Naked Drinking Coffee

Back

2007-08-22T15:28:00.003-04:00

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

2007-07-21T21:37:00.000-04:00

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

2007-06-29T13:18:00.001-04:00

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

2007-06-13T15:06:00.001-04:00

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

2007-05-17T13:40:00.000-04:00

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

2007-05-12T13:46:00.000-04:00

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

2007-04-12T12:01:00.000-04:00

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

2007-04-09T21:24:00.001-04:00

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

2007-04-06T18:29:00.000-04:00

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

2007-03-30T16:20:00.000-04:00

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

2007-03-22T12:13:00.001-04:00

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

2007-03-08T13:43:00.000-05:00

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

2007-03-01T15:16:00.001-05:00

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?

2007-02-27T14:40:00.000-05:00

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.

Bedroom Humor

2007-02-21T16:19:00.001-05:00

After reading up on my Humor Trumps All Theorem I received an email asking if I really made jokes while in the bedroom. To answer briefly, of course I do.

To answer not briefly, goddamn, of course I do. Not only do I make jokes in the bedroom before and after sex (note: my favorite after-sex-joke is to walk up behind the still naked girl, pat her on the ass a few times, and tell her "good game"), but I’ve also been known to stop in the middle of sex just to attempt humor. Jokes made during sex are met with laughter, a glare and an instruction to “Shut the fuck up and keep going you goddamn asshole,” or snoring and drooling (depending on how drunk/passed out the girl is).

As an example for everyone, I was having sex with this girl who, many hours beforehand, made it clear that she didn’t want to worry about me getting “clingy.” After I stopped laughing I assured her that she need not worry because, as my friends repeatedly remind me, I don’t have a “heart” or “soul” or “emotions” or “feelings.” This set me up for a perfect joke many hours later.

We were having sex on her bed and I was on top. We had been going at it for a while when I suddenly stopped moving completely and stared deeply into her eyes (a Fabio-esque seductive stare; but much more seductive and sexy; and with an uncomfortably large cock). I looked in her eyes for about five seconds and said, in a soft loving voice, “So . . . I was thinking . . . we should have a spring wedding . . .”

I found it oddly hilarious.

I think she told me to shut up and keep going.

Fifteen Awkward Minutes

2007-02-19T13:14:00.000-05:00

Hypothetically speaking, let’s say you hypothetically went to visit a friend who lives a hypothetical four hours away. Now you’re hypothetically thirty minutes into the hypothetical drive home when you realize you have to take a hypothetical shit. And hypothetically, this shit cannot wait twenty more minutes, much less three and a half more hours. This is bad news. Hypothetically, of course.

I was traveling on the interstate and so I pulled off at the next exit; there were two gas stations; one on each side of the road. I had to make a quick decision. Sadly, instead of turning into what looked like a reputable Shell Station I went with the ominous sounding “El Cheapo.” That’s right; the gas station was actually named El Cheapo. In hindsight, some warning bells should have went off at this point but I was way too concerned with releasing the demons from inside of me as soon as possible.

As to be expected, the bathroom was absolutely filthy. The stall looked even worse than the rest of the bathroom. This didn’t bode will with me because I hate away games. I despise away games. I just can’t concentrate the way I’d like to when I don’t have the home field advantage. Sadly, I had no choice here and I only had about sixty seconds to spare before the literal shit hit the figurative fan.

And that’s when things got interesting. Not only was the bathroom dirty and funky smelling, but there was no toilet paper. I stared disbelievingly at the empty toilet paper holder for roughly ten seconds. What are the chances? Apparently when you go to El Cheapo, the chances are good. Really fucking good.

I stood there, extremely conflicted, for about ten more seconds and then I had to make a decision. I realized I didn’t have the time to get back in my car and cross the street. I had to stay there, and I had to find some way to make it work. The only saving grace was the fact that there were paper towels in the dispenser next to the sink.

This led to the next problem: not only did I have to guess how many paper towels I would need (tip: always overestimate) but I had to hope that the paper towels wouldn’t clog the toilet. I could just imagine the worse case scenario: I stand up and flush and right after that someone else walks in the bathroom. The toilet clogs and starts overflowing crap-water. I would then calmly walk out of the stall and say, “How’s it going?” to the other occupant, wash my hands, and then run the fuck away from the bathroom.

Luckily the toilet did not overflow and I was able to calmly leave the store instead of running away like I just robbed the place.

I did learn two lessons from this: First: Never under any circumstances take a shit at the El Cheapo gas station; and Second: Wiping your ass with restroom paper towels is comparable to wiping your ass with thirty grit sandpaper.

Lazy

2007-02-14T12:14:00.001-05:00

Because I'm lazy here's a re-post of what I posted last Valentine's Day. May everyone out there have lovely sex with a person we all know you're breaking up with two days from now. If you're a guy, make sure you use the fact that you spent $480 for one night in order to guilt your girl into giving you some anal. If you're a girl, well, give your guy some anal. Tell him I told you to; he'll understand.

Make It Your VD

For the most part single people hate Valentine’s Day. And really, who can blame them. It’s nothing more than a commercial holiday (granted, no more commercial than most other holidays) that makes you feel like a retard forced to do calculus in front of a group of mathematicians just because you don’t happen to be in a relationship one day out of the year. Well fuck that. I say embrace VD. Make VD yours. And I’m not talking about syphilis.

I’ve come to the realization that I actually prefer Valentine’s Day when I’m single than when I’m dating someone. When you’re dating someone there are all these expectations hanging over your head. You can’t just take your significant other out for fast food, rent some porn and get laid (read: typical Friday date night). You actually have to plan out a romantic evening. And you better buy a present. Even if you go to all this trouble to plan, what you think will be, a great night you still have to watch out because god forbid your girlfriend has a friend whose boyfriend did something better/bigger/more romantic/etc. Because your actions will not stand alone but will be compared to what everyone else received.

Side note: it’s reasons like this why I think it would really fucking blow to date someone who was friends with Bill Gate’s wife. No matter what you do, you’ll probably always be beaten. Imagine the conversation the day after Valentine’s Day:
Your Girlfriend: It was a great night. We went out to a fancy restaurant, and then he took me to a park to stare at the stars while he sang me a song he wrote himself. And then he gave me diamond earrings!! They were huge!
Bill Gate’s Wife: Yeah, Bill was great too.
YG: What did Bill do?
BGW: Well, he had the stretch Hummer limo pick me up from home, drove me to the private jet where we had an intimate dinner cooked by a 76 star chef on the plane which was on the way to a private island which Bill bought for me and named Melinda-Land. Then we landed and as we deplaned there was Isaac Hayes singing love songs while backed by a full orchestra. After that, we flew to New York where I discovered he bought the Statute of Liberty, tore it down, and had it replaced with a statue of me. I mean, it wasn’t as great as my birthday, but it was still a pretty good night.
YG: [Silence]

Fuck that shit. Embrace your singleness people. You can do whatever the hell you want to do. You have nobody to impress. If you want to eat Taco Bell in your sweatpants, not shower, not shave, take a crap with the door open, and then put on a dirty t-shirt and jeans just to go down to the bar to get shitfaced, feel free. You can drink as much as you want because, let’s face it, you’re not going to get laid tonight so you don’t have to worry about whisky dick. Feel free to stumble home at three in the morning smelling of Bourbon, smoke, and strippers without having to deal with the “where have you been, it’s Valentine’s Day and we should be celebrating our love” stare.

For single people, Valentine’s Day should be seen as a day of freedom and personal choice. February 14th shall from here on out be renamed V-Day. It’s a lot like D-Day, but without the death and depressing shit. It’s a celebration of life and independence from the Hitler overlords known in the general parlance as “women.”

If you’re single, come celebrate V-Day with me. Don’t sit at home depressed because you’re all alone. Instead, meet me at the bar where we’ll do shots and toast to not having to worry about what time we get home; to not having to pretend to love the ballet; to not having to dress up; to drinking more than just one half a bottle of wine; to Wendy’s and Krystal instead of some fancy French shit; to liquor and beer instead of wine; to our own wants, needs, and desires instead of someone else’s; to whatever the fuck you want, because that’s all that matters.

This V-Day isn’t for you. It’s for me.

Seriously though, I’ll be at the bar tonight. Come have a few with me. I won’t be dressed up, and I won’t buy you jack shit. But we’ll still have fun.

Hillary 2008

2007-02-12T13:17:00.001-05:00

That’s right boys, girls, men, women, and transgendered individuals. NDC is officially endorsing Hillary Clinton for 2008. I can hear all your questions right now: Why Hillary? Isn’t she too liberal to for the majority of the voting public? Just how large is your uncomfortably large cock? Are you fucking insane? Do you hate America?

I have one simple answer to all these questions and concerns: This is all about equality of the sexes. It’s time for men to finally become equals with women.

For way too long in this country men have been second class citizens. Women have always had the ability to strive for the one-night stand or long-term affair with the President of the United States. Men, on the other hand, haven’t had the chance to acquire the ultimate trump card by banging the shit out of the leader of the free world. Instead men have been relegated to second class citizen status and have been forced to aim their wangs at mere CEO’s, upper level cabinet members, and a few foreign heads of state.

My mother always told me I could be whatever I wanted to be when I grew up. And while I still have yet to grow up, my dream lives on: I want to fuck the President of the United States. I am sick and tired of women being able to sleep with the POTUS while men have been left to fend for ourselves outside in the cold. Men and women are equals goddamnit and thus we should have equal opportunity to sleep with the most powerful person in the nation (or maybe the world, depending on your point of view).

To all the men out there, in 2008 vote for Hillary. Because it is only after a woman is finally elected president of this country that men will finally, finally be able to stand up and say, “I fucked the President of the United States. And that’s my semen on the President’s dress.”

Fantasies

2007-02-05T14:02:00.000-05:00

We all have fantasies. And I don’t mean dreaming of banging twelve Victoria Secret’s models at the same time while simultaneously dreaming that my cock has grown even larger than its already uncomfortably large self. I’m talking real fantasies; shit that matters. I’m talking fantasies such as locking Jeremy Blachman, Creed, Nickelback, and Evanescence into 16X16 steel cage and letting everyone fight it out to the death. Then, when the last person to survive is convinced he is going to emerge victorious, we will open the cage, let him out, and then shoot him in the fucking heart and watch him die.

If I’m feeling extremely greedy this fantasy also includes Linkin Park, Gary Cherone, and Lars Ulrich’s drum sound from St. Anger.

Expressing fantasies (or really, anything) while in the bedroom (or really, anywhere) tends to end badly for me because, contrary to popular belief, I do not actually say the first sexual comment that comes to mind no matter the situation. While this is true many times more than necessary, my responses to specific statements, questions, and inquiries can be determined solely by looking at the Humorous Response Predictor (patent pending; awesomeness already certified).

This HRP, as I like to call it, is a shockingly simple device (not easy to make, mind you; or reverse engineer (I hope); or sell to the Asians (fuck); but simple to explain (how many more parentheticals can I fit inside the outermost parentheticals of this sentence; I’m guessing four); and I’ll tell you how in a minute (my cock is huge); hold your horses (or my huge cock; fuck; I was off by two)). I’m not positive, but if you take the previous sentence and solve for x, I think the answer is eighteen (show your work).

Back to the point, every time anyone says anything to and/or around me the HRP, which is hooked directly into my brain (some people contend it is my brain; but my brain’s a selfish dick), begins whirring. In the span of four tenths of a second my mind processes the data. Following the processing of the raw data my mind automatically follows a flow chart of sorts: 1) Does my mind have a potentially funny/witty/sarcastic/etc. response to the statement which was made to and/or around me?

This leads to: 2) If the answer to the first inquiry is “no,” continue ignoring everyone until you are once more the focus of the conversation. If the answer to the first inquiry is “yes” then proceed to the next inquiry: What is the chance that making the potentially funny/witty/sarcastic/etc. remark will result in the possibility of laughter, chuckling, disappointed groaning, chortling, etc. by anyone close enough to hear the remark?

Which leads to: 3) If the chance of a possible favorable response (which I like to call the “Humor Possibility Quotient,” or “HPQ”) is greater than zero in any miniscule way, then proceed with the comment. If the HPQ is equal to or less than zero, then abort the comment and return to the “no” instruction in number 2.

And finally: 4) This is a safety provision for my own protection (and you didn’t think I would have an odd numbered inquiry here, did you?). The final question before speaking is whether or not the potential comment involves, in any way whatsoever, an odd number. If the answer is “no” then proceed with making comment as originally planned. If the answer is “yes” then abort the comment and continue drinking until you cannot count up to any odd numbers.

The HRP, commonly referred to by people in the know as the “Humor Trumps All Theorem” operates very quickly and very efficiently. It does its job extremely well and has never failed me. The only possible downside from the HRP occurs when the HPQ is erroneously calculated as being greater than zero. This results in the occurrence of, what a layman would call, an “unfunny joke.” But as anyone who’s anyone knows, approximately 80% of comedy and humor is timing. Thus, when the HRP overestimates the HPQ the joke is not inherently unfunny and may be recycled or reused at a later date with better timing. Of course, every miscalculation of the HPQ makes future calculations of the HPQ even more reliable. This leads to, of course, the natural conclusion that I will eventually one day rule the world and everything upon it.

And once I rule the world I’m building a fucking 16X16 steel cage.

Why I Should Never Have Kids

2007-01-30T15:09:00.000-05:00

Little Shit: Hey daddy?
NDC: Hang on baby. [Lighter lights; sound of burning, then bubbling water, then inhalation; silence for five seconds; large exhale followed by coughing fit lasting two minutes]
Little Shit: Are you ok daddy?
NDC: [Cough] Yes I’m fine. Will you run and grab me a beer?
Little Shit: Sure dad.
NDC: [Shouting] Actually, just go and bring me the whole case.
Little Shit: Here you go.
NDC: Thanks. Now what did you want?
Little Shit: Why does mommy call you a loser?
NDC: Well, that’s because your mother is a whore with exceedingly high expectations. [Sound of razor blade on a mirror; snorting; snorting; snorting]
Little Shit: A whore? Is that the same thing as Aunt Sally?
NDC: Yeah. They both get it from your Grandmother, who was also pretty loose back in the day.
Little Shit: Oh. Mommy says you drink too much.
NDC: Your mother is just mad that every time she drinks she ends up banging some random dude (or dudes) in the back of their pickup truck outside the bar.
Little Shit: What’s banging?
NDC: It’s what women do to make men happy. The only problem is that when your mom is a part of it the men aren’t “happy” as much as they are “now infected with multiple diseases.”
Little Shit: Bad diseases?
NDC: Are they any other kind?
Little Shit: I guess not.
NDC: But her diseases are even worse than normal diseases. They make you burn when you pee, causes open sores on your special parts, and, eventually, end up killing you slowly while you spend a thousand bucks a month on medication that does nothing but minutely prolong your sorry excuse for a life.
Little Shit: Wow. I had no idea.
NDC: Yeah. Don’t believe everything your mother tells you. She’s kind of biased. And extremely full of shit.
Little Shit: What?
NDC: She seriously tells lies all the fucking time. I bet she told you that you were a planned pregnancy, didn’t she?
Little Shit: Yeah; why?
NDC: Because you were totally an accident. Do you really think that either of us want kids?
Little Shit: I hadn’t really thought about it.
NDC: Well the answer is fuck no!
Little Shit: Wow.
NDC: The only reason your mother actually gave birth to you is because I was too drunk to pull out and she claimed she was too “religious” to have an abortion.
Little Shit: Oh.
NDC: Of course, take note of the fact that two months later she wasn’t too “religious” to fuck nine guys at the same time in the bathroom of a seedy club.
Little Shit: What club?
NDC: I’ll take you when you’re older. It’s a lot of fun.
Little Shit: I bet.
NDC: I mean fuck, where do you think I met your mother to begin with?
Little Shit: Oh. Is that why you and mommy don’t live together or talk anymore?
NDC: Not at all. The reason I don’t talk to your mommy is because she found it exceedingly difficult to go more than sixty minutes without either sucking a stranger’s cock or having sex for money.
Little Shit: I didn’t know that.
NDC: Why do you think your mother always tells you to go play in your room or outside when company comes over?
Little Shit: [Silence]
NDC: I know; it’s pretty fucked up. Fuck; I’m out of crack.
Little Shit: What?
NDC: Nothing kiddo. Do you think you can take care of yourself for about thirty minutes while daddy runs out?
Little Shit: I think so.
NDC: How old are you again?
Little Shit: [Holds up four fingers] This many.
NDC: Yeah; you’ll be just fucking fine. You know where the beer is if you want one, right?
Little Shit: Yup.
NDC: You remember the main rule though, don’t you?
Little Shit: Of course daddy: “No liquor or cigarettes until I’m ten years old.”
NDC: Awesome. I’ll be back in a few.

Why I Should Never Have Kids: Number 1

Never Gonna Get Me

2007-01-29T09:26:00.000-05:00

People frequently wonder what the fuck is wrong with me. Then they wonder where in the hell my parents went wrong. It’s usually around this time that I tell my parents to stop with the goddamn questions.

