’d rather give me your boxers than one sock?”

“Trust me, it’s much easier to freeball it for a night than it is to walk around with only one sock.”

And that is how I ended up going commando on a night I didn’t intend to. Additionally, someone out there has a picture of me standing with the bride to be and some other girls holding up a pair of my boxers with my signature across the left ass while I give the camera the thumbs up. I’m really hoping that I can break up at least one marriage in my life and it would be really cool to get that goal out of the way this early in life.

I’ve also found out the mere fact that I’m not wearing underwear slightly creeps some people out. My favorite quote was from one bartender: “[NDC], it’s not the fact that you aren’t wearing underwear that creeps me out, it’s the fact that I know you aren’t wearing underwear.” Of course this only made things worse because after that every time I got another drink after that it went something along the lines of “Hey, can I have another and by the way, did you know there is only one layer of cloth between my balls and the rest of the world?”

Clusterfuck Update

This is the lazy way out to sum up what has been going on since the last time I posted. Basically I’ve just been too damn lazy, busy, and drunk (though not all at once) to actually sit down and write something. It’s not that I don’t love you (cause you know I do, baby), it’s just that when I have free time I prefer to spend that time attempting to forget my own name.

My parents got into town around 10:00 the night before graduation. To say that I was drunk would be an understatement. My mother was very impressed.

I woke up at the asscrack of dawn for graduation the next day. The first thirty minutes of the ceremony were spent trying my hardest not to vomit.

I woke up at the asscrack of dawn the next day in order to meet my parents for breakfast before they flew home. I wanted to shoot myself in the face. But then my roommate and I had a keg party at our house. This made everything bearable.

I was reminded once more that I do not get along well with kegs. I was also reminded why I rarely do shots of liquor. Several hours later I remembered why, even when I do shots of liquor, I don’t have eight shots coupled with eleventy billion beers.

I woke up around noon the next day. Then I stumbled outside to smoke a cigarette. I then immediately started drinking beer again. This would continue until approximately nine or ten that night. And then I went to the bar.

What followed after that was about a week and a half of non-stop drinking. It was every bit as awesome as I think it was. Try to wrap your head around that statement.

Barbri fucking sucks. Sucks huge sweaty donkey balls. It makes me want to cut myself. Suicide is looking better every day.

This isn’t related at all, but goddamn do I hate Barry Bonds. What a fucking douche.

I flew to my parents’ for my youngest brother’s high school graduation. My flight that Friday was supposed to leave at 5:20. However, that just happened to be the day that FAA computers decided to stop working causing cancellations and massive delays. And then some shitty weather hit. Causing cancellations and massive delays. I originally planned on being at the airport for about an hour and a half. I was stuck there for seven fucking hours. Not. Fucking. Happy.

The only good part that came out of the delay was that I ended up sitting next the hot girl on the airplane. You know, that girl you see in the concourse that is so hot you know there is no chance in hell she will ever end up sitting next to you because you are a waste of space and god hates you? Yeah. She sat next to me. She laughed at my jokes; we stared deeply into each other’s eyes; sparks were flying. Then she blew me during takeoff. Or maybe she went to sleep; I don’t remember which. But I’m telling everyone she blew me. Because I’m that awesome.

Barbri still fucking sucks. A lot. I’m basically paying $2,400 to watch TV and fill in blanks for three hours a day. This is every bit as horrible as it sounds.

Three Long Years: By the Numbers

That’s right, another “By the Numbers” post, but this one comprises, you guessed it you literate douchebags, all three years of law school.