The short answer is that I’ve been fucked up since I was a child. I was frequently in trouble with my parents because I would get caught doing stupid shit. This would result in me being grounded for anywhere between one week and thirty-seven years. Somehow though, I managed to get away with all of the shit that would have got me in serious trouble. And all the shit that would have involved words like “police,” “restitution,” “juvenile delinquent,” and “prison rape.”

I was about eleven or twelve and living in Connecticut. There was a lot of new construction going on around where I lived. As every eleven year old boy out looking for trouble is want to do, my friend “Mike” and I would go around to all the places as they were being built, find a way to get inside the house and just snoop around and occasionally fuck something up.

One of these construction sites had a backhoe parked behind the house. This presented the perfect opportunity for everyone involved: a rock throwing competition. We decided to see how far we could throw rocks over the roof of the backhoe. The answer to this is “pretty far.” Soon, that game became boring. So I decided to up the ante.

My new goal was to bounce a rock off the top of the backhoe. With no regard for danger, consequences, or my apparent lack of aim, I wound up like a seasoned pro and let my fastball fly (in hindsight I definitely shouldn’t have waved off the catcher’s sign for a sinker). My rock flew. It was beautiful; nay, it was glorious. I could see just how perfect the throw was. I was going to be a god among men. I closed my eyes and waited for the metallic “clang” that accompanies rock on metal action.

Then the sound came: CRASH!

Whoops. Apparently the rock decided to deviate from the intended course of bouncing off the top of the backhoe and instead, through no fault of my own, decided to bounce right through the windshield of the backhoe. I looked at Mike; Mike looked at me; I could by looking at him that we were both thinking the exact same thing.

We turned around and hauled ass out of that fucking place and ran back to his house. I thought we were perfectly in the clear. “How would they know it was me” I asked myself. Apparently, my young mind couldn’t quite wrap itself around the facts a) that my parents and Mike’s parents both knew we played in the construction sites; b) that the construction site with the, now injured, backhoe was directly across the street from my house; and c) that maybe the owner of said backhoe might become slightly irritated when he found a broken windshield with a dusty rock sitting on the seat of the backhoe.

We were at Mike’s house when my mother came over. She looked me dead in the eyes and asked me in a very accusatory tone, “Did you do it?”

Even at that young and inexperienced age I could tell exactly what my mother was doing. But I wasn’t going to take the bait. Instead, I looked her right back in the eyes and with a look of confusion coupled with flowers and puppies and I answered my mother with, “Did I do what?”

She repeated her question: “Did you do it?” I countered with, “I don’t know what you’re talking about?” She jabbed with, “Don’t lie to me.” I dodged with, “Lie about what? I have no idea what you’re asking.” Sufficiently placated my mother cautioned, “If I find out you had anything to do with this you’ll be in a lot of trouble.” I just smiled sweetly and with a look full of sunshine and rainbows told her, “I still don’t know what you’re talking about but I didn’t do anything.”

I thought I was in the clear after that. Until the next morning of course. When, around ten in the morning, while lying in bed I heard a knock on the front door. I peeked out the window of my room in an attempt to see who it was. I couldn’t see who was at the door, but I could see that whoever it was drove a blue Crown Victoria with a light bar and “POLICE” painted across the side.

I did the only thing I could at that point: I stayed as quiet as I could so my parents thought I was still asleep and in an attempt to hear what was being said. I could only hear mumbles such as, “broken window,” “across the street,” “goddamn kids,” “I don’t know officer,” “I don’t think it was him,” and “I have no idea where that marijuana came from.” It seemed like that goddamn cop was there for six hours, but it couldn’t have been more than thirty minutes. I cowered under my covers thinking, “I’m not ready for jail; I don’t want to join a gang; I look horrible in orange.”

The officer finally left and I stayed in my room for another two or three hours thinking maybe they were pulling a trick on me to get me to confess. Finally I decided to descend the stairs. I came downstairs and then............

Nothing happened. Absolutely nothing. My mother said something along the lines of “morning sleepy-head” and I sat my ass down on the couch. I had gotten way with it. I fought the law and I fucking raped the law.

The downside to this, however, was that I just realized I could lie to my parents about important shit and get away with it. Sure, I had lied to my parents before, but those were just lies like “No, I did not eat the last cookie.” Now I was lying with, “No, I did not commit a felony.” This was probably the worst thing that could have happened to me because now I knew I was able to lie with impunity.

Things would escalate the lies would become more and more frequent. I would lie about going to school (when I actually skipped school to have sex); I would lie about being sick so I could stay home from school (in order to have sex); I would lie about spending the night with a friend (in order to have overnight sex); in eleventh grade I would create an entire fake overnight field trip (in order to have sex; in a hotel; and a swimming pool). Some people did drugs in high school; I just fucked a lot.

It was basically that fateful day over ten years ago when I stopped being scared of my parents and realized that I could deceive them just like everyone else. And it was beautiful.

Nay. It was glorious.

We're All Fucking Crazy

2007-01-19T16:55:00.000-05:00

It’s already been well established here that, among others, my mother hates me. You may be surprised to learn that all of my brothers (all three of them) are oddly similar to me. We’re all extremely sarcastic, highly politically incorrect, and willing to say anything regardless of the circumstances or present company. Needless to say, after raising four boys with attitudes like that I’m surprised my mother hasn’t developed a nasty rock habit.

My youngest brother, whom I will call “Don,” is six years younger than I am and is currently a senior in high school. Don has Asperger’s Syndrome. Asperger’s Syndrome is an extremely mild form of Autism. He operates just fine and you wouldn’t know he had the condition unless you were told; otherwise you would just find him quiet, introverted, and slightly obsessed with videogames. Regardless, because of this my brother gets some special treatment at school. While other students aren’t allowed to wear hoods, he can (in order to block out noise and such).

Now, there is this lovely assistant principal at his high school that my family absolutely loves. My other younger brother, currently a freshman in college, was part of a food fight his senior year of high school. This lovely administrator referred some of the people involved to the school resource officer who proceeded to issue all of them tickets for disorderly conduct requiring all of them to go to court. Basically, this guy is a overzealous dickwad. So we’ll refer to him as Overzealous Dickwad, or OD for short.

Don and OD had a run-in around November last year. Don came to school wearing a hat instead of a hood. Technically he isn’t allowed to wear a hat even though he had been wearing the hat for a while without anyone saying anything and regardless of the fact that the hat was serving the same purpose as the hood. OD decided to finally make some noise about this. OD stopped Don in the hall one day and told him he had to take the hat off. In response, a response that I am only able to describe as perfect, Don muttered to OD, “Fatass.”

So Don ended up with detention or something like that. In Don’s defense, according to my father OD actually is kind of a fatass.

Fast-forward about a month or so to sometime before Christmas. I had just arrived at my parents’ house in the freezing fucking north. Don was upstairs wrapping some presents for some friends because the next day was their last day of school before their winter break. My parents joked with each other, “Oh, I wonder if Don is wrapping a present for OD?!?.” The other parent would respond with, “Oh ha ha!”

I was out with my dad later that night when he told me what had transpired earlier in the day while I was attempting to sleep off my hangover. Apparently Don had decided to be nice and he bestowed upon OD a pleasant gift.

It would seem that several weeks prior Don had found, outside of the school cafeteria no less, a severed deer leg. As any seventeen year old boy pissed off at someone and seeing the opportunity for a joke would do, Don took the deer leg home, wrapped it in plastic wrap and kept it in his room just waiting for his day to come. He then wrapped it in a box, drew a picture to put on the box, and added his initials. He then lovingly dropped of the package on OD’s desk.

For some reason, OD didn’t quite see the humor in this. I described this to my parents as, “Fucking. Hilarious.” So my parents were called into school that morning to meet with OD. Don was sent home early with my parents and suspended for a couple of days.

My parents wondered why he give OD that present and also why he would make it obvious who it was from. I asked them both, “Well, it was funny, wasn’t it?” They both admitted, “Well, yeah. It really was.”

“Enough said.”

I stood up and walked to the kitchen to refresh my drink. Five minutes later while outside sipping my drink and smoking a cigarette while staring at the starry sky all I could think was, “Man; I’ve taught Don well. He’ll do just fine in life.”

Best Text Message Ever

2007-01-17T17:05:00.000-05:00

I received the following the other day from someone I had been, shall we say, intimate with:

This morning, I had to admit to my dentist that I had oral sex this weekend because she was puzzled by the bruising in my throat.

New Year

2007-01-12T08:37:00.000-05:00

Obviously this year is going to suck. Not because of the bar exam; not because I’ll be unemployed until 2014; not because of the rash on my left nut that won’t go away. No; it’s going to suck because it’s an odd numbered year. Thank god there’s only one odd number though (let me tell you; 1997 sucked more than deciding Gary Cherone would be a great replacement singer).

Now is the time of the year that many people make those creatively titled “New Year’s Resolutions.” I, however, have resisted. At this point I have a twenty-three year long streak of making no resolutions whatsoever. At the time of this writing I have successfully adhered to and completed every last one of resolutions. That’s a 100% success rate for all the readers in law school. I have various reasons for not making resolutions, but frankly none of them matter and none of them are funny. Not that anything else I write is actually funny, but that’s not the fucking point; assholes.

Being the open-minded liberal that I am, I will try anything once. Actually, I’ll try anything twice just to make sure the first time wasn’t a fluke. Because of my willingness to experiment I now know that things I do not enjoy include anything inserted into my anus, sex with animals (both under and over one hundred pounds), masturbating with my left hand, mixing heroin, LSD, crack, and mushrooms, Moulin Rouge, Scott Stapp (yeah; I tried listening to that shit twice and I didn’t die; I must be immortal), onions, religion, the word “ya’ll,” and Buddhists (don’t ask; it involves me, a monk, a fire poker, and twelve hours spent in the ER).

So fuck it. Here are NDC’s New Year’s Resolutions for the year 2007:

Attempt to avoid death

In the alternative, if I do die, I resolve to die in a really fucking awesome way that lands me on the front page of national news

Don’t shave my balls; not that I ever have shaved my balls, but I trimmed them once; this has been an unofficial rule in my life since approximately five days after that trimming

Have more of my hot female fans send me hot naked pictures of themselves for my, um, “personal use;” really; come on; help me out ladies

Continue to impress random people with my drinking prowess

Continue to impress random people with my uncomfortably large cock

Stop exposing myself to children

Either stop driving a van, or paint over the “free candy” which is currently on the side

Exercise for at least twelve minutes at least once every three-hundred-sixty-five-days (added difficulty: masturbation does not count)

Joke Time

2007-01-08T16:45:00.000-05:00

Subtitle: Politically Incorrect Jokes That When Told In Public Cause Everyone Surrounding Me To Groan in Exasperation and Disappointment

I just have to tell you. I was having sex the other night when I realized I didn’t love her anymore. I decided the best time to tell her would be right after when finished fucking. Because that way my orgasm would help me deal with the stressful situation I was about to encounter.

So I told her I didn’t love her anymore. She started screaming at me calling me names like “shithead,” “piece of shit,” “shit-sucker,” “Jew,” and “waste of space.” Then she dropped the real bomb: “I wish you had never been born!!”

I came back with the only appropriate retort: “Wow. That’s really mature of you, Mom.”

My Mother Still Hates Me

2006-12-30T16:29:00.000-05:00

What better way to break my near month long silence than to remind everyone that my mother does indeed still hate me.

[On Christmas day; opening a present from my parents but, I’m sure, purchased by my father]
Mom: What is it?
NDC: It’s a book: “The God Delusion.”
Mom: What’s that about?
[It is important to note here that my mother is a very religious person; she goes to church every Sunday, volunteers at the church and does god knows what else there; needless to say, when I told her I was an atheist she wasn’t too happy; but that’s not the point; just remember she’s very religious]
NDC: Well, [begins reading from the book jacket] “A preeminent scientist – and the world’s most prominent atheist – asserts the irrationality of belief in god and the grievous harm religion has inflicted on society, from the Crusades to 9/11.”
Mom: [Sigh]
NDC: [Continues] “With rigor and wit, Dawkins examines god in all his forms, from the sex-obsessed tyrant of the Old Testament to the more benign (but still illogical) Celestial Watchmaker favored by some Enlightenment thinkers. He eviscerates the major arguments for religion and demonstrates the supreme improbability of a supreme being. He shows how religion fuels war, foments bigotry, and abuses children, buttressing his points with historical and contemporary evidence. ‘The God Delusion’ makes a compelling case that belief in god is not just wrong but potentially deadly. It also offers exhilarating insight into the advantages of atheism to the individual and society, not the least of which is a clearer, truer appreciation of the universe’s wonders than any faith could ever muster.”
Mom: [Silence coupled with a look of sorrow and disappointment]

Lord does she love me. I’d even bet she wants me to visit more often.

The following conversation occurred at some point pretty late in the night after I decided it would be a great idea to polish off a third of a handle of Bourbon that night.

NDC + Bourbon + Talking to his mother = Bad news for everyone involved. Except you, you voyeristic whores.

[Talking about The Bitch and how she was a bitch and somewhat controlling
Mom: I just don’t like the way she treated you.
NDC: No; I agree; she was a total bitch.
Mom: Oh hush.
NDC: No; she was a bitch. She was a cunt.
Mom: Then why did you stay with her?
Brother: [Starts laughing]
NDC: [Knowingly looks at Brother] Do you really want to know?
Mom: Yes!
NDC: She put out.

Why my mother hates me: Number 1; Number 2; Number 3; Number 4; Number 5; Number 6

Things NDC Hasn’t Been Doing Instead Of Posting

2006-12-05T19:41:00.000-05:00

Maintaining a consistent sleep schedule

Physical activity

Searching for world peace

Your mom

Responding to your emails (sorry about that; I’ll get to them)

Heroin

Thinking

Garnering respect from other people

Contemplating the meaning of life

Bringing sexy back

Evangelicals

2006-11-16T11:08:00.000-05:00

Evangelical #1: Excuse me, can I ask you a question?
NDC: It’s a little late for permission, isn’t it?
Evangelical #2: Huh?
NDC: You see, you just asked if you could ask me a question; that is itself a question. You should have asked if you could have a minute of my time. Or you should have asked if you could ask me two questions. That would still be presumptive of you, but at least if I said yes then you already have permission to ask me the question you really wanted to ask me.
E#1: Um. Ok. May I have a minute of your time?
NDC: Sure man. What’s up?
E#1: Are you religious?
NDC: No.
E#1: Not at all?
NDC: Not in the least. I’m an atheist.
E#1: Really?
NDC: No; not really. I’m just shitting with you. Yes, really.
E#1: So you don’t believe in god?
NDC: Oh shit, of course I believe in god; everyone has heard of and seen god.
E#1: Are you kidding me?
NDC: No man. I love god. Haven’t you ever heard “Layla?”
E#1: What?
E#2: Wait; The song by Eric Clapton?
NDC: Is there any other?
E#1: [Pause; quizzical look] Are you telling me you think Eric Clapton is god?
NDC: No, not at all. I’m telling you that Clapton IS god.
E#1: But that doesn’t make any sense at all.
NDC: What the fuck is wrong with you man? Don’t you dare say that about god ever again. Everyone knows that Clapton is god.
E#1: No. No he’s not. God is responsible for creating the world and all the life upon it. Without god you wouldn’t be here today. God loves you unconditionally as long as you repent. There’s still time for you to go to heaven.
NDC: Holy shit! Have you never heard of the Yardbirds? John Mayall and the Bluesbreakers? Cream? Derek and the Dominos? Clapton’s entire solo career? That is god.
E#1: I think you’re really get...
NDC: I hate to interrupt you, but do you really really believe that something other than a divine being could create “Sunshine of Your Love,” “Crossroads,” “After Midnight,” “Cocaine,” and “Wonderful Tonight?”
E#2: He does have a good point man.
NDC: Your goddamn right I have a good point. His son fucking died man. Fucking dead. Fell out of a goddamn window. The sacrifice of his son gave us “Tears in Heaven.” What has your so-called “god” ever done for society? Start a few wars? Allow death and destruction to take over the world?
E#1: [......]
NDC: Damn straight you’re speechless. I mean fuck man, have you ever heard “While My Guitar Gently Weeps?” Clapton took the Beatles, one of the most overrated bands ever (aside from George Harrison), and fucking made that song gold. Clapton could shit diamonds if he wanted to.
E#1: You know, I think I see where you’re coming from.
NDC: I knew you’d come around.
E#1: What have I been doing with my fucking life all these years?
NDC: Unless you’ve dedicated your life to Clapton, you’ve wasted it.
E#2: Man, that’s harsh.
NDC: I know, but just like Clapton, I won’t lie to you or sugarcoat anything.
E#1: Long live Clapton man.
NDC: A-fucking-men. Make sure you guys pray to Slowhand before you go to sleep tonight.
E#1: Tonight I will pray to the one true god.
NDC: I’m glad I could make a difference in your life. Peace out.