91: Number of credits earned at time of graduation; hopefully
Between 0.00 and 4.00: My GPA
Top 100%: My class rank
75: Approximate percentage of reading assignments completed during 1L year
40: Approximate percentage of reading assignments completed during 2L year
20: Approximate percentage of reading assignments completed during first semester 3L year
2: Exact number of reading assignments completed during second semester 3L year
1: Number of broken bones
1: Number of deviated septums
1: Number of stitches required
1: Number of mild concussions
3: Number of broken teeth
2: Number of months straight I was doped up on Loritabs
2: Number of months I’ve been happy in law school; coincidence?
36: Maximum number of hours ever spent studying for an exam
Between 8 and 16: Usual number of hours spent studying for an exam
0: Grades lower than a “C”
100: On a scale of 1 to 100, with 100 being the greatest, level of surprise that the previous number is lower than 8
1: Number of places I interviewed with
1: Number of places that offered me a job following graduation
Not telling: Number of inches long my uncomfortably large cock is; come find out for yourself
20: Number of in-class exams taken
3: Number of take-home exams taken
0: Number of exams I gave a shit about
3: Number of paper-classes taken
226: Number of pages written for papers, memos, and briefs.
Way too fucking many: Number of pages written for exams
11: Hours of clinical credit
11: Total credit hours of classes that were actually useful
7: Approximate number of hours spent per day in the library 1L year
2: Approximate number of hours spent per day in the library 2L year
0: Exact number of times I’ve been in the library 3L year
6: Approximate number of classes where I bought the book and opened the book fewer than three times
6: Approximate number of classes where I should have bought Bourbon instead of the book
2: Number of times I pretended to be absent when called in class
Unsure: Number of times I was called on after not having read
0: Number of times I apologized for having not read
6: Approximate number of times I cursed in class (curse words included fuck, shit, batshit crazy, ass-backwards, and others)
8 billion: Amount of money, in dollars, spent on alcohol and cigarettes
7: Amount of money, in dollars, spent on food which did not fall under the “bad for you” food category
100: Percent chance I will be tanked at graduation
At least 2: Number of days I will be tanked preceding graduation
At least 3: Number of days I will be tanked following graduation
2: Number of days I will be tanked that coincide with my family’s visit
100: Percent chance I will say something that offends my mother
78: Percent chance that the comment will involve sex
95: Percent chance that my father and all three of my brothers will laugh
99: Percent chance my mother will give me a dirty look
99.9: Percent chance my mother will tell me to shut up
10:00: Time graduation starts Saturday morning
8:30: Time I’m supposed to be there all dressed up for some stupid fucking picture
7:45: Time I should probably wake up to make it there by 8:30
4:00: Expected bedtime night before graduation
18: Expected number of comments I will receive that I “look tired” or wondering “how late were you up last night?”
10: Number of days off after graduation until BarBri starts
0: Number of days following graduation, out of ten days off, that my BAC will dip below .15.
11: Number of days following graduation until I start bitching about the law again. Fucking bar.

It Lives; It Breathes

I was going to give all the tens of people that read this site every week some sort of explanation for my month long absence. But then I remembered that I don’t owe you assholes jack shit. I don’t get paid for this shit. People don’t even send me free shit. I mean, fuck, I don’t even get nudie pictures in my email (feel free to help change that; if you’re a woman; well, if you’re a hot woman).

But fuck all that. Here I am; sitting here; close to graduating from law school. Three years. Three longish years. Three longish years where I have learned very little related to the law. I feel like this is all a huge let down; like I should have something, some important thing or revelation to share with you. Or some huge piece of advice to impart on everyone.

Was it worth it? What has law school actually taught me? Do I have any regrets? So many questions that I can barely wrap my mind around much less begin to make sense of. Fuck it, let’s take the questions one by one.

Was it worth it? Well, yes-ish. Which is to say, sort of yes. Law school was worth it in the sense that I’ll now be able to take the state bar and actually be a lawyer. I also met some really great friends which also makes it worth it. Of course, I’ve also met an inordinate amount of motherfucking douchebags as well, so that’s kind of a push. But other than the ability to sit for the bar and making some friends I didn’t get jack shit from this place. I’m no more ready to be a lawyer today than I was three years ago (well, aside from the fact that I am now officially dead inside which means I’ll be able to represent any criminal defendant with no qualms whatsoever, so I guess that helped a bit; of course, I was already well on way to being dead inside before I showed up here, but whatever).

But what did I actually learn here? I’ve been in law school and in this town for three years; it would be pretty sad if I didn’t learn a damn thing, now wouldn’t it? Don’t answer that; it’s a rhetorical question, asshole. Don’t you worry your sweet little ass, I’ve learned plenty. First, I have learned how to bullshit and lie with greater impunity than ever before. This isn’t directly due to law school, but mostly due to the amount of time law school made me spend in a bar by myself trying to entertain myself while sitting next to some fucktard who thinks that just because we’re both alone I give a flying fuck about the fact that his “wife just died” and he’s “feeling all alone” and “might commit suicide in a few days.” I’m not a goddamn psychiatrist nor do I work at the bar; thus, keep your goddamn problems to yourself unless I’m actually your friend.