Good Idea/Bad Idea

2006-11-14T15:45:00.000-05:00

Good Idea: Eating food.
Bad Idea: Waiting to eat until one in the morning after five hours of drinking. And then choosing Taco Bell.

Good Idea: Attending class.
Bad Idea: Attending class completely unprepared and without the book. And drunk. Without pants.

Good Idea: Talking to strangers at the bar.
Bad Idea: Telling strangers at the bar that their shirt makes them look retarded.

Good Idea: Talking to people you know at the bar.
Bad Idea: Telling people you know at the bar that their handshake is more retarded than corky after he was dropped down an elevator shaft and George Bush put together.

Good Idea: Making random comments to the people outside.
Bad Idea: Telling a random girl passing by, “Excuse me, but I think you got a little whore on your face. Just letting you know.”

I'm In Love With A Stripper

2006-11-09T15:36:00.000-05:00

If there is one thing I’m known for it’s the amazing amount of manliness I possess. If there are two things I’m known for they’re possessing an amazing amount of manliness and my massive cock. But if there are three things I’m known for, they’re being the manliest man on the planet, having a penis larger than the sun, and possessing no self respect or dignity whatsoever.

Because of the third thing I’m known for, I’m going to tell you this story.

A lesser man might not own up to embarrassing stories. But I’m too manly for this (note the first thing I’m known for). However, in my defense this story is fueled by massive amounts of Bourbon. So don’t be too quick to judge. Or do; I actually don’t give a shit. I’ve done a lot of stupid shit in my life and I refuse to learn from these mistakes or be embarrassed by them.

It was my birthday; then end of June 2005. I had just turned the ripe old age of twenty-two. With my grizzled face and decades of life experience I had a brief idea of how the night would go. The only thing I was certain of was that I would end up at the titty bar paying to have stripper titties rubbed in my face. But first, I had to become slightly intoxicated (read: shitcanned).

The party started with my friends (fuck you; I do too have friends) at my usual bar. I began drinking enough to kill a small army (not an army small in numbers, mind you, but a midget army; an entire midget army). I vaguely remember going to another bar for a little bit (from what I remember, the purpose of this was to get the females drunk; because (for some reason) they weren’t really looking forward to the strip club; whatever though).

Finally, titty bar time arrived. I was shouting from the rooftops; I was singing like those goddamn Whos down in Whoville when the Grinch gave Christmas back; I was happier that Bill O’Reilly living on a mountain made of luffa and falafel; I was like a Catholic priest who just found a way to grow twelve year old boys that are unable to speak or write; I was more excited than someone who is really, really, ridiculously excited.

There’s just something inherently wonderful about trips to the strip club. I don’t know what it is and I don’t know why. I actually think we could achieve world peace if you could see any woman’s jugs for one dollar. It would just be wonderful. The main point here is that breasts are wonderful.

The secondary point here is that men (at least most men) know that they aren’t going to take the stripper home. We know that we’re just going to see some naked ladies, pay inflated drink prices, and then go home alone (just like every night). Men don’t go to strip clubs because they think the strippers actually like them or that the strippers will actually think they are hot or that the strippers will actually want to fuck them. We know this. We know the strippers pretend to like us because we’re the ones with the money and they are the ones that need the money to pay for their boob jobs, coke habit, and “college tuition.”

At least we know this until we’ve had an entire liter of Bourbon in the past five hours. After that, common sense kind of goes out the window.

To my credit, I didn’t initially plan on trying to fuck the stripper. It’s really all the stripper’s fault. One of my friends went up to tip the stripper on stage and while up there the stripper told him that his friend (which would be me) looked really hot (the stripper must have been drunk too; but whatever). My friend came back over to me and tells that the stripper said I was hot (which after filtering this through my alcohol addled brain I interpreted as “that stripper really wants your uncomfortably large cock).

Of course, I have to go over to the stripper. I went up to stage and then the stripper tells me I’m hot (in my defense, extremely intoxicated women (and a few men) frequently find me hot). I told her thank you and gave her the dollar and then walked away (to leave her wanting more). More time passes and, as a present to me, my friends paid for me to go in the back for a private dance with two strippers. I, of course, chose the stripper that is obviously in love with me and some other one. We were back there for an hour where the stripper continues to tell me how hot I am and where the other stripper started talking about her kids (what a fucking buzzkill).

I finally came back out to the main area and my friends were ready to leave. I, on the other hand, had decided to stay at the strip club.

By myself.

Because I was going to try to fuck the stripper.

Regardless of the many rationale arguments made by my friends I could not be swayed. I had made it my life goal to fuck the stripper. This is partly due to the fact that someone out there has to fuck the strippers, so why can’t it be me tonight? This is mostly due to the fact that the amount of Bourbon I had that night could accurately be measured in gallons.

My friends left; I stayed. I ended up with the stripper in my lap trying to convince her to come back to my place when she was done with work. She seemed receptive; but then again, she was pretty drunk (and/or under the influence of other things). I’m not sure exactly what happened, but I think I finally sobered up enough to realize that stripper sex was not in my future. I drunkenly stumbled my way out of the strip club so I could get a cab home.

Surprisingly, or not so surprising when you consider my fucked up life, this isn’t the end of the story. I was downtown with some friends about a week later. We had left one bar and were heading to another. I saw a very scantily clad woman standing on the street corner. Literally standing on the street corner. She looked oddly familiar but I couldn’t place her.

And that’s when she said to me, “Hi, [NDC].”

Then it hit me. She’s the stripper from my birthday; the one I tried to fuck; she somehow remembered my name. And she’s standing on the street corner. Because she’s a hooker.

Of course, I stopped to talk to her. Because I’m that kind of awesome. I asked how she was; she responded she was good. Then I just had to ask:

NDC: So; what are you doing?
Stripper/Hooker: [Nervously looks around; probably to see if her pimp is watching] I’m, um, meeting some…people.
NDC: [Struggles to hold in laughter] Awesome. Well I have to go catch up with my friends. Have a good night.

I then ran off to catch up with my friends who had no fucking clue who that girl was. I caught up to them and I was laughing my ass off. There were tears of laughter streaming down my face and I could barely breathe. I stop them on the sidewalk so I can catch my breath and stop laughing. They kept asking me what was so fucking funny:

NDC: [Laughter] You remember the stripper I tried to fuck on my birthday?
Friends: Yeah.
NDC: [More laughter] Yeah. Well that was her. And she’s a HOOKER!! [Insanely loud and uproarious laughter]
Friends: [Much laughter]
NDC: [Tail end of laughter] Wow. She looks a lot better under the black lights. [Laughter starts all over again]

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to my life.

Walked Right Into It

2006-10-31T14:23:00.000-05:00

I have this problem. Actually, I have many problems but that’s not the point. Actually, I don’t even think this is a problem so let’s just forget about my problems (hint: drinking helps you forget).

I like to lie to people I don’t know. But only when I’m drinking. Or bored. Or when the sun is at the center of the solar system. Basically, it’s just an exercise to see if I can convince this random person whom I’ve never met of some weird thing. This will frequently involve my name, where I’m from, where I live, and what I do for a living. All I’ve really learned from this is either 1) I’m very good at lying and convincing people of things; or Q) most people are way too trusting and gullible.

For example, I once convinced someone that I had just moved down here from Alaska where I used to be an oil driller in charge of “viscosity and valve management.” And that I was thirty-five years old but that I looked younger because the cold in Alaska preserved my boyish good looks.

That guy was a dumbass.

Then there’s the guy from a few nights ago. He was just being nice in asking me my name after hearing me make some joke or berate some hooker on the street. I was drunk and bored so I told him my name was Bob Jones.

Him: Hey man; what’s your name?
“Bob Jones”: Bob.
Him: Bob what?
“Bob Jones”: Bob Jones.
Him: Are you serious?
“Bob Jones”: Yeah, why?
Him: You don’t actually meet people named Bob Jones
“Bob Jones”: Well, tonight you do.
Him: What’s your middle name?
“Bob Jones”: Steven.
Him: Seriously?
“Bob Jones”: Yeah man. What can I say, my parents did way too few mind altering substances when they were naming me.
Him: It’s just such a normal name.
“Bob Jones”: Dude, I don’t tell your mom how to suck dick; so don't tell my parents how to name kids.
Him: [Blank look] It’s just that you don’t look like a Bob Jones.
“Bob Jones”: What your name man?
Him: [We’ll call him “James” because I don’t remember his name at all. – Ed.] James.
“Bob Jones”: Huh.
Him: You really don’t look like a Bob Jones.
“Bob Jones”: I know; I get that a lot.
Him: Really?
“Bob Jones”: Yeah. It’s alright though, you don’t look like a James at all.
Him: I don’t?
“Bob Jones”: Nah man. You look much more like a DICK.
Everyone else: [Laughter]

Suggestions for Law School Classes

2006-10-26T13:12:00.000-04:00

There has always been much talk about the uselessness of most law school classes. People always say things to me like, “NDC, law school classes are completely useless,” and “I just can’t believe how useless these classes are,” and “Really; it’s the most useless class ever,” and “Wow, you’re the best lover I’ve ever had,” and “This class will never be useful at any time of my life.” Couple that with the fact that all we really need to know about actually practicing law will be learned the first few years of practice and you have three years full of bullshit. So I’ve left it up to myself to maybe, just maybe, help change the face of law school by suggesting classes that will not only teach you something, but that will be useful as well

How To Hold Your Liquor I (3 hours)
This will be a skills based course akin to Trial Practice and Document Drafting. HTHYL I will focus on the differences between different domestic beers (i.e. this domestic tastes like horse piss while this other domestic beer tastes like elephant piss), the differences between typical well liquors (i.e. Bourbon is the best liquor ever while you shouldn’t even give gin to Hitler; because gin is that bad), and the proper way to order drinks (hint: two at a time).

Following this background information, the class will begin the drinking practice portion of the course. This will consist of being given various drinks which you must then drink and tell the class what you just drank. Special focus will be given to the effect of drinking on an empty stomach and the effect of drinking after having eaten certain foods.

Extra credit is available to those who write a paper on hangover avoidance.

How To Hold Your Liquor II (2 hours)
Note: How To Hold Your Liquor I is a prerequisite for this course; the prerequisite can be waived only by the completion, to the professor’s satisfaction, of a three day bender with the professor and Mr. Coffee.

This class will build on the skills and concepts learned in HTHYL I. The class will begin with the differences between many imported beers and the difference in quality between well, call, and top shelf liquors. A midterm exam on which mixers are allowed with specific well, call, and top shelf liquors will count for twenty percent of the grade. Anyone caught mixing a top shelf liquor that should only be had neat or on the rocks will automatically fail the class and will be subject to the ridicule of drunks everywhere. The final portion of the class will be spent on shots, shooters, and bombs.

Extra credit is available to those who write a paper extolling the virtues of Bourbon and explaining how it will eventually be our ruler.

How To Pretend To Read For Class (2 hours)
This class will be dedicated to learning how to fake being prepared in the rest of your classes. This class is being offered provisionally in order to determine whether or not it should be added to the mandatory first year curriculum.

The course will touch on topics such as the proper way to skim, how to pretend like you know what you’re talking about, self confidence, and the proper way to make a Bourbon and coke (hint: strong).

Those that are caught actually reading for this class will receive a failing grade.

Three Hours Of Credit (3 hours)
Let’s face it, we know there are classes out there where you never read, you never attend, and you show up for the exam with only a guess as to the format and the content of the exam. This class formally adopts this strategy. Each semester a new extremely broad and random topic will be chosen. This topic will be announced the first day of class. Following this, the class will not meet until the last day of the semester. On that day the format of the exam will be announced. Please note that the format announced will not necessarily be strictly followed.

Outlines from previous semesters may or may not be helpful.

Job Application Process

2006-10-16T21:45:00.000-04:00

Dear Judge Judy,

My name is Naked Drinking Coffee and I will (hopefully) graduate from law school in May of 2007. I have been an avid fan of your show for many years now. I enjoy your style of judging and your no bullshit attitude. In addition, I enjoy the title of your book “Don’t Pee On My Leg and Tell Me It’s Raining.” While I’ve never read the book (not enough pictures for me), I’m a big proponent of honesty in sexual practices. Every time I have ever engaged in water-sports in the bedroom I have never tried to tell the woman it was raining. Some people claim that this is because we were usually inside, but it is really due to my integrity and honesty which pervade in all situations.

The reason I write to you today is in the hopes that you are looking for a law clerk. While law school students across the country dream of clerking for the Supreme Court, a Court of Appeals or other so called “prestigious clerkship guaranteed to get you a job making twelve billion dollars a year and seven penthouse pets as girlfriends,” I can think of no clerkship or job that would be more prestigious or beneficial than one with the famed and highly regarded Judge Judy.

There are several reasons why I believe I would be perfect for the job. First of all, I look damn good in all of the following clothing styles:

Suits – I make that shit work

Judicial robes – just in case you ever fall ill or if you wish to coordinate our outfits; I’ll even go buy the bedazzler so you can Rehnquist your robe out

Bailiff’s uniform – I look extra sexy with a badge and a gun; I am also willing to shoot anyone that gets out of hand and fails to respect Judge Judy

Additionally, I respect your no bullshit attitude and frequently use your brutal honesty as an example in my own life. Some people mistake my striving for honesty to instead be my being “tactless” and “an asshole.” I defend myself in the same way I respond to my accusers: my accusers are all fucking nut jobs whose fingers number higher than their IQs; they should drive metal spikes into their heads in order to make the world a better place.

While I may not be in the top ten percent of my law school class I urge you to look past my grades to the qualities and experience I possess that cannot be measured by grades. For example, I have many years experience yelling at people and calling them dumbasses for making stupid decisions. I also frequently talk down to people because I know I am better than them; this skill is especially handy when dealing with teenagers and minorities.

There is nothing I love more in this world than putting teenagers in their place. If you were to hire me as a law clerk you would never have to sentence anyone to boot camp ever again. I look amazing in camo while carrying an M-16 and I have the ability to scream at the top of my lungs for prolonged periods of time in order to instill fear in adolescents. I also like to hit children.

Seriously, I love hitting kids. You know that whole “spare the rod spoil the child” mentality? Yeah, I totally agree with that. In fact, I like to smack the fuck out of kids even if they haven’t done anything wrong; just to keep them on their toes, you know what I’m saying? If they know they can get beat with a vacuum cleaner at any time then they’ll always be on their best behavior. Plus, they’ll want to vacuum all the time because they can’t get hit with it if they’re vacuuming. Or at least that’s what they think; because I have a second industrial sized vacuum I keep hidden for the punks that think they can avoid getting beat just by vacuuming. And if I can’t get to the backup vacuum, there’s always my car.

In summation, it is obvious that I would be a perfect match for this job. Our styles would mesh well together and, let’s face it, you’re getting kind of old and won’t be around forever. It’s about time you started training your replacement.

Although once you kick the bucket I’ll probably have to rename the show to something without “Judy” in the title. That would just confuse people. And really, not that you aren’t gorgeous, because you are, but I’m pretty sure nobody would tune in to watch a show entitled “Judge Naked Drinking Judy” or “Judge Judy Naked Drinking” or really just “Judge Judy.”

Wait, except for that last one; people definitely love the title Judge Judy. I know I do. Please hire me.

With warmest fingerbangings,
Mr. Naked Drinking Coffee

P.S. I’ll go down on you if you hire me.

I Don’t Belong In Law School

2006-10-10T15:45:00.000-04:00

Second semester 1L year. That was when I really stopped giving a fuck. But there was no class I cared less about than legal research and writing. It was so dull; so mind numbingly boring. I fought with myself every class to stay awake. That entire semester I probably paid attention in class a total of sixteen minutes.

Our briefs were due in a week or so and we had been working on them for most of the semester. At least we were supposed to be working on them. Me? I hadn’t exactly “started” or “done much research” or “read the problem.” Some might say this is a problem. To those people I say, “go fuck yourself; it’s my hot body, I do what I want.” As part of this brief bullshit we were all required to do two rounds of oral argument for some contest where the prize is more work and more brief writing. Who wouldn’t want to win that?

In an effort to kill class time and “prepare” us for this oral argument the professor decides that we’re going to have mini oral arguments in class. The brief had two issues so she decides to pull four names out of a hat; one for each issue on the appellant’s side and one for each issue on the appellee’s side. Each name would argue one issue for about five minutes. I’m hoping like mad my name doesn’t get pulled because I have done absolutely no research and if she pulls my name I’m going to have a shitty couple of days. But since this is me I’m sure we can all see where this is going.

The professor starts pulling names for the first issue; I’m not sure, but I’m pretty sure I was writing for the appellant’s side. She pulls the name for the first issue; somehow it’s not my name. I’ve been granted a reprieve of about twelve seconds while she pulls the name for the other side.

Then she gets to the second issue for the appellant. Now, at this point in my life every single time my name has been put in a hat, a basket, or a hollowed out hookers skull my name has been pulled. Always. Every time. So I'm expecting the worst.