Second, I learned to drink more than I ever previously thought possible. This is actually going on my resume (along with the fact that I won the 3L class superlative for biggest partier – that’s right, I came first in something in law school; which isn’t as surprising as the fact that I came first in something other than sex, but whatever…). Every year of law school I began to amaze myself more and more. I never thought I could drink more than I did during my 1L year. In hindsight, 1L was fucking child’s play. Then I never thought I’d be able to top 2L year (which really started the summer before with a month long bender that, to this day, is still a bender to rival all benders). Of course 3L year I realized that it’s quite simple to drink insane amounts of booze when you don’t read for class or do anything else. Being a slacker really frees up some drinking time. While I would previously have thought that there is no way I would be able to answer the question “how many have you had” with “somewhere between twenty and twenty-five” and not being lying my ass off, I have this to not only be possible, but frequently is probable. What the fuck ever though.

Third, find one bar that will become your regular bar. Get to know everyone that works there or owns the place. This will pay great dividends in the future.

And finally, I learned that if you get a woman drunk enough, there’s a pretty good chance she’ll let you stick it in her butt.

Lastly, do I have regrets? Of course; who the fuck doesn’t have regrets. Sure, I probably (ok, definitely) have more than my fair share of regrets, but that’s just life. I regret going to as many classes as I did during all three years. I regret doing as many reading assignments as I did during 1L and 2L. I regret missing watching baseball games on TV to, instead, go to class.

But my biggest regret? All the women I haven’t slept with. I regret not repeatedly violating many women. I suppose I still have a few months before I move out of here though. Just let me know if you’re a woman and you feel left out because you haven’t yet been lucky (read: drunk) enough to experience my uncomfortably large cock. I’ve made peace with my regrets; you can still do something about yours.

As long as you’re hot. Well, hot-ish. I’m not that picky. Just ask your mom.

Three Years Old

I'm not quite sure how this happened, but this website, this bastion of uncomfortably large cock jokes, has now been in existence for three years. I have only one real question: What the fuck is wrong with you people?

I mean really? What's your excuse for coming back to read the retarded Bourbon induced crazy ramblings of some stranger? I mean, I know I'm funny, but damn, I'm not that funny. I keep writing sub-par shit and yet you keep reading.

Seriously though, thanks to everyone for reading. Just do me one favor: go find someone that isn't reading this site, and then kick their ass and make them read the site. And then send me naked pictures. And money; send me money. And then get me a book deal so that I can rightfully look down on Jeremy Blachman for something other than my uncomfortably large cock. That's more than one favor, but do them all.

Best of NDC: Three Years Strong(ish)
Make Out With the Bartender
How To Do a Takehome Exam
Summer Plans
My Mother Still Hates Me: Here; Here; And Here
I Finally Get Kicked Out Of the Bar
Fucking Douche
Don't Fuck With Me
Live Like a 3L
Why I Shouldn't Have Kids
Fucking the Stripper
Go Clapton
Best Text Message In the History of the WORLD
I Still Shouldn't Have Kids
Law Revue

Slap My Ass And Call Me Jesus

I feel it is now my ethical obligation to officially move that the MPRE be discontinued as part of the bar admission process in all fifty states. I take this position not because I failed the exam and am pissed off, but rather because I passed the exam. I am, apparently, ethical enough to be a lawyer in all fifty states.

This makes no sense. The fact that I was able to pass this exam with the small amount of studying I did proves the total ineffectiveness of this exam to measure either 1) actual knowledge, or 2) actual ethics. Sure I know some of the important rules, but all that really means in the grand scheme of things is that I’ll know when I’m violating the rules.

Because lord am I going to violate the rules. I’d say that I’m going to steal money from my clients, but I’m going to be a public defender and, let’s face it, they probably (yes, just probably) need that eighteen cents more than I do. But you better believe I’m going to fuck every single moderately attractive female client that walks through my door in an orange jumpsuit and handcuffs telling me she needs to stay in jail because she wants a break from her sixteen children. I’m also willing to lie from them, as long as they hook me up with some quality drug connections. What’s that? You were somewhere else when that crime was committed? Was anyone with you that can corroborate that fact? Cause I’m willing to back you up if you know where I can get some smack. . .

To sum up, even law school exams that aren’t administered by the law school are complete loads of utter shit. Just like your mother.

Look At All The Fucking Babies

A while back I was talking to some people before going to class and they made the observation that all of the 1Ls look so young. I hadn’t really noticed it at that point because, let’s face it, I’m not really on campus that much and when I am I don’t really pay attention to anything other than boobies and asses.

That’s when I started looking around; and goddamn it, they do look young. This makes no sense because I’m probably only one year older than those that went straight through to law school and I’m probably younger than all the rest. Yet they all look twelve. I couldn’t quite figure it out until went to the law school directory and started looking at the pictures of the 3L class.

These pictures were all taken on the first day of orientation. I scrolled through a lot of the pictures, beat off twice, and then noticed that all of us also looked twelve years old on that day.

Then it hit me. Law school ruins you for life. I’ll be twenty-four years old in June, yet when people hear my age the usual response is, “no fucking way you lying sack of shit.” Then when I ask them how old they think I am they respond with the slightly hurtful, but entirely accurate, guess of anywhere between twenty-eight and thirty-six. To which I reply, “Fuck. You. Ass. Hole.”

Is it the stress in law school? Is it dealing with criminal defendants who shouldn’t be in jail? Is it the fact that people, on average, pick up one new addiction during law school (I picked up seven; because I’m awesome)? Is it the fact that law school makes you wish more and more every day for the sweet release of death?

I’m pretty sure it’s a combination of all of the above. I was so excited and optimistic the first day of orientation. I was doing something new and exciting and, uncomfortably large cock aside, I was ready to learn. Well law school just takes all the hope, optimism, and happiness and then it beats it the fuck out of you. Kind of like beating a sack full of puppies with a sack full of kittens and bricks. Then it turns you into a jaded, bitter, depressed, alcoholic asshole with no regard for anyone but yourself.

You started off wanting to help people and change the world and all that hippie bullshit. Now, all you can worry about is where you’re going to get crack tonight since your regular dealer just got arrested (which is really the only reason you hate the cops now; quality drug connections are hard to come by).

Basically, three years of law school has the potential to age you a solid six years. The only real point here is that if you are considering going to law school, don’t. Unless you’re ok with looking four to twelve years older than you actually are. Or if you’re really just looking for three years of binge drinking. Because law school does both of those great.

How To Properly Make An Ass Of Yourself

Law Revue, the annual law school talent show, was the other night. I meant to perform last year with a friend, but instead got too drunk and it became too late. This year, however, it was fucking on. We talked; we planned; we practiced; we performed; we brought the house down.

Most people performed in a completely serious way. Aside from the host, there were several very good musical acts and a belly dancer. Yes, a belly dancer; a belly dancer that I hereby pledge my never ending support to whatever she wants my support for. World peace could be achieved in a week and a half if there were more belly dancers out there.

We figured everyone else would be doing pseudo-serious songs where they actually showcase their talent. That left us with only one option: do the complete opposite of that and try to make people laugh and just have a good fucking time. Mission accomplished.

The venue Law Revue was held is a pretty historic venue both here in town and nationally, to a certain extent. Many big acts have played in that club on their rise to fame and/or after getting there. Before the show I was excited just to play on the stage. That passed quickly. Before I knew it I was backstage and had approximately seven seconds before the debacle got started. Presumably I should have been thinking about all the actual talent that had played on the stage I was about to get up on and focusing on doing our best.

Except the only thing I could focus on was that we were about to open with a song about anal sex.

Yes, you read the previous sentence correctly. We decided to do three songs; all three were carefully calculated to not only rock everyone’s face off, but to culminate in the biggest rocking of all time. Of course we had to be completely prepared for this; no mistakes allowed. I was playing guitar and singing and my buddy was singing backing vocals.

We had to open with an attention grabber. We chose Stephen Lynch’s “Classic Rock Song.” Watch a video of Stephen Lynch performing the song here; make sure you listen to the entire song. Then imagine someone performing that entire song in a club full of law students. Pure awesomeness.