Of course the worst comes and she pulls out my name. Except she can't even pronounce my last name (long last name; polish last name; you do the math). Instead she just points and me and says, “Mr. [First letter of my last name].” I am, of course, pissed off; this means I'll have to do some extra work to put together this oral argument on top of the paper I still have to write (b/c I'm a procrastinator and haven't started it yet).

So I respond the only way I can (which I didn't mean to do, but was purely due to instinct). I look down at the table I'm sitting at and in the tone of voice that conveys my total irritation and complete disdain I speak: "Fuuuuuuuuck!"

The entire class turns around (I was sitting in the back of the room) and looks at me; there's silence for approximately two seconds before everyone in the class starts laughing their asses off. I’m initially confused because I can’t figure out why everyone’s laughing. Then it dawns on me what I just said. I look up at the professor to see what sort of response dropping the f-bomb in class will garner.

Except there’s no response. The entire class is laughing except for the first two rows and the professor. Apparently I cursed just quietly enough so that those in the second row and forward didn’t hear what I said. Including the professor.

The professor looks at me and asks, with a smile on her face, “What did you say?”

I respond, “Nothing. Sounds good. I’ll be ready.”

Oddly, or not so oddly I guess, this would not be the last time I cursed during class. Although I’m pretty sure it’s the only time the professor didn’t hear me.

Why Professors Shouldn’t Call On Me

2006-10-06T18:15:00.000-04:00

I was in class on a Tuesday when the professor decided to call on me. I hadn’t exactly read the cases, but I had skimmed through them enough so that I was able to bullshit my answers. That’s not the story though. You see, the following class period, a Thursday, he decided to ask me some question about whatever it was that I was supposed to read. I didn’t take to kindly to this:

Prof: Mr. Coffee, [some inane question about the material from two days ago]?
NDC: Umm, [flips through casebook looking for something resembling an answer] I actually don’t have a clue.
Prof: You don’t remember?
NDC: Yeah, that was like two days ago. A lot has happened since then.
Class: [Laughter]
Prof: That wasn’t “like” two days ago, that was exactly two days ago.
NDC: Give or take.
Prof: The reason I ask you is [something about the answer leading into his next point] and to make sure you’re paying attention.
NDC: Oh. [pause] Fair enough. [Goes back to fucking around online]

Why I Should Never Have Kids

2006-09-28T00:23:00.000-04:00

There are at least eight million reasons why I shouldn’t have kids. For instance, I’m irresponsible, I’m lazy, I don’t like anything that I have to feed more than once a day, I don’t deal well with other people’s shit (literally), and god knows what else. But I think near the top of the list is my inability to be anything other than brutally honest. I can just imagine the conversations I would end up having whenever my offspring felt like it was a good idea to ask daddy a question.

Little Shit: Daddy?
NDC: Move; you’re blocking the TV. Actually, run and get daddy another beer really quick.
Little Shit: Ok. [Scurries off to fetch daddy a beer] Here you go.
NDC: Thanks.
Little Shit: Daddy?
NDC: What?
Little Shit: Where do babies come from?
NDC: Loose women, too much alcohol, and bad decisions.
Little Shit: What does that mean?
NDC: Do you really want to know?
Little Shit: Yes.
NDC: Are you sure you’re old enough?
Little Shit: I think so.
NDC: Alright, but don’t tell your mother about this.
Little Shit: I won’t. There are a lot of things we don’t tell mommy.
NDC: I know. You’re keeping them all secret right?
Little Shit: Right.
NDC: Good job. You see, it takes two people to make a baby; that would be your mother and me. When a man and a woman meet each other and are drunk enough to find the other person attractive then it becomes the man’s sole purpose at that moment to take that lady back to his place for lots of sex. In order to make himself feel better about screwing some random bitch the man continues to drink heavily until he has convinced himself that this is a great idea. The woman keeps drinking as well because, let’s face it, your daddy isn’t very attractive. But that’s ok.
Little Shit: Uh huh.
NDC: Once they are both drunk enough to make some bad decisions they will leave the party, or the bar, or the strip club, or the crack house and go someplace more intimate and private. Like the woods right behind the house or the back seat of a car or the convenience store bathroom. They will then proceed to have sex. Boys and girls are different; boys have a dick and women have a pussy; boys have an outie and women have an innie, understand?
Little Shit: I think so.
NDC: If the woman is drunk enough then the man is able to convince the woman that it would be a great idea for her to put his dick in her mouth until it gets hard enough to stick in her pussy. This might take awhile because the man is, almost certainly, amazingly drunk. Once the man is hard enough he bends the woman over the sink, so that he doesn’t have to look at her face, lifts up her skirt and places his outie inside the woman’s innie.
Little Shit: Ok.
NDC: It’s usually three minutes after that that the man realizes he doesn’t have a condom on and he has no idea if this woman is on the pill or not. He could stop having sex to ask the woman, but then there’s the chance that the woman might make him stop. At this point the man convinces himself that the woman is on the pill and then he just hopes like mad that woman doesn’t have a diseased cooch. Approximately two minutes after that the man will have an orgasm. That’s where it feels really good for the man and the man shoots cum inside the woman.
Little Shit: Do women have orgasms too?
NDC: No honey. They don’t.
Little Shit: Oh.
NDC: After that the guy grabs the nearest towel or the girls shirt and wipes his dick clean, zips his pants back up, and leaves the drunk, irritated, pissed off, and completely unsatisfied woman bent over the sink and then he goes back to the party to see if he can do it again.
Little Shit: Uh huh.
NDC: About a month and a half later the guy will get a call from the woman, even though he gave her a fake name and number, telling him that she’s pregnant. The man will then spend the next month and a half trying to convince the woman to have an abortion. If the guy is good, the woman will agree; if not, then the woman is going to have a baby.
Little Shit: Ok.
NDC: The man will try to convince the woman to put the baby up for adoption, but that never works out. That means that the man and the woman are going to become parents. The woman isn’t happy at first but she eventually warms up to the idea of having a child. The man, on the other hand, is pissed off for a long time and resents the child for the rest of his life.
Little Shit: Is that why I only get to see you once every eight weeks?
NDC: That’s exactly right dear. You’re mighty smart.
Little Shit: Thank you.
NDC: You’re welcome. Now, because the woman has ruined the man’s life forever the man is forced to pull out his trump card. The man will get drunk as piss and then call up the woman and say, “Guess what bitch, I gave you herpes and ruined your vagina forever.” He’ll most likely hang up after that and probably start drinking heavily again.
Little Shit: Wow.
NDC: Yeah. It’s pretty fucked up, isn’t it?
Little Shit: It sure is.
NDC: That’s also where marriage comes from.
Little Shit: Where?
NDC: You see, the woman can’t find any other man because she has the herp and the man decides he wants semi-constant access to pussy; thus, a marriage is born.
Little Shit: Why didn’t you marry mom then?
NDC: Are you kidding? I’m not going to sleep with a herpes infested slut. I have standards.

Bar Conversation

2006-09-26T01:47:00.000-04:00

[A commercial for some bullshit contest comes on TV; mention is made of a prize including roundtrip airfare]
NDC: You know, I’d really like to see a contest where the prize only involves one-way airfare. Sure, we’ll fly your ass there, but good luck getting back, bitch.
Roommate: [Laughter] Alright, Mitch Hedberg.
NDC: Huh?
Roommate: That sounds like it should be a Mitch Hedberg joke.
NDC: It can’t be a Mitch Hedberg joke; the fucker’s dead.
Roommate: [Rolls eyes]
NDC: Do you want hear what a Mitch Hedberg joke would sound like?
Roommate: Sure
NDC: [Silence]
Roommate: [Silence]
NDC: [Silence]
Roommate: [Laughter] You are an asshole.
NDC: I know this. But it’s still funny.

A Typical Day In The Life Of A 3L

2006-09-19T16:05:00.000-04:00

Just to give all those 1Ls and 2Ls hope that everything gets better with time:
4:52 a.m.: Wake up passed out on my bed fully clothed with the light still on wondering when and how I got home
4:53 a.m.: Stand up, turn off the light, and climb back into bed; still fully clothed
4:53:30 a.m.: Take off my socks; much better
5:15 a.m.: Nausea hits; roll onto my other side; back to sleep
9:05 a.m.: Alarm goes off; hit snooze
9:07 a.m.: Alarm goes off; hit snooze
9:09 a.m.: Alarm goes off; hit snooze
9:10 a.m.: Alarm goes off; hit snooze
9:12 a.m. until 9: 45 a.m.: Alarm goes off; hit snooze
9:49 a.m.: Realize that my alarm has been going off and that I need to get up; get out of bed, take my clothes off and stumble to the shower
10:03 a.m.: Fucking hell I don’t want to go to class today;
10:12 a.m.: Stop at the gas station to pick up powerade in order to make the hangover go away
10:15 a.m.: Make it to the parking deck; find a spot and walk to class; realize I forgot to put on socks
10:25 a.m.: Stumble into the classroom with five minutes to spare; hope nobody can tell I’m still drunk
10:26 a.m.: Friend walks into the classroom and says, “Jesus Christ; you look like shit and you reek of Bourbon.” My response: There’s a good reason for that; yesterday was a Wednesday
10:30 a.m.: Class starts; time to check my email and nap.
11:45 a.m.: Class is finally over; my notes for this class consist of “Why won’t he shut the fuck up?”
11:47 a.m.: Run downtown to have a couple drinks; this day is going to suck if I’m sober
12:15 p.m.: Time to head back to class; that shot of Jager was probably a bad idea
12:30 p.m.: Back in class; I have no idea what class; Jager was a good idea
12:52 p.m.: Professor attempts to call on me; I start laughing as soon as he says my name; Professor asks why I’m laughing; I let him know, “Because you have this weird deluded belief that not only have I bought the book but that I took the time to read whatever it is that you assigned. I’m a 3L now; don’t bother calling on me for the entire semester.”
12:53 p.m.: Get up and leave the classroom because Professor doesn’t take attendance
12:55 p.m.: Head downtown to the bar for several cocktails
3:20 p.m.: Over three hours and ten drinks later and it’s time to head back to class
3:21 p.m.: Almost trip over my own feet while standing up; sit back down
3:22 p.m.: Decide that in order to preserve my own health it would be better to skip my class; head to the bar
3:28 p.m.: Walk inside the bar; Cordially greet the bartender with, “Bitch, you better shut the fuck up and make me a drink or I’ll will punch you right in the cooter.”
3:29 p.m.: Bartender responds, “You fucking bearded motherfucker; if you don’t shut the fuck up right now I will kick your ass right out of this bar.” Respond to the bartender, “You’ll do no such thing; how the fuck do you think you’ll be able to pay your rent if I stop showing up? Now less talking and more drink making; snap to it.”
3:30 p.m.: Start sipping on my Bourbon and coke; it’s going to be a good day
3:35 p.m.: Time for shots
4:22 p.m.: Drunk dialing starts
4:35 p.m.: Note to self: do not, I repeat, do not call your parents when you’ve been drinking
4:38 p.m.: Note to self: call your mother tomorrow to reassure her you that did not have a threesome with hookers and that you have never done meth
5:15 p.m.: The yelling starts; time to make fun of everyone I see
5:17 p.m.: To girl walking by with very short skirt, “Excuse me, your vagina is showing.”
5:18 p.m.: To homeless guy that asks for fifty cents, “Can you break a hundred?”
5:19 p.m.: To girl wearing a cowboy hat and cowboy boots, “Forgot your feedbag again?”
5:20 p.m.: To girl wearing slutty red dress, “Rooooooooooxanne.”
5:22 p.m.: Retreat inside before I cause some trouble; reclaim my seat at the bar
5:30 p.m.: Flaming Dr. Pepper
5:40 p.m.: Irish Car Bomb
5:58 p.m.: Sweet; they’re playing Bon Jovi; time to sing along
5:59 p.m.: Bartender tells me to shut the fuck up; continue singing
6:05 p.m.: Bartender threatens to stop serving me if I don’t stop singing; singing ceases immediately
6:10 p.m.: Wander around the bar to find some random people to talk to
6:12 p.m.: Success; I have no idea who the fuck these people are, but they are now stuck with me
8:26 p.m.: I have no idea what I’ve been doing for the past two hours; the people I was talking to have left; I am now playing pool with people I’ve never met
8:45 p.m.: Best game of pool ever; I can barely stand up yet somehow I managed to run six balls in a row; I’m good with the wood and the balls; laugh hysterically at my own joke
8:52 p.m.: Park myself on a stool outside next to people I don’t know; proceed to chain smoke and entertain the random people
8:53 p.m.: Sweet; they love it when I make fun of people; this should be fun
8:55 p.m.: Note to self: they do not love it when I call them dirty teasing cunts
9:54 p.m.: Really? They’re still talking to me? What the fuck is wrong with these people
9:02 a.m.: Holy shit; where the fuck am I? This looks like my room; how the fuck did I get home; I don’t remember seeing [roommate] last night; please don’t let my car be outside; where the fuck are my pants?
9:03 a.m.: Sweet; my car isn’t here
9:04 a.m.: Beer shits
9:08 a.m.: Nap time
9:45 a.m.: Beer shits
9:56 a.m.: Nap time
10:59 a.m.: Beer shits
11:15 a.m.: Nap time
11:45 a.m.: Fuck; I guess I’ll go to some classes today
11:48 a.m. until liver gives out: Lather, rinse, repeat.

Bar Conversation With Random People

2006-09-12T11:25:00.000-04:00

After being introduced to two people that are engaged:
NDC: [To girl] Congratulations; I’m sure you’ll be happy forever.
Girl: Thanks.
NDC: [To guy] Run. The. Fuck. Away. Now. I’m dead serious; get the fuck out while you still can. You’re slowly walking down the long road to unhappiness and self hatred. You need to get out of the state as soon as possible.
Guy: [Laughs]
NDC: [To girl] I’m just fucking around. I’m sure you’ll both be happy and you both love each other.
Girl: [Laughs] Well thank you.
NDC: [To guy] I’m not fucking around at all. This is the end of your life. Really? One vagina for the rest of your life? How does that sound? That sounds like shit. What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you fucking retarded? Were you dropped on your head as a child? Did you recently suffer severe brain damage? What in the name of christ makes you think that this will end any way other than badly?
Guy: [Laughs]
NDC: [To girl] Again, I’m just kidding. I’m just bitter.
Girl: [Laughs] It’s ok.
NDC: [To guy] You may as well just cut your cock off right now because you’re not going to need it for the rest of your life. And while you’re at it, go ahead and hang those balls up too. Once the ring's on their finger it’s all over. Once you’re married all of a sudden it’s “wrong” and “immoral” to fuck hookers, get drunk every day, and stay up for two weeks straight doing rock and meth. Run away while you still have dignity and self respect. I’m warning you.
Guy: [Laughs]
NDC: [To girl] I’m joking. I was actually engaged once. [Turns to guy] Then one day I accidentally sobered up and realized that I needed to get the fuck away as soon as possible. For your sake, I hope you do the same.

Discussion question: Why the fuck do people talk to me?

Welcome To My Life

2006-09-11T15:36:00.000-04:00

Apparently I look like a sketchy motherfucker. In the past month or so at the bar someone has offered to sell me the following:

Weed

Hash

Loritabs

Crack

And I’ve also been offered blow for free.

I’m not sure exactly what this means, nor do I want to know.

First Memory

2006-09-01T16:17:00.000-04:00

I must have been around two or three years old at the time. We were living in Ann Arbor, Michigan at the time while my dad was getting his MBA. It was just my parents, me, and my older brother at the time and we were living in married student housing or family student housing or whatever the fuck it is that they call it up there. Now the area of student housing we lived in had a pretty large sandbox in the middle of some of the buildings (I’m pretty sure this is the sandbox, but I’m not positive).

Being a two to three year old boy at the time I apparently loved to play in the sandbox, get dirty, and hit on the ladies (while drinking Bourbon and coke from a sippy cup and smoking a cigarette). One day I was playing in the sandbox with another child I knew that was about my age. We were sitting in the sandbox discussing Reaganomics, the arms race, and the assassination attempt on Reagan (my acquaintance was on Reagan’s side for all three issues; I took the opposite position on all three); when the political discussion became old we started playing with the sand. In typical three year old fashion, this involved the usual digging and pile building, but also sand throwing.

Of course I had been told by my parents not to throw sand (and I assume the same was true for my colleague), but I was undeterred. I saw serious theoretical holes in their theory that “throwing sand is mean” and “you could hurt someone.” The sand fight continued when all of a sudden disaster struck: that fucking asshole got sand in my eye and my mouth.

At this time in my life I had not fully developed my problem solving skills nor had I perfected by crisis response system. Without this training, and I hesitate to admit this, I reacted in a way that was less than perfect. That’s right, I went crying to my parents. I ran into the house in tears because my eye hurt like a bitch and I hand sand in my mouth. I told my mom that I was playing in the sandbox with my friend, that we started throwing sand, and that that cockfuck got sand in my eye. My parents (or maybe just my mom; I don’t remember) calmed me down, gave me water to drink and washed out my eye with water (which made it even worse because I absolutely hated getting water in my eyes; seriously; even a few years later when I was taking swimming lessons I wouldn’t put my head beneath the water unless I had goggles; I would only take baths and was slightly terrified of showers; yeah; that bad).

Once I was calmed down and the golf ball sized grains of sand were out of my eye my parents sat me down. They told me that I shouldn’t have been throwing sand and that it was probably an accident. I learned two things that day: 1) never admit that you were partaking in activities that violate your parents’ rules unless you are positive that they have hard evidence of your violation; and 2) my parents weren’t going to do anything to get that little cockshit in trouble for throwing sand at me and scarring me for life. So my parents reminded me not to throw sand and then sent me back outside to play.

At this point I was pretty calmed down and feeling good about myself. Happy thoughts of trucks and Transformers were going through my head. But then I saw him. That fucking asshat was still sitting in the sandbox playing. How dare he; wait, HOW DARE HE!!???!?!? The bloodlust hit fast and hard and I started seeing red. It was on. I quickly took in my surroundings and noticed two very important things: 1) not only were my parents inside the house, but there were no adults at all outside; and 2) that little load of shit had his back to me and was blissfully unaware of my returned presence. I don’t remember what the weather was like at that point, but I do know that the chance of revenge stood at three hundred percent.

Like a soldier in the underbrush of Da Nang or swimming through the Mekong River, I slowly crept up behind him. I was still unsure what I was going to do at this point. Of course I didn’t realize that I hadn’t fully thought the plan through until I was pretty close to him. I had to decide very quickly if I wanted to slit his throat and leave him for dead or just wound him. I quickly decided that what’s good for the goose is good for the gander; or maybe I decided what goes around comes around; or maybe it was treat others the way you want to be treated; I’m sure it was one of those things though.

Except this was revenge; I couldn’t just sprinkle a little bit of sand in his eye; I had to teach this kid not to fuck with me. I quickly gathered up two handfuls of sand; I crammed as much sand as possible into my hands. I continued towards my unsuspecting victim. I finally got right behind him and had to quickly decide the best way to execute this plan. I glanced around once more for parents, adults, and tattletales; seeing none, it was finally time to strike.

In one quick motion from behind I reached around to his face, one of my hands on either side of his head. One hand went directly for his mouth; the other for his eyes. I crammed a handful of sand into his mouth and, with my other hand, not only dumped sand into both his eyes, but also kind of rubbed it in a little bit. This dipshit had no idea what was going on; he had no idea who it was that was attacking him. I finally released him and he jumped to a standing position and then turned around to see who was fucking with him. Through sandy, squinting eyes he saw me and a look of recognition spread across his face while he was spitting sand out of his mouth and trying to get the sand out of his crying eyes.

I stood there and stared at him for a couple seconds, and then it was time to speak; it was time to teach the lesson I had come to teach; I had to make it clear what was going on and why this had just happened.

I opened my mouth and calmly said, “My mom says you aren’t supposed to throw sand.” He turned and ran to his house and I strolled back to mine where I sat in my chair, put on my reading glasses, picked up the latest copy of The Wall Street Journal, lit up a fine Cuban cigar, and sat and read. And dwelled. Oh, did I dwell. I dwelled on the feeling of satisfaction that comes from a job well done.

And by “job” I mean “getting someone back.”

What’s the moral of the story? Don’t piss me off; I love revenge. Oh, and also, don’t throw sand. My mom told me it’s not nice. You might get hurt.

False Hope Really Makes You Cynical

2006-08-24T18:39:00.000-04:00

I see their hopeful faces; their bright shiny eyes; their happiness; their complete and total ignorance of what is about to happen to them. It’s like watching cows being led to the slaughterhouse. It’s like watching ants unknowingly walk under a magnifying glass on a sunny day. It’s like watching a alligator unknowingly walk around with seven lit sticks of dynamite strapped to its back. The poor 1Ls; they think they know so much but they don’t know shit.

I just don’t get it. I want to stop every single 1L that walks by, grab them by their shoulders, slap the fuck out of them and scream, “What the fuck are you thinking!?! Get the fuck out of here now!” But I don’t. I restrain myself and let them walk on in their blissful ignorance completely unaware of what lies ahead. Little do they know that in one to two short months most of them will have changed their tune.

The excitement of starting law school fades fast and is replaced even faster by anger, alcohol, and drunken sex. As the work piles up you realize that exams really aren’t that far away and you have no idea what the fuck you are doing here. It’s ok though. You’ll survive. But you’ll also stop caring. You think you have so much to look forward to, but the only good thing in your future is the apathy that hits once you get your first year grades back. You’ll finally realize that we weren’t lying when we said grades are pretty arbitrary and are not related in any way, shape, or form to how well you actually know the material.

Eventually you’ll find some vice to take part in while you sit around with your friends talking about how much law school sucks. If you actually sit around and talk about how much you love law school, and you mean it, then face it; you’re the gunner and you don’t have any friends which means you’re sitting around having a discussion with yourself and your torts book. Get help now; there’s still time to save you.

Basically, here’s my message of hope to all the 1Ls: Law school sucks; it doesn’t get any better; it gets worse. The only good part is that eventually you’ll stop caring, you’ll become cynical, you’ll become jaded, and then, only then, you’ll finally start having fun. Good luck with that.

Recent Voicemail From My Mother

2006-08-24T15:39:00.000-04:00

"Hi [NDC], it's your mother. I was at the grocery store and I wanted to let you know that I saw your additions to my shopping list [which resides on my parents' fridge - Ed.]. Just so you know, the strippers and the pony are in the freezer for then next time you come up. I looked around and couldn't find any common sense though, so I'm sorry. I'll look again the next time I go out."

Class Sucks

2006-08-17T13:35:00.000-04:00

Excerpts from an IM conversation during class with my roommate:
NDC: who the fuck wants to write a paper on antitrust?
NDC: fucktards
Roommate: i have a headache
Roommate: i want to go home
NDC: i have a hangover; i need a bourbon

Roommate: i love how he's not talking about anything important, but there's still lots of typing
NDC: people are fucking stupid
NDC: they're acutally taking notes on this fucking paper shit
Roommate: fucking hell
Roommate: did he let 1Ls in here?
NDC: i think so; time to shoot some people
NDC: OMG EVERYONE TYPE NOW

NDC: i will not come to class on a friday
NDC: i might give him a wednesday, but I'll let a dude fuck me in the asshole before I show up on a Friday
Roommate: like that's anything different from what you normally do
NDC: go to hell you whore
Roommate: i'm not a dude letting other dudes fuck me in the ass
NDC: sure you're not

[Following [Professor] talking about his background]
NDC: a little about my background: i was born a latino woman in south africa; after my sex and race change (performed by a nice korean woman in the back of her van) I came to the US hidden in a barrel of beer.
Roommate: ok, knock that shit off. i'm a lot closer to him than you are, if i start sniggering he's going to hear it.
NDC: that's the fun for me
NDC: if I don't literally make you laugh out loud by the end of the semester I will have failed as a person
Roommate: first amendment! he's hired for reading my paper
NDC: does anyone give a shit?
Roommate: what, about my paper? no.
NDC: not that - about Jeffrey Skilling
NDC: but yes, your paper too
Roommate: oh.

NDC: [Link]
Roommate: my favorite part about that link is that it's actually named snake.poop
NDC: it's awesome

Roommate: "i'm voting intelligently"
NDC: "i'm voting for whoever has the biggest knockers; because tits = brains"
NDC: are people taking notes?
NDC: fucking gunners
Roommate: i'm not. i'm now the proud owner of a [baseball pitcher] signed baseball
NDC: don't you mean [baseball] "oh fuck I'm injured and on the DL one more time" [pitcher]?
NDC: will that fit on a baseball?
Roommate: Hey, fingers are important to pitchers! Shut your mouth
NDC: fingers are important to everyone
NDC: example 1: my fingers and [friend’s] mom
Roommate: have we ever had a class together?
NDC: i like [pitcher] and i think he's a great pitcher.........when he doesn't have sand in his vagina
NDC: no
Roommate: he doesn't have a sandy vagina. you and [bartender] need to start an anti-[pitcher] club
NDC: but i'm not against him
NDC: i'm against sandy vaginas
Roommate: HE DOESN'T HAVE A SANDY VAGINA
NDC: what the fuck does he have up there then?
NDC: a fucking tree?
NDC: i wonder what a "fucking tree" would look like
NDC: would it grow people having sex, or would it grow cock and pussy?
Roommate: if it was a fucking tree, i think it would be a tree that fucks, I don't think it'd grow shit, except maybe some pus-filled bumps after fucking [whorish girl]
NDC: but it's a tree; it has to fucking grow something
NDC: otherwise it's just a goddamned stick

NDC: good thing he didn't call on me; i would have played dead
NDC: and by "dead" I mean "absent"

Roommate: what? think? that's ridiculous
NDC: we're fucking law students; we don't think
NDC: [Professor] needs to use his imagination; what a shitty hypo: imagine you're a dildo manufacturer and Vivid Video has a contract with you whereby your company is solely responsible for all of Vivid's dildo, vibrator, butt plug, and lube needs; what effect will this have on the dildo market in general?
Roommate: you put far too much effort into that
Roommate: and by "effort" i mean "typing"
NDC: it was worth it though

My Mother Still Hates Me

2006-08-16T18:22:00.000-04:00

Discussion between my mother and I on women:
Mom: Not all women are bad.
NDC: I never said all women are bad; I said most women are bad and all women are crazy.
Mom: And not all women are hard to put up with.
NDC: No they're not. Women are great and easy to put up with. For two hours at a time.
Mom: [Waits; knows something else is coming]
NDC: Then you find your pants and you get the fuck out of there.

Why my mother hates me: Number 1; Number 2; Number 3; Number 4; Number 5

Things currently on my to-do list:

2006-08-09T14:51:00.000-04:00

Masturbate

Drink Bourbon at the bar

Drink Bourbon at home

Finish unpacking

Fly to Wisconsin for two days for a small family reunion

Drink Bourbon at the family reunion

Stumble up to my grandparents while completely shitfaced

Have my grandparents cut me out of their will once I start talking about fucking hookers and doing blow in truck stop restrooms

Have my parents cut me out of their will once my grandparents talk to them

Finish up the work for my clinic

Complete a rough draft of my paper before I leave for Wisconsin

Drink excessively after the rough draft is done

Cry myself to sleep once I remember that even though the rough draft is done, I’m still not done with the paper

Get drunk and cry myself to sleep once I realize I still have two semesters of law school left and that I’ll probably be unemployed unless the public defender system receives a huge monetary windfall which would allow them to hire drunks who look like Jesus

Masturbate

Step one: steal underpants; step two: ?; step three: profit

Set up an over/under for my friends on how long Girl will put up me; I’m guessing three more weeks

Perform several test runs from the new house to determine the absolute latest I can wake up and still make it to class on time.

Perform several test runs from the new house to determine the absolute latest I can wake up and still make it to class no more than fifteen minutes late.

Determine which classes I actually need to buy the books for

Determine which classes I actually need to attend

Drop out of law school and run away to the Caribbean where I will do nothing but drink rum, lie on the beach, and hang out with drunk chicks

I’m Strong Like Hulk

2006-08-06T13:18:00.000-04:00

How to woo the ladies:
[While sitting outside the bar and following some discussion about how much I weigh, whether I could pick her up, etc.]
Girl: I bet you couldn’t throw me.
NDC: I could throw you far enough.
Girl: How far did you think you could throw me?
NDC: I could throw you just as far as I needed to.
Girl: How far is that?
NDC: All the way...up against the wall.
Girl: [Gasps/laughs; leans over and slaps NDC on the arm]
NDC: [Laughs]

Fucking Amazed

2006-08-01T15:09:00.000-04:00

Oddly enough I was not tasered, pepper sprayed, kicked, punched, stabbed, nor did I have the police called on me. Thus, it was a successful date. This girl (who I will affectionately nickname “Girl”) is a friend of a friend. And by “friend of a friend” I mean “friend of friend who is also a regular at the bar.” I actually met her a few weeks before we went out and didn’t think much of it. We talked for a little bit at the bar that night but we were there with a bunch of people so there really wasn’t much serious discussion or time to really get to know her. And then Girl started coming to the bar more.

Now, this past summer I’ve probably been at the bar about five times a week; last semester I was at the bar around four times a week. In all that time I had only seen Girl in there (or at least remembered seeing her in there) once. Suddenly she was there almost as often as I was. Of course being me, the only real signal I pick up on is when a girl strips down completely naked and screams “FUCK ME NOW!” All that other shit is completely lost on me. I just figured she was there because of our mutual friend. I eventually figure out that she’s interested in me (thanks to the bluntness of the mutual friend; because I’m retarded and wouldn’t have picked up on it by myself) and then have to decide what to do.

I haven’t had any sort of a romantic pseudo-relationship with anyone for about a year. And that ended fucking horribly. Really fucking horribly. My last actual relationship ended about two and a half years ago; and that was with The Bitch. Needless to say, the thought of trying to date someone made my dick kind of shrivel up inside me. But I figured what the hell; what’s the worst that could happen? Of course, the worst that could happen would be that she would turn out to be a crazy fucking stalker that wouldn’t put out and eventually ended up stabbing me to death in my own bed with a butter knife. But I like to live on the edge, so I figured I’d risk it.

After hanging out with her in the bar a couple times (always around other people) I finally asked for her phone number and said I’d call her later in the week and that we should get something to eat. She readily agreed (which makes me think there’s something wrong with her; I mean, can I really trust anyone that is attracted to and interested in me). I called on Wednesday; she didn’t answer; I left a message; she called me back later; a date was set for dinner Thursday night. She had this potluck thing for work or something, but she didn’t think she would be there any longer than eight. I questioned the efficacy of going to dinner after she left a function where there would be food, but she didn’t think there would be anything good.

She was wrong. She called me around eight-thirty and apologized first because it took so long, and second because there ended up being a lot of great food and she ate lots (wow – a woman who actually apologizes; maybe this won’t be too bad…). She said she’d be happy to sit with me while I got something to eat; I told her it wasn’t a big deal at all; and so she came to meet me at, where else, the bar.

I went to the bar around six only expecting to be there for an hour and a half or so. Of course, I then had this conversation with my roommate:
NDC: Alright; I’m going to the bar.
Roommate: Are you meeting Girl there?
NDC: No. [At least I wasn’t originally planning on meeting her there – ed.]
Roommate: So you’re going to drink before your date?
NDC: Yeah. Why?
Roommate: That’s just a little odd.
NDC: Why’s that? I don’t do anything else sober; what makes you think I’m going to start now?
Roommate: That’s a very good point. Have fun.

Of course, I only expected to be at the bar for an hour and a half or so which would have left me completely sober. Three hours later though, and I’m a little bit buzzed. But not drunk; because that would just be rude. Or something like that.

She shows up to the bar and she gets a drink while I have another and eventually we head off so I can find something to eat. I choose a place and we sit down and, somehow, it actually goes really well. Surprisingly well. We were at the restaurant for about an hour and a half to two hours and there weren’t any awkward silences. The conversation flowed nicely and there was nothing that made me want to ditch her if she went to the bathroom. Plus there was Bourbon and coke which makes everything good in my book. Even better, she drank Bourbon and coke as well. It’s like a match made in AA.

When dinner was over we, in true NDC style, went back to the bar for a couple of drinks. Of course by that time there were a bunch of people that I knew (including the mutual friend) at the bar, so that effectively ended the date. She had to leave not too long after that (because she has one of those “job” things that require you get up in the morning). We shared a hug while I looked at her ass and then she left.

We’ve hung out a few times since then and currently have plans to go to dinner whenever she gets done with work tonight. I’m attempting to take it somewhat slow because of my bitter, jaded soul and my hugely successful history with women, but we’ll see what happens. I mean, I’ve known her for probably three weeks and we haven’t gotten completely shitfaced together and had drunken sex yet, so I guess technically I am taking it slow.

Fuck It

2006-07-26T23:22:00.000-04:00

I haven't been on an actual date in a solid two and a half years. Regardless, I'm actually going on a date tomorrow night. This should be interesting.

Like with everything in my life I'm going to expect the worst. That way I'll consider the date a success when she doesn't spray me with mace, taser me in the neck, and then kick me in the balls. And even if she does, at least I'll be expecting it. And I'll taser her back. Or probably just stay on the ground and cry because my eyes sting, my neck is killing me, and one of my nuts is crushed.

Movin’ On Up

2006-07-25T17:35:00.000-04:00

Moving fucking sucked. It sucked balls. It sucked huge hairy sweaty smelly unwashed balls. Two loads with a U-Haul and the old place still isn’t empty. It’s almost empty, but not quite. I never realize how much shit I own until it comes time to move. I also never realize how lazy I can be until it comes time to move.

For example, while packing Saturday night I found at least four empty cartons of cigarettes in my room, at least three empty packs of cigarettes in my room, at least five empty beer cans/bottles in my room, at least seven empty beer cans/bottles in my bathroom, junk mail from over eight months ago, the body of a dead midget, and a quarter-kilo of blow I forgot buying.

I’m pretty sure that the only good part about moving is that it’s socially acceptable to start drinking beer at ten in the morning. Because you’re working. There’s nothing better than a nice frosty beer when your clothes are completely drenched in sweat, it’s roughly six million degrees outside, every part of your body hurts, and you smell worse than Bea Arthur’s vagina looks.

Now we just have to get the rest of the shit out of the old place and clean it up. Then, following that, we will have to get shitfaced. I will get hammered and start throwing shit. Then I’ll swear to whoever will listen that I’m never fucking moving ever fucking again. Ever. EVER! But a year later, just like always, I’ll get to bitch again. Because I’m sure I’ll be moving again. Fucking hell.

Non-sequitur: Good luck to everyone taking the bar exam; I’m sure you’ll all do fine.

Unless I hate you. If I hate you then I hope that not only do you fail, but that the day before the results come out you’re driving completely intoxicated and you careen into a bridge leaving you permanently disfigured and paralyzed. After you finally emerge from your coma you’ll get a list of wonderful news: You’ll never walk again; your pet died; your dad died; oh yeah, so did your mom; your insurance company went bankrupt; you only have one eye; the doctors accidentally performed gender reassignment surgery on you instead of fixing your shattered arm; the doctor let his malpractice insurance lapse; you have HIV; and crabs; and you also failed the bar exam. Good luck with life now.

Shits and Giggles

2006-07-19T03:10:00.000-04:00

Just because I haven't mentioned it in a while, I think everyone should google Miles Kendall just to see what the third (that's right, the third) result right behind the two results for his official website is.

What a fucking douche.

Fun Times

2006-07-14T17:40:00.000-04:00

I’m so excited. I haven’t moved in almost a year. I was starting to worry that I’d actually spend more than twelve months in one location (seriously, for the past five years I have moved at least once a year, if not more; fucking insane). Thankfully I get to move so that worry goes straight out the window. My roommate that’s engaged is moving out because her fiancé is moving to town and she (selfishly) would prefer to live with him. Go figure. My other roommate and I tried to find a new roommate, but that search was completely fruitless. Although it was interesting as well. For example, we were contacted by some sixty-five year old retired guy who said he wouldn’t be here very much because he plays a lot of golf, or something like that. And then there was this woman (no idea how old) who wanted to move in here with her daughter. Who, I think, is about eleven years old or so. So that was a no on that one too.

So my roommate and I decided to move. There are many good things about moving. Most importantly, our new place is only about a mile and a half from downtown. This is important because our current place is roughly eight or nine miles from downtown. This isn’t really that bad until you consider the fact that in order to get a cab to drive that far out you have to pay them seven hundred dollars plus give them an eight ball of coke. This is due to the cab system here being completely arbitrary. Cab drivers just charge whatever the fuck they think drunk assholes will pay. If you’re close to town it generally costs between three and five bucks a person. If you aren’t close, well, then you are fucked and your choices become 1) drive home (not good; don’t do it); 2) staying at the bar until six in the morning so that you can sober up; 3) sleeping in the backseat of your car for the night (makes your back hurt); 4) calling someone for a ride (they generally don’t like this at 2:30 in the morning); 5) finding someone who won’t care if you pass out on their couch for the night; or 6) spending the night in the drunk tank because you thought it would be fun to call the cops “motherfucking sack of shit pigs” and then throw hot dogs at them (funny, but still a bad idea; I promise).

Needless to say, being within walking distance of downtown (that is, should I fell like walking a mile and a half, which I don’t expect to happen very often; if at all) will be a blessing. I’m sure some people out there assume it will be bad news because now I’ll never get any work done. To this I say fuck you. I’m a 3L. I wasn’t going to do work anyway and this way I’ll be much safer while blowing off my last year of school.

But what’s the main point in moving? Not saving money; not moving closer to town; not the fun that comes from touching everything I own twice. Instead, it’s the joy that comes from being able to throw another housewarming party. There’s nothing better than having a legitimate reason to invite a shitload of people over and try to get everyone so drunk that nobody remembers their names. Maybe this time around I’ll be awake past nine. I vaguely remember the housewarming party from last year. I think we tapped the first keg around one or two, I proceeded straight to drunkfunk and then passed out face down on my bed around nine o’clock. Then I was given the pleasure (and I use that term very loosely) of being woken up by one of my friends humping me. Let me tell you, everyone had a huge laugh over that. Except me. To my credit, however, I did wake back up after that and I rallied for another couple hours of drinking. Sure, not the smartest decision ever, but I was dedicated.

Another plus to moving is that I get to hide from the crazy fuckers that know where I live. With the simple act of moving I’ll be able to hide from many a crazy fucking bitch (including that one that won’t stop nagging me about the paternity test -- get over it bitch; it’s not mine; I faked my orgasm).

Curiosity

2006-07-14T02:06:00.000-04:00

What do you people use for insomnia? Alcohol only does so much as a sleep aid and it tends to make me sleep until four the following afternoon. I crave sleep.

Advice for 2Ls

2006-07-10T12:33:00.000-04:00

I’ve seen a bunch of posts lately from people offering advice to incoming 1Ls. Shit, I wrote one myself about a year ago. But I don’t see anyone offering advice for 2Ls. Come on, 2Ls need advice too. And even if they don’t, well, fuck it. You’re getting some. Don’t think that just because you made it through 1L year that you’re good to go. 2L is a lot different from 1L. 1L tries to sap the soul out of you. 2L tries to drown your soul in alcohol and crazy fucking bitches. At least that’s my experience, but whatever. So here’s my advice to rising 2Ls:

Reading: I’m sure you’ve heard the saying that they read you to death during 2L. Load. Of. Bullshit. You’re a 2L. Feel free to fuck off. Reading is completely optional. It was optional during 1L, but now even more so. Sure, some professors will expect you to read, but you need to put them in their place. Let them know that you’re only going to read when you feel like it and they’ll leave you alone. Or just pull an NDC where you either 1) pretend to be absent when the professor calls on you, or 2) let the professor know you aren’t prepared the second he calls your name. The key to number two is speaking in a voice that conveys your indifference. Fuck this, “I’m sorry professor [X], but I’m not prepared for class today” bullshit. Instead, try “Yeah, I didn’t read,” or “Haha, no, I don’t know the answer because I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about.” Nobody cares. You’re a 2L now. Being prepared for class was soooo 1L.

Attendance: Make sure you use all of your absences. You probably have your grades from first year by now and I’m sure you realize that they are pretty much completely arbitrary and not tied to class attendance, participation, or actual knowledge at all. Because of that, showing up more times that you’re required to is just flat out fucking stupid. Take a day off. In fact, take a day off once a week. Actually, fuck it. If the professor doesn’t take attendance, just pick one day a week to show up. It won’t make that much of a difference.

Class Selection: I know, you’re all excited now because you can finally pick your classes and take the ones that you are actually interested in. I mean, come on, who wouldn’t be interested in artificial insemination law for pigs in the 1950s? But fuck that. Sure, the course may sound interesting based on the name and course description, but that has no bearing on how much work the class is. Your best friend here will be course evaluations from previous years and word of mouth from other students. No matter what class you choose, they’re still law school classes. They all suck. No matter who the professor is. No matter the format of the exam. They all fucking suck. So find the classes with a paper or a take home exam or a multiple choice exam or the pass/fail class. This will increase your opportunities to fuck off. Plus, even if you’re interested in the class the chances of it turning out to be the class you imagined are approximately one in thirty-seven billion. Don’t waste your time. You’ll be amazed at how professors can turn what could legitimately be interesting material into something worse that apartheid. I’ve seen it happen. It’s not cool. Again, just follow the NDC method where you pick your classes based entirely upon the time/days of the week they meet and the format of the exam or paper. You’ll thank me later.

Free Time: I remember thinking at the end of 1L that there would be no way that I could drink more than I did during 1L and still pass. However, I still heard from numerous people that I would find a way. Goddamn was that true. In hindsight, I didn’t actually drink that much during 1L. Sure, I spent Friday through Sunday night drunk off my ass, but I only got drunk maybe once (twice tops) during the week. That pussy drinking style went straight out the window a day and a half into 2L. All of a sudden there was always drinking going on somewhere or some reason to go to the bar (i.e. “holy shit guys, it’s a Wednesday; we should go downtown and get wasted,” or “holy shit guys, it’s a Monday, you should all come over to my place and get wasted”). Suddenly I was drinking every day and using Monday morning to sober up from the previous week's bender before starting all over again. And don't use that shitty "I can't drink because I have to read" excuse. If you really want to read, just skim the shit thirty minutes before class. If you can’t fake it after that, you need to drop out of law school. Now.

Outlines: Hahahaha. Sure. Yeah. You’ll do them. Or not. Old outlines are your new best friend. They should have been your best friend last year but I bet you listened when everyone told you that should make your own. Fuck that. Someone else already did all the work for you. On a side note, don’t take a class that has never been taught before or a class by a new professor because there won’t be an outline for it.

Learning In General: Fuck that shit. You’re not here to actually learn anything. You’re here to “think like a lawyer” (whatever the fuck that means). Figure out what your professor wants on the final and do that. Nothing else matters. Barbri is around for a reason. Everything you really need to know for your job you’ll learn while working there.

Grades: Still fucking arbitrary. Nothing’s changed in this department so please learn from your mistakes last semester. If it comes down to either partying or studying, always go with partying. Anonymous grading was created for those people that come to class unprepared. Or that don't come to class.

Friends And Gossip: Don’t. Be. A. Fucking. Gossip. Queen. I know other people will continue to do be gossip whores, but pretend like you’re practicing law and you have to keep client confidences. Just because you heard from your friend Jane that her friend Bob told her that his friend Dick’s cousin heard from the midget bagger at the grocery store that John, from your class, fucked a llama at the bar the other night doesn’t mean that it’s true. Even if it were true, there’s no reason to repeat it. Because loving a llama is something completely normal and natural. Llamas are sexy. And they’re sluts too. So don’t fucking judge me. I mean, don’t judge John.

Final Note: Goddamnit, have fun. This will probably be the last time that you are in school. That is, it will be the last time, before you retire, that you aren’t working a full time job. Enjoy it while you can. Where else can you go to class between twelve and fifteen (or eighteen, if you’re feeling squirrelly) hours a week and then have the rest of the week to do with as you please? This is a golden opportunity to enjoy yourself, meet new people, and make great friends. Don’t let that pass you by or else you’ll spend the next forty years of your life regretting living your life in the library and doing nothing but studying just so that you could get a job working eighty hours a week which effectively prevents you from meeting new people. Get out there and fucking relax every now and then. Even if you’re a fucking tool of a gunner who can’t stop asking questions and you’ve convinced yourself that your professors actually enjoy you asking questions to them after class and before class and during their office hours and calling them on weekends and vacations, go out to a fucking happy hour every now and then. Sit down for fifteen minutes every week and call a fucking friends. Fucking hell, call fucking movie phone or something. Forget about the law and have some fun. Or resign yourself to being a fucking douchebag for the rest of your life. If you are a douchebag, I’ve got some people you should meet. Because goddamn do I know some people that need to die.

"Death came around, foced to hear its song"

2006-07-02T18:49:00.000-04:00

I still haven't been arrested. In fact, I haven't even come close to beinga arrested. Although I finally got kicked out of the bar. It only took me two years to do it too. Now, there have been many, many times when I was almost kicked out or been told the next day that the bartender thought he was going to have to throw me out. But it had never actually happened. Until Thursday night.

I came downtown somewhere around seven or so to have a couple drinks. I was trying to convince a friend to come with me to a show later that night. I eventually convince him to come downtown and go to the show with me. He shows up around nine or nine-thirty and we head over to the show around ten or so. At this point I've had maybe six or seven drinks so I'm still sober.

But then we get there - a place I don't go on a regular basis so I don't get a price break. This prompts me to ask the bartender what the biggest cheapest beer is. Luckily, they have 32 ounce beers for about five bucks. It is these 32 ounce beers that will eventually do me in. Judging by my tab the next morning, in the hour and a half to two hours that I was there I had four (one more than three, one less than five) 32 ounce beers. That's 128 ounces of beer. That's ten and two-thirds beers. In an hour and a half. Because of these beers, the last thing I remember is walking back to the bar.

I was fine at first. But according to second hand reports I proceeded to call the bartender (and the bartender's mother) a whore and slut. I drank a glass of water in about three seconds, and then proceeded to pass out while sitting up at the bar. Because that's how I roll. It was at this point that the bartender told my roommate, who had just arrived not too long before I stumbled in, that she was sorry, but that I needed to leave.

At least I wasn't physically ejected from the bar (at least, I don't think I was). But holy shit was I confused when I woke up in the morning wondering how I got home and what happened after eleven thirty.

This led me to go into the bar on Friday and apologize profusely to the bartender for being a drunken asshole. Thankfully, she's come to expect it. Then, because Friday was my birthday, she made me a crown. In an effort to make fun of the sorostitutes who walk around on their birthdays wearing a tiara and expect everyone to pay for all of their shit just because it's their motherfucking birthday, she made me a crown (out of a Michelob Ultra box) and taped an index card to it that said, "I'm the Birthday Girl!"

I wore the crown all night long. Random people on the street loved it. I confused about six random children (unable to understand sarcasm) who I'm sure were wondering whether or not I was actually a girl with a beard or not. I also ended up being in about four pictures with people that I didn't know (including one bachelorette party) because of the crown. It was a great night full of people buying me shots and drinks and drunkely swaying while sitting at the bar. Good times. Good times.

God It Burns

2006-06-24T16:29:00.000-04:00

I got burned by a homeless guy yesterday. Not lit on fire or anything cool like that, but just made fun of. The homeless dude burn is very similar to the mom burn, but I'm still not sure which is worse.

See, I was sitting outside of the bar when the guy walked by the bar. I've talked to him before and so he usually says hello or something when he walks by. I had actually just seen him the night before when I was drunk outside the bar. So he's walking by, he sees me and we do a fist pound (because really, who's going to shake a homeless guy's hand...). He says "What's up?" I respond with, "Not much. How are you doing?"

His response: "I'm doing a hell of a lot better than you were last night."

Ouch.

Random Thoughts

2006-06-19T21:12:00.000-04:00

As most of you know I frequently have random thoughts. Standing alone, none of these thoughts amount to anything. But if you string them all together, then I have enough content for a post in order to satiate the ~~retards~~ lovely readers who decide to frequent this website.

This weekend is the annual music festival for the city (or is it a town...maybe a pseudo-urban area; not a township...not yet a metropolitan area) I live in. What this really means is that there are a couple of outdoor stages, a bunch of bands, and a really inebriated NDC stumbling through the city all weekend. Last year I ended up in the gated area they had set up for the beer truck. There is nothing better in this world than seeing semi-trailer with beer taps in the side. It made me very, very happy. And also very, very drunk. Of course, drunk might have been due to excessive drinking at bars after I left the beer truck, but whatever. Fun times. Should be fun times again.

Also fun times: I was sitting in the library when one of the librarians comes up to me and asks if I want to take a short break to have some homemade ice cream. Fuck yeah. Everyone needs a little sugar high when they’re reading cases and law review articles on ineffective assistance of counsel.

So apparently Blachman has a book coming out. I’ve received one or two comments and a couple of emails asking about my thoughts and when I would post a review. I attribute these questions to the fact that everyone else and their mother have received an advance copy of Anonymous Lawyer while I sit in my room and reread back issues of Penthouse. Of course, I can’t really blame him for not sending me an advance copy of the book (even though I was mentioned when he asked what websites his readers read). I’ve never exactly hid my opinions about Blachman or my thoughts on his book so it makes sense for him to not send me one (e.g. here [numbers 5 and 6], here, and here). I assume the point of sending out advance copies is to get good press and have people mention the book in a positive light. Of course, maybe I’m being completely closed minded and the book is actually a hilarious tale. Also, maybe the world really is flat.

God I hate school. But goddamn I love not having to work a real job and living off loan money. I predict that I will change my tune as to my love of loan money in a little over a year when they expect me to start paying it back. Assholes.

For some reason the men’s bathroom smells like cornflakes. I don’t want to know why.

My Mother Still Hates Me

2006-06-15T14:56:00.000-04:00

No worries, nothing has changed. My mother still curses the day that she failed to abort me and decided instead that having a second child would be a good thing. Sure. Babies are good things. That’s what Rosemary said.

Never mind the fact that I was drunk for three days straight. Forget that fact that I finished a liter of Bourbon off in two days. Look past the fact that I was stumbling drunk not only during my brother’s graduation party, but also during his graduation. My mom told me I reeked of booze during graduation. That may have been due to the half a liter of Bourbon I had before graduation, or it might simply have been because she was sitting directly in front of me. According to my sister in law, our entire section stunk of alcohol. Go figure...

First, there was the discussion about my brother’s girlfriend and whether I had met her the last time I was up to visit. I did meet her over Christmas when my brother brought her over to my parents’ new house to see it. Last December the following conversation occurred:

Brother: And that’s the stove.
Brother’s Girlfriend: [Pointing to the stove ventilation thing] What’s this?
Brother: That’s the vent for the stove. It clears smoke and crap out of the room.
Brother’s Girlfriend: That’s pretty useless. All it does is suck a lot.
NDC: [Drunk at the time; looks at his mother; shit-eating grin spreads across his face]
Mother: [To NDC] You close your mouth and don’t say anything.
NDC: [Loud, long, continuous laughter]

Luckily, things haven’t changed at all. Somehow, my mom didn’t remember I had met my brother’s girlfriend. So we had this discussion

NDC: [Looking at brother’s prom picture on the fridge]
Mother: That’s [brother’s girlfriend].
NDC: I know.
Mother: How do you know? Did you meet her?
NDC: Yes, I met her.
Mother: When was that
NDC: Well, [brother] doesn’t know that I met her, but we sort of had a fling when I was up here last.
Mother: [Silence] Shut up.

Obviously my mom can’t get enough of me. Or she’s a glutton for punishment. Especially after another conversation. I was on the phone with a friend who lives near my parents and she was coming to my brother’s graduation party. She called the day before to see what time the party started. I didn’t know, so I went to ask my mom while I was still on the phone with my friend:

NDC: Hey mom, what time does [brother’s] party start tomorrow?
Mother: Is that [friend] on the phone?
NDC: No. It’s a phone sex line. I forgot to tell you that I was bringing a date to [brother’s] party.
Mother: [Silence]
NDC: I don’t know what her name is or even what she looks like but she’s very anxious to meet me and she sounds hot.
Mother: [Odd laughter]
NDC: You’ll know it’s her because she’ll be the one dressed up as a slutty nurse.
[Conversation about what time the party starts]
NDC: It starts at one.
Friend: Do you just tell your mom what I think you did?
NDC: Wait? Which part?
Friend: The part where you told her you were on the phone with a phone sex line?
NDC: Oh. Yeah. Why?
Friend: [Silence]

Everyone loves NDC.

Except his mother.

Why my mother hates me: Number 1; Number 2; Number 3; Number 4

Note To Self

2006-06-14T14:40:00.000-04:00

Dear NDC,

For future reference, other airline passengers may find it offensive, morally wrong, and may call you names like “sick fuck,” “jackass,” “selfish asshole,” “amoral shell of a man,” or “creepy pervert” when you pull out your computer in the middle of an airplane flight and proceed to play Asian-gangbang-facial porn on it.

While sitting in an aisle seat.

Without headphones.

While sitting next to an eight year old.

Just so you know.

With loving handjobs,
NDC

Out Of The Office

2006-06-08T18:07:00.000-04:00

I’m off to the glorious wondrous amazing midwest once more. One of my younger brothers is graduating from high school on Saturday. Unfortunately, this means that there will probably be a bunch of family around and a bunch of my brother’s friends (I’m not saying that I’d try to get a hot 18 year old girl drunk and take advantage of her in her intoxicated state, but for me, vomiting on the carpet sounds like consent).

It’s not that I don’t love my family. I do. At least most of them. Well, some of them. It’s just that a few members (i.e. my mother and my grandmother on my mom’s side) like to try to tell me what to do. I don’t know why they still try because the conversation usually goes like this:
Mom: NDC, you really shouldn’t do [action X].
NDC: Mother? Hush.
Mom: I’m serious, it’s not [good/right/healthy/moral/legal]
NDC: Mother?
Mom: What?
NDC: Shut up.
Hopefully there will be enough people in the house that I can just sit there and quietly get drunk. Then I’ll try to stand up to take a piss, but I’ll stumble and fall. Then I’ll get mad at myself for trying to stand up because I already pissed my pants.

No wonder my parents love me. I expect they’ll start loving me even more once they see the graduation card I bought for my brother. The front says something like “congratulations on your kindergarten graduation” and the inside wishes him luck in first grade. But then there’s what I wrote: “Congratulations [Brother]. Don’t do too much blow in college.” I’m still debating whether or not to put something offensive in the memo line of the check I’ll write for him. I figure something like “for hookers” or “thanks for the meth” or “good luck in prison” would be entertaining.

I’m such a good son.

Back sometime around Monday.

Conversation I Wish I Had

2006-06-08T00:59:00.000-04:00

Them: What are you doing this summer?
Me: Taking a class and doing a supervised research.
Them: You didn’t get a job?
Me: Fuck no.
Them: Why not?
Me: Because all the law firms discriminate.
Them: But, NDC, you’re...you’re white.
Me: I know. That wasn’t what it was.
Them: Was it because you’re a male? Like some reverse discrimination to get women into the workplace?
Me: No. Not that either.
Them: Discrimination against atheists?
Me: Nope.
Them: I swear to god, if this is just some set up for an “I have a big dick” joke I’m going to be sorely disappointed.
Me: That’s not it at all.
Them: Well then how the fuck did they discriminate against you? The beard? Are they anti-lumberjack?
Me: No; not at all.
Them: Well?
Me: They only hire people who take the time to apply for a summer position and attempt to get an interview.
Them: [Silence.]
Me: [Silence.]
Them: [Longer silence.]
Me: [Even longer silence.]
Them: You’re a douche.
Me: And also...
Them: Yeah?
Me: In an attempt to keep the Jewish partners from feeling insecure...
Them: Yeah?
Me: They refused to hire anyone with dick longer than six inches.
Them: [Sigh]
Me: Sorry. I couldn’t help myself.
Them: Fuck off.
Me: I lied. I’m not sorry.

I’ve Reached A New Low

2006-06-06T11:13:00.000-04:00

I did something in my trial practice class the other day that I’m not proud of. In fact, I still have nightmares about this incident. In the middle of the night I wake with a start; the sheets drenched with sweat; remembering what I’ve done and how people will be disappointed in me. How will they react, I wonder, when they find out what happened. Will they shun me? Never speak to me again? Ignore me? Decapitate me? Disembowel me? Defriend me on Facebook? Start refusing to be in the same room as me? Attempt to go back in time so that I can be murdered as a child?

Actually, regardless of what happens, I’m kind of with you guys if you decide to follow the route of the last one. I’ll even give you an address and what is probably a good time to commit my back-in-time murder. There’s no reason for me to live right now. It’s like my mother always told me when I was growing up: “NDC, you bring nothing to the table. Most people bring something, but you’ve got absolutely nothing. Now shut the fuck up and quit your whining. I fed you two days ago. If you keep crying I’m going to beat you with the shovel again. Asshole. Goddamn six month old kid. Mama needs more gin.”

What could I possibly be so ashamed of? Well, you see, I was in class, and we were talking about, umm, some class topic, when I actually raised my hand, opened my mouth, and asked a question.

That’s right, NDC, the emphatic slacker, the perpetual drinker, the moderately retarded, actually asked a question in class. To the professor. In the hopes of getting an answer. I felt so nerdy after asking the question that I felt like I owed to my inner nerd to compute pi to sixty seven decimal places. And by “compute” I mean “I googled it.”

In my defense, the class only has five other people in it, it’s graded pass fail, and the question was about criminal law and the ability of a third party to give consent in the context of you don’t give a fuck and probably stopped reading this sentence fifteen minutes ago. Point being, it was something I assume a public defender will run across at some point, and I didn’t feel like actually looking up the answer. But I still don’t understand why I asked the question. I mean, I’ve been confused and had “thoughts” and “wonders” in previous classes but still didn’t ask a question.

For example, when I was in civil procedure and we were doing quasi in rem jurisdiction, I remember distinctly thinking to myself, “Self, I wonder what the fuck quasi in rem jurisdiction is. I should probably find out, but instead I’m just going to hedge my bets and hope that it isn’t on the exam.” I also have a memory of asking myself during torts, “Hey there Self, it’s me again. No, not that guy me. Yeah. Right over here you fucking dumbass. Anyway, Self, I really wonder what exactly negligence is. I mean, is it a defense? Is it a tort? Does it have anything to do with quasi in rem jurisdiction? Shouldn’t we find out? No? You’re right. We should go to the bar instead. I love you self. If we weren’t in a room full of people I would so give you a handjob. You just wait until we get into the bathroom at the bar.”

Self is an odd guy. I never know exactly what’s gotten into him.

Regardless, I’ve had questions before, but I’ve just never given a fuck enough to actually care about the answer enough to go through the trouble of raising my hand, waiting to be called on, and then actually expending the energy to talk to ask the question.

I’d like to think that maybe I’m growing up; that I’m finally coming to respect what law school has to offer me in the way of information and experts in certain legal fields whose minds are available to me most of the time at a reasonably low cost (fucking tuition…).

Except, I didn’t get much sleep and so I was pretty tired. Also, my stomach was upset. I think I ate some bad fast food or something.

Never again. Never. Again. I refuse to ask questions. If I am unable to understand a concept the first time the professor says it, it means I wasn’t meant to understand that concept. If I have a question that is sort of covered by the material but a little outside the material, I shall keep my mouth shut because shit outside the material doesn’t fucking matter. And from this point forth I refuse to ever, ever, EVER again open my mouth unless directly called on in any class that is graded on a pass/fail basis.

I hope everyone forgives me for my transgressions. As a self induced punishment I will not drink any alcohol for a period of thirty; scratch that, sixty seconds.

Praise Allah; I have learned from my mistake.

The Canaries Are Still Breathing

2006-05-30T15:44:00.000-04:00

I have not died nor have I been arrested. Just thought I’d let you know. Sure, I haven’t posted in over two weeks, but I had some celebrating to take care of. I am now (presumably) a 3L which, I think, means I have to drink three times as much as I did 1L year, and 50% more than I drank 2L year; or something like that. I’ve finished my finals (actually, I finished around two weeks ago, but who’s counting) and now summer classes have started (like, a week ago, but whatever). Sure I had a week off, but I did what any self respecting law student would do at the end of finals: I went on a two week (and counting) bender fueled by the misery of taking finals, the joy of finishing finals, weird nights and encounters downtown, and the fact that I’m kind of a lush.

Other than a few nights here and there, my life has been extraordinarily boring. But I’m hoping to change that with a combination of liquor and liquor. This is the summer of ’06. It looks to be a summer of porch sitting, bourbon drinking, baseball watching, bar going, bartender piss-offing, general debauchery, and hedonistic tendencies all interspersed with some class work and some research. Basically, this summer should be no different than any other semester.

Seriously though, school sucks. I’m taking trial practice and doing a supervised research in order to satisfy the writing requirement. Unfortunately, this means I have actual work that I need to do and I can’t fuck off as much as I have in the past. Of course, whether the fact that I can’t fuck off as much means that I actually won’t fuck off remains to be seen. At this point it could go either way; so we’ll see what happens.

I project complete and total failure. Because this way when I do the bare minimum and barely pass, I can view this as successfully doing better than I expected.

Remember boys and girls, the higher you set your goals, the easier it is to be disappointed. Aim low and you’ll be amazed at how often you succeed.

This message of hope and optimism has been brought to you by NDC and Bourbon.

Fuck It

2006-05-15T14:46:00.000-04:00

I was going to try to add some more shit to that takehome, but then I decided to say fuck it. It came down to a choice between trying to improve the exam for what will probably be a gain of two points while hurrying my ass off so that I can drop the exam off by four, OR casually taking my time and finishing my beer before it gets warm.

Tough decision there. One more left to go.

NDC Does A Take Home Exam

2006-05-15T03:27:00.000-04:00

This goddamn take home is due at 4:00 tomorrow (well, today now) afternoon. I’ve had the exam for about three and a half weeks now. I finally read through it for the first time on Wednesday. I finally started working on it today (well, yesterday) at around four or five. And by “working” I mean “procrastinating.” Just to show you how a professional slacker does a take home, here is basically how this has gone down:

Wednesday

Went to school around noon in order to get a professor to sign my form for the supervised research project I’m doing over the summer

Meander into the library will the full intent of getting some of this exam done

Fucked around online for a solid hour and half

Finally read through the exam

Fucked around online for another half hour

A friend is walking out of the library and sees me sitting at a table; he gives me an odd look right before asking “What the hell are you doing here?”

I decide to deal with the exam later and I head my ass home

I have no idea what I did that night. All the days kind of run together. I might have went out; I may have just sat on my ass in front of the TV for the rest of the night. Whatever.

Thursday

I’m not positive, but I’m pretty sure that I did not do a goddamn thing the entire day. I watched a shitload of crappy TV, fucked around on the internet, watched some baseball, took a nap, watched some more TV, then went to bed. Most productive day ever. Ever.

Friday

I have no idea what time I woke up. But it was late enough that I didn’t even bother pretending like I was going to get any work done

Eventually I took a shower because it was a friend’s birthday and we were going drinking

Headed over to my friend’s place at around 5:30; this left about two hours to pre-drink there before we went to the bowling alley

I crammed a lot of drinking into that two hours. I’ll be damned if I’m going to go to a birthday party sober

I ended up just as drunk (if not more drunk) than the birthday boy; I have mad skills

For anyone looking for a fun way to get more drunk, try chasing a shot with another shot; it will not disappoint

We finally leave and I can barely stand up; I climb into passenger seat of the car where I promptly pass the fuck out

I wake up just as we’re pulling into the driveway which causes me to rocket out of the car and promptly get into a fight with the front door

I eventually won the fight; after about 50 seconds

Head straight to bed and pass the fuck out

Saturday

Wake up groggy as hell around noon; realize I have a graduation party for a friend in two hours; try to tell myself I won’t get drunk so that I can work on the exam whenever I get home

Get to the party and make a screwdriver; fuck sober; fuck exams; fuck law school

Try to keep myself from getting plastered because the friend’s parents are there

Shit; I made those screwdrivers pretty strong; those first three weren’t too bad, but these last four have tasted oddly like straight vodka;

Hello plastered. My name is NDC; it’s nice to see you again

The Mom Burn: somehow the topic of how I’m going to do public defense work comes up; not too long after that the topic of how my mother is a prostitute comes up (because someone had to pay the bills when I was growing up); right after some comment about how my mom’s a hooker her mom chimes in with “I guess that’s why you want to be a public defender.” Ouch. The often heard of and much feared mom burn

I stop trying to maintain whatever little bit of dignity I have left at this point; proceed directly to shitfaced; do not pass go; do not collect $200

Sometime in there we leave; I’ve done nothing but pace around outside, drink, and chain smoke for about six straight hours; it’s been a good day

Oh shit; the birthday boy from Friday has an almost full bottle of Jager that he’s going to bring back to my place; there’s no way that three people will finish that off; besides, I have to wake up early tomorrow to start and finish my exam

Fuck me. The Jager’s gone; tomorrow is going to suck

I go to bed and pass the fuck out around three in the morning

Sunday

Fucking hell; it’s already noon and I’m just waking up? I should get right to work

Fuck around online; masturbate; check baseball scores; smoke; talk to roommate; fuck around online; masturbate; masturbate; baseball scores; masturbate;

Lather, rinse, repeat

Fuck; It’s been four hours; realize that I’ve done no work on the exam whatsoever aside from creating a file in Word

Get the exam out of my bookbag; now I’m ready to go

Shit; I should probably call my mom now before I forget

Jesus christ; 45 minutes on the phone??

Back to the internet

Finally answer two questions; I’m now approximately 1/10th done; I deserve a break

Mix of procrastination and actual work

And that’s pretty much been the past week. I now have about twelve hours left to work on this piece of shit before I get to turn it in. And then come back home. And start studying for my last exam on Tuesday. That’s right; I haven’t started studying yet; fuck you.

I’m sure I’ll get plenty of studying in tomorrow. Although it is 60 true or false; so maybe not.

Almost a 3L. Fully resigned to the fact that I’ll be working at McDonald’s for the rest of my life. Or I’ll run away to a country where the federal government can’t find me. Student loans don’t count if the government doesn’t know where I am...

Why I'm Going To Fail Law School: Part 5

2006-05-10T19:11:00.000-04:00

Don't anyone start worrying; my notes have not gotten any better.

Notes Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, and Part 4

Legal Profession

MR 1.28 -- A lawyer shall abide by prompt decisions concerning something or other and still more shit; mentions something about 1.4

Spaulding case and some other random shit too

Lawyers should exercise independent judgment blah fucking blah

Who the fuck cares

MR: Lawyer shall not obstruct another party’s access to evidence blah blah blippity blah

G argues that he didn’t know he had a duty to disclose; G might be moderately retarded

Convicted of obstruction of justice; rev’d by SC (but it didn’t matter for company – everyone was already fucked)

God I feel like ass

Court refused to issue injunction about something – I’m not sure what and I’m not really concerned

P. 230 – second paragraph – something important here; too bad I can’t hear the fucker

Why didn’t authoring the report trigger primary liability (I don’t know who the fuck he’s talking about)

Holy shit I’m bored

I haven’t heard a goddamn word this man has said; four minutes left to go

Or something like that; This is fucking confusing

Rule 1.7: I don’t care

I don’t give a fuck about this class

Cite: 258 [state] 720? Maybe? I don’t care -- A lawyer who did....fuck it

I have no idea what he’s talking about; I’m still drunk from last night; wonderful

Dirty tricks in court (703): Fuck it; just read this shit later

Letter Bennett wrote to court: I don’t care – and neither should you

I’m so lost; not that this is surprising

Comment 3 – reinforces something

Why was M sanctioned -- I don’t care; I need a drink

God; he’s still talking

But is this true? I don’t care

Per se disbarment rule -- Stay the fuck out of escrow funds

Con Law II

Where the fuck are we?

Majority says go fuck yourself

If you file a claim w/ state agency in totally proper/timely fashion and then the agency fucks up and doesn’t give you a hearing w/I 120 days, you are fucked and your claim can’t be heard

It’s the people that the agency lets fall through the cracks that get fucked over

Who the fuck knows

Seems like a shitty argument – regardless, would be awfully hard; the burden is on the state

Why do the Slaughterhouse cases suggest it made sense for the court to apply strict scrutiny --> The purpose of Amend XIV was to protect discrete and insular minority; Or something like that – I might want to read this case sometime

So why does court apply strict scrutiny: why the fuck not

Response: That all tests are the same fucking way

Adversative method – sparse living, and some other shit

Court has followed a wavering line – that is, they can’t make up their fucking minds

Or maybe he just decided this before he became a liberal

Some shit about a referendum by the state adopting this -- Court doesn’t give a fuck

Marsh (894) and following shit

Let’s say someone goes to interview for job w/ music guy, Stevens; interviewee says “I like Bill Clinton;” Stevens says get the fuck out

Court concludes that contrary to some shit in Katzenbach v. Morgan...

After the Smith case, what does the free exercise clause prohibit --> I don’t care

Something about heightened scrutiny: I’m so fucking tired

Why is this exercise of § 5 power unConst even though the exercise of the § 5 power in Hibbs was ok; how do you distinguish Morrison from Hibbs: I guess we’ll never know

I need a fucking nap

What was the worst thing said: Trying to tell workers in ammunition factories about something

Defame – to hurt fame; or some shit like that

Fucking hell this class is worthless; I should have stayed in bed

We’re back to NYT v. Sullivan now – I’m so lost

B/c Falwell is a fucking nutjob and a big public figure; And by “big” I mean “fat”

Falwell has ability to speak out – but will that help here?; He was V of intentional effort to hurt him and the hurt has already occurred; But that fucker deserves to be hurt

Don’t want people to be exploited -- But is it exploitation if the adults are doing it willingly? --> Fuck no; I love porn

Court says this isn’t ok b/c they really like the titties

Some hypo that I wasn’t listening to

Somehow we’re on the Black case now – goddamn I’m confused

Court is not saying there is something magical about threats; I’m so lost

Where the fuck are we?

Shit about the SC: No point in listening to this

I swear to god if [person] talks again today I will stab him in the fucking heart

Court: Tough shit

Does this make sense: Fuck it; sure; why not

O’Connor – b/c who gives a fuck

O’Connor – Scalia, you’re a douchebag

He won’t give a fucking answer; But this is probably ok

How would Scalia distinguish the case --> Who cares; Scalia is a Nazi

Half Assed Update

2006-05-08T06:30:00.000-04:00

Don't expect anything from me until tomorrow at the earliest (not that anyone does anyway; I'm good at disappointing).

Next final is in about 2 and 1/2 hours.
Done with that final in about 5 and 1/2 hours.
Drinking starts in about 5 hours and 45 minutes.
Optimal level of drunk will be attained in about 7 hours.
"Shitfaced" level of drunk will be obtained not very long after that.
Drinking will continue throughout the night.
Chances of me getting alcohol poisoning and a trip to the ER currently stand at 40%. Bet wisely.

What I'm Feeling Right Now

2006-05-06T16:08:00.000-04:00

What A Pal

2006-05-04T22:23:00.000-04:00

My first exam was on Monday. You know that feeling you get when an elephant saunters up to you and then turns around and you’re sitting there thinking, “Man, I’m pretty close to this elephant’s (fuck it, we’ll this elephant Steve; he looks like a Steve) asshole and I’m kind of worried that Steve is going to shit on me, but there’s no way that Steve would actually take a huge shit on me. I mean, Steve and I go way back to the beginning of the semester. I feel like I actually know him and he probably feels the same way. Steve won’t shit on me.”

So Steve went and lulled me into a false sense of security where I had no fear of having huge elephant sized crap fall on me from above. But then I did get shit on. And not just a little. It was a huge heaping stinking pile of shit. Eventually I dug my way out from underneath the stack of shit and left the exam room. Luckily for me a friend of mine was waiting outside with a hose and a sponge so that I could clean the shit off of me. And by “hose and sponge” I mean he was waiting with an invitation to walk directly downtown and get a beer.

Except before drinking the beer he also had a shot of Jager in mind. I’m guessing not many people have ever had this problem before, but it’s kind of difficult here to find a place where you can get a Jager shot at 11:30 in the morning; on a Monday. Oddly enough, the only place we figured would have it that early in the day was the coffee shop that also happens to have a full bar. Talk about fucking wonderful. Now instead of going somewhere for my morning coffee, I can just swing by there for my morning shot. After that I’m sure my day will go much better than if I just had coffee. Sure, coffee might wake me up a little bit, but alcohol can get me drunk. And when I’m drunk, I won’t care that I’m tired.

An Open Letter

2006-05-03T19:31:00.000-04:00

Dear Grocery Store Checkout Lady,

Listen you stupid bitch, I understand that you’re working a shitty minimum wage job probably without benefits in order to support what is most likely a family of sixteen. But judging by your actions while bagging my groceries I’ve come to the assumption that there is probably a reason you are living in poverty and also a reason why, after the first ten kids came out, you still never quite learned how to use birth control (or at least never gave abortion a second thought).

What’s that reason? You are stupid as shit, probably never made it past the fourth grade, and for all I know were probably dropped on your head about fifteen times as a child (unfortunately for me, your parents never dropped you from high enough to put you out of my misery).

I just want to explain something to: you see, the reason that I bought the bag of chips was so that I could eat. Further, you may have noticed the jar of chip dip that I also purchased. See, that was supposed to go along with the chips (hence the name chip dip). I’m just going to assume that at some point in your thirty-five years of life you have dipped a chip in something – be it salsa, cheese dip, bacon grease, or grits. I’m quite sure that you’ve noticed what a pain in the ass it is to dip a chip once that chip has been crushed to fuck. It just doesn’t work.

The reason I bring this up is because I have a question for you. What the fuck has happened to you in your life that made you think it was a great idea to put a bag of chips in the same plastic bag as three fucking heavy ass metal cans of soup? Seriously. I’m not trying to be rude (that’s just an added bonus); I really just want to know why you thought these items belonged together in the same bag. It makes no sense. It would be like coating the inside and outside of condoms in active HIV. Sure, I could still use them for what they were intended, but it’s pretty pointless.

In the future please refrain from putting chips in bags with heavy objects. In fact, here’s a tip for you: also keep bread, buns, and eggs out of bags with heavy objects (trust me, management won’t complain if you have to use five plastic bags instead of just four). If this is too much of a problem for you, then fucking quit your job and go back to hooking on the streets. Sure, you probably sucked at that too, and not in a good way, but at least that way I can still enjoy my chips and dip.

Hugs, kisses, and a massage with a happy ending,
NDC

Ahh, beer. My one weakness; my Achilles heel if you will

2006-04-28T15:51:00.000-04:00

I have had the most random experiences while at the bar. I’m talking weird as shit. Like, waking up and trying to figure out 1) where I am; 2) how I got there, and 3) why am I wearing women’s underwear. There was the one night where I was drunk at the bar, ran into a hooker, fucked her in the bathroom, left without paying (not my fault she didn’t get the money up front) then drove to the local massage parlor where I asked the Asian sucking my dick if I could call her “Lucy Liu” in order to complete the fantasy. But that’s a story for another day. This is the story of what I have affectionately termed “Spring Break Thursday.”

It started as a normal Thursday. My friends had left my place after spending a solid three days straight doing nothing but sitting on the couch and drinking excessively. Then I got a phone call from one of the bartenders. She was opening the bar for someone else and told me to come down and drink with her. Never one to say no to booze, I told her I’d shower and be right down.

I arrived at the bar and the drinking commenced. I had a plan: I was going to get drunk during happy hour, sober up, and then call my friends to see what was going on that night. Problem was, I ignored the “sober up” part of the plan and just kept on drinking. I partially blame the bartender I was hanging out with who kept ordering rounds of shots on her tab. I also blame the bartender who was working who gave us two or three rounds of shots. By the time happy hour was about to end I was drunk. The person I was hanging out with had to go home and take a nap because she was supposed to be working later. I drunkenly told her ok and that I would probably still be at the bar when she came back.

Somewhere in there is where my drunk dials started. I called a friend who was still in town a few times and sent him some text messages telling him to get his pussy ass out to the bar. He didn’t answer my phone calls (good decision on his part). So I did the only thing I could: I kept drinking. And not slowly. Then the bartender I was hanging out with showed up again; she was supposed to be working later that night, but it was a slow night so the bar didn’t need her to work. Instead she sat there with me and got drunk. And goddamn were we drunk.

Somewhere around ten or so the friend I was calling shows up in the bar to find me wasted. His statement: “Yeah, I saw all the missed phone calls and text messages and figured you probably didn’t need to be alone downtown at this point.” To which I replied, “Get this man a beer and I need two shots of Jager.” While he was just planning on staying downtown for a beer or two, after doing the Jager shots with me he decided to move his car to the parking deck and get shitfaced with me. And shitfaced we both were.

We sat at the bar and we drank. We did shots. Apparently I was drinking Bourbon like the bar was about to run out of it. The bartender had to yell at me to quiet down about thirty times. This only led to me hanging my head and quieting down for about thirty seconds before starting back up with the yelling, the screaming, and the pounding on the bar. It wasn’t until the next day that I realized how out of control I was until that same bartender told me he thought he was going to have to kick me out of the bar. Normally this wouldn’t seem like a big deal, but you have to understand that 1) I go to this bar a lot; like, a lot; if I’m only there three nights a week it’s because I must have been really busy; 2) I know and am friends with all the bartenders; 3) Ditto for both owners; 4) I hang out with the bartenders and owners when they aren’t working. Taking all that into consideration, it would take a great deal of effort on my part for them to have to kick me out of the bar.

Of course, I was unable to contain my yelling and screaming to just one bartender. I started with what is, apparently, my favorite saying when I’m drunk: “Jesus is fucking thirsty!!” This is already slightly entertaining. But you have to also understand that when one of the bartenders was first being trained, I was introduced to her as “Jesus.” She caught on to the Jesus name so much that she didn’t really know my real name until about two or three weeks later. Due to my slight resemblance to the alleged son of the alleged god (i.e. long hair, a beard, always changing water into wine) and the fact that random people stop me probably about once a month or so just to tell me I look like Jesus I readily embraced the Jesus moniker. I moved forward from simply responding to Jesus when someone said it, and ended up right in the land of sacrilege where I refer to myself as Jesus and constantly scream out “Jesus is fucking thirsty” when I need another drink.

After screaming at the bartender that Jesus was thirsty I received another drink and then bartender started walking towards to other end of the bar. Unfortunately (fortunately?) I decided that I wasn’t being quite obnoxious or offensive enough. So I screamed at the (quite attractive) bartender, “Hey [bartender]!!!”

“Yes, Jesus?”

“I wanna do you in the butt!!!!!”

“[Silence followed by the bartender turning away from me and then putting her leg up on the beer cooler and shaking her ass at me]”

It finally became apparent to both my friend and me that we were both sufficiently drunk and probably shouldn’t have anymore. Luckily we did a shot right after that in order to beat the common sense into submission. And then we decided to go to the strip club because we wanted to “go see some titties!!!!” I closed out my tab and realized how much alcohol I had ordered. I closed my tab the first time at the end of happy hour and my tab was around ten bucks; and that was for at least four hours of drinking. My second tab, which was again for about four hours of drinking, was just a bit higher than the first. It was somewhere around fifty bucks. Now this is a college town so drinks are cheap to begin with. But I also get a small to large discount from the bartender (depending on who’s working). Add all this together and the answer (why is there an answer; I don’t remember asking a question) is that a fifty dollar bar tab for me equals out to a lot of fucking alcohol; there is literally no way that I could drink that much booze and not die (luckily (un-luckily?) I found out the next day that I ordered at least three rounds of shots for me and two other people which makes me feel a little better; but that’s still probably enough to kill a small horse; or at the very least Gary Coleman).

So off to the titty bar we go. But first I have to say bye to the bartender that called me down to the bar in the first place. So I walk up to her to let her know we’re finally leaving for the strip club. Now all of this is second hand because I did a little bit of time travel in here. According to my sources, I walked up to her, told her we were going, she stood up to give me a hug, and then I just stuck my tongue right down her throat. We stood in the middle of the bar and made out for about ten seconds; I then pulled back, said “later” and just turned on my heels and walked straight out of the bar. I got about six steps outside the bar when I stopped and turned to my friend just long enough to ask him, “Dude, did I really just make out with [her]?” To which he responded, “Yeah.”

We stumbled down to the strip club, ordered some beer, and then I proceeded to sit at a table where I did a little more time travel, somehow decided it was time to leave, somehow found a cab, and somehow made it back to my friend’s place where I promptly laid down on the couch and then passed the fuck out in roughly three seconds.

I’d like to say that this story has some sort of a moral or a higher message or some other fucking lofty goal about how drinking is bad for you and always causes problems and stupid shit like that. But it doesn’t. Basically, if you get really fucking drunk and go into the night with an open mind, you’ll have a fucking blast. And who knows; you just might end up making out with that hot bartender.

Procrastination is the art of keeping up with yesterday

2006-04-28T02:17:00.000-04:00

My first exam is on Monday. Which gives me two more days to procrastinate until I start my exam ritual of pulling an all nighter and teaching myself the class material in roughly 24 hours. Here's the problem though, most of the first exam is multiple choice which makes it very hard for me to become motivated to study at all. In fact, all that does is motivate me to find anything else to do except study.

For example, I woke up, I think, somewhere around 11:00 or so this morning. But I didn't really get out of bed until noon. And even then, even though I was out of bed, I just sat at my desk and fucked around online for a solid hour. Then I got my fifteen minutes of studying in. But it was after that that the real procrastination started. It began the same way most of my procrastination breaks start: with a simple smoke break. And it turned from that into looking for something to eat, then ordering pizza, then watching TV while waiting for the pizza, then watching TV while eating the pizza, then just watching TV after eating, then it was back to fucking around online, then it was nap time for an hour or so, then playing guitar, then back online, then back to TV, then back to room for more internet and TV. And then all of a sudden it's 2:00 in the morning and all I really know about legal profession is that there are a bunch of rules and they all have different numbers and there are some comments in addition to the rules and all the rules and comments are boring as fuck.

Here's the real problem, though: I'm running out of ways to procrastinate. Seriously, a guy can watch TV, masturbate, play guitar, and fuck around online for so long before even that gets boring. I'm pretty sure I've already seen almost everything on TV. I've visited all my typical procrastination websites seven thousand times each. I was so desparate in looking for something other than studying that I started toying with the idea of creating and NDC myspace page for no reason whatsoever (but then I started jacking off and forgot about that for a while).

The point here, is that I'm looking for a little help. Let me know what you do to procrastinate or waste time. Do you have a favorite website that you're able to waste away four hours at a time? Do you have a favorite porn site? Is there some game you like to play? A drinking game? Anything? Because between my first and second exam I have another week of procrastination until my second exam. I have a lot of time to fill up.

So please help out a fellow slacker. If you do, maybe you'll get a prize. Or maybe a thank you note. That is assuming, of course, that I'll ever get around to writing it.

NDC: By The Numbers

2006-04-25T18:42:00.000-04:00

Three: Number of in class exams I have

One: Number of take home exams I have

Seven: Number of days I’ve had the take home exam

Zero: Number of times I’ve looked at the take home

Six: Number of days until my first exam

Zero: Number of outlines I've finished

Zero: Number of outlines I’ve started

Zero: Number of classes I have left to go to for the rest of the semester

8:30 a.m.: Time my first class of the day started today, the last day of class

12:30 p.m.: Time my last class of the day started today

12:55 p.m.: Time I woke up today

Zero: Number of classes where I clapped for the professor on the last day

Three out of Four: Number of classes where the reason for not clapping was because I was absent on the last day

One out of Three: Number of in class exams where I know what the format of the exam is

Around 20: hours of work I have left to do for the clinic I’m in

Zero: Amount of work I’m going to do today

Many: Number of drinks I will have tonight in order to celebrate the last day of class

Several: Number of odd looks I expect to get from people for celebrating the last day of class even though I didn’t go to any classes today

Two: Number of middle