From there, there was nowhere to go but up. So that’s where we went. After shocking a few people with the Stephen Lynch song, it was time to lull them into a false sense of security before the finale. What better way to make everyone complacent then with one of the greatest songs written in the history of the world: “Wanted Dead or Alive” by Bon Jovi. In case anyone was wondering, the intro to that song is just a little difficult to play when you’ve been trying to ingest enough liquid courage to get you on stage in the first place.

Everyone loved the Bon Jovi song. Which is good, because that meant I didn’t have to murder any of them. Even better, a group of our friends decided to rush the stage during the song and throw underwear at us. Fucking priceless.

And then it was time for the closer. I was slightly apprehensive about the song but I had made up my mind long before. I was playing the damn song and it was going to be goddamned awesome. Either that, or I was about to be in a room full of pissed off people. With one more sip from my PBR bomber, which I brought on stage with me, I was ready to go regardless of the outcome.

From what I remember, I started off the introduction for the final first my letting all the ladies know that, yes, I’m single. I then apologized in advance. While strumming the first three chords of the song, I asked if everyone liked Ben Folds. The response was favorable. I told everyone that I liked to think of the song as a love song; a song about friendship. Then the kicker: “Originally written by Dr. Dre.”

And then we launched into the Ben Fold’s version of “Bitches Ain’t Shit.”

I almost lost it right at the beginning; I almost started laughing my ass off. But I kept my game face on and we sang about bitches. And how they ain’t shit but hoes and tricks. And how they should lick on these nuts and suck the dick. Then gets the fuck out after they’re done. Then I hops in my ride to make a quick run.

Oddly enough, the response was great. Nobody threw rocks at us; nobody tried to bitch us out afterwards. In fact, people loved us. We were described as, “Really good,” “Awesome,” “Great,” and “God NDC, your cock is so uncomfortably large.”

Slacker Update

Since I haven’t posted in approximately sixteen years, here’s a half-assed update of random shit. If you don’t like it, well, you can go fuck yourself right in the asshole. With a brick. Without lube.

I took that goddamned piece of shit MPRE. If I am able to pass this then that proves the complete ineffectiveness of this exam at gauging how ethical anyone will ever be. If I fail the exam than the MPRE has done its job.

Nothing starts off your last spring break ever worse than having to take the goddamn MPRE.

Nothing starts off your last spring break ever better than beginning a fifteen hour drink-a-thon right after you get done with the MPRE.

Opening day for baseball is about eleven days away. This makes me so happy that I might accidentally pee myself. I am completely at ease with this.

Somehow, someway, I now have a job after graduation. I attribute this to my ability to hold my liquor. And my uncomfortably large cock.

Yes, it’s a real job; I’m not hooking on the streets or dealing drugs. Or at least that income isn’t being reported to the IRS. Yes, it’s a job as a public defender (a.k.a. keep poor people out of jail).

I did not die on St. Patrick’s Day. This amazes me just as much as everyone else. It might not have been the best idea to start the day off with a Jager bomb followed by four or so Irish car bombs, but that’s how I roll, yo.

If all things go according to plan I will actually graduate in about two months. This amazes me just as much as everyone else.

A friend and I are planning to embarrass ourselves handily at Law Revue this year. I expect a hilarious debacle of the highest order. You may or may not agree. I may not or may not care. Yes, you read that right.

I currently have twelve thousand papers to write. I am not at ease with this.

Another post-coital sex joke: So, I think we should name our first kid “Chastity.”

An Open Letter

Dear Nose,

Listen man, I know we’ve had our problems. Sure, I broke you once while playing tag in kindergarten. But that was an accident. I really didn’t see that kid’s head coming at you. One surgery later, though, you were just fine. And I know what you’re going to say next: yes, I broke you again about two and a half years ago in what can best be termed an “unfortunate piggyback related incident.” But you’re fine now.

The point in this letter is that I am formally requesting that you stop fucking bleeding for no goddamn reason when I’m out in public. If you want to bleed please have the common courtesy to confine the bleeding to when I’m at home. I know that seems like a lot to ask, but it really isn’t.

Here’s my second compromise: continue with the random nosebleeds in public but please, for the love of all that is right and holy in the world, stop fucking bleeding when I’m at the bar. It may seem odd to be fine with nosebleeds unless I’m at the bar, but I’m going to clue you in on what the difference is.

See, when you have a nosebleed in public, nobody gives a flying fuck. But when you have a nosebleed at the bar, everyone and their mother assumes you’re a cokehead. After some drunk fucker in the bathroom assumes you use blow on a daily basis there is no convincing him otherwise.

I can tell him, “Really, I don’t do coke.” This will be met with a response of, “Haha; sure man.” Of course it won’t end there. This leads to the drunk piece of shit asking me if I have a bump he can “borrow.” Really? I don’t do coke. However, if I did do coke, you can be goddamn sure that I wouldn’t give that shit away for free to some fucking stranger in a bar. What an asshole. Not only did he assume I had coke on me, he assumed I had no problem giving it away for free.

For this reason, Nose, please stop. Stop the madness. Keep the cheap druggies away from me. Or at least send me some druggies that are willing to pay.

With loving smooches,
NDC

Easily Bought

I was sitting at home doing what I usually do when I’m at home (calculus for fun) when I received a text message from the bartender working happy hour:

Bartender: Happy hour, [Bar], come!

Not liking to be ordered around, I respond:

NDC: What? I don’t even get a please? You’re just going to tell me what to do?

God, I’m so nice. She comes back with:

Bartender: Yes! Creepy red head is here. [”Creepy red head” is a, you guessed it, creepy red head who followed the bartender around one night and tried to convince her to meet him in the corner; classy guy – Ed.]

Being the class act that I am and noticing that I had a friend in need I naturally replied:

NDC: Maybe I should just let you two hang out. I wouldn’t want to interrupt a budding romance.

I’m a good friend. But then she pulled the trump card:

Bartender: Shut the fuck up and get here please. First two drinks on me if you’re here in thirty minutes or less.

Sixteen minutes later I strolled into the bar. I will do anything for Bourbon.

WTF?

I was driving home from class yesterday. Yes, I actually do go to class. Well, I go to most classes. I go to at least sixty percent of them. Or at least sixty percent of most of them. Anyway, that’s not the fucking point.

The point here is that there are some batshit fucking crazy people in this town. And I run into them a lot. I spend a lot of time downtown where the homeless people wander. In addition to that I’m taking a class this semester where I work in the public defender’s office. At that office I am blessed enough to interview clients at the jail and the office. These people are all insane. First there was the lady who had been hopped up on meth for so long she couldn’t remember what happened; then the guy that heard voices; the guy who was unsure how many children he had and only knew five of their names; the twenty-three year old guy that already had five kids; the guy that punched some lady square in the nose; the lady who had no idea where her bruises came from; etc., etc., etc.

All batshit crazy. Because I have to deal with fucking retards everywhere I go (yes, that includes law school; goddamn does that include law school), and have subsequently gotten used to them, I have two places where I become actively angry when dealing with dumbasses: 1) at home; and 2) in my car.

When I’m driving in my car and see someone do something stupid (like hold hands with their girlfriend in public; or run the red-light because you’re too busy talking on your goddamn cell phone to notice what a cunt you’re being so that I come about three feet from T-boning you) I become pissed off. I’m not pissed off because they are annoying or retarded. I’m pissed off just because I’m sick of dealing with dumbshits.

Now, I was driving home from class yesterday when I saw someone riding their bike down the sidewalk. While that is pretty normal, the mother fucker was carrying a box fan. You read that correctly. A dude. Riding a bike. Sidewalk. Typical twenty inch box fan. Aneurysm in my head.

I was delirious. I was at a stop light and all I could do was stare at this odd combination slowly moving away from me. On top of that, I was trying to wrap my mind around why this was going on. I needed some sort of pseudo-plausible explanation as to why this man was on a bike with a box fan or I knew, even at that point, that I would never get to sleep that night; kept awake by the curse of the inexplicable dumbass on a bike. With a box fan.

I sat there and thought. I stared at him as I passed him; hoping beyond all hopes that some sort of explanation would present itself if I only paid enough attention. No such luck. No matter how hard I looked he was still nothing more than a tool riding a bike while holding a box fan.

I’d really like to get some sleep tonight so I’m dedicating the next several hours to finding some reason to ride a bike. While holding a box fan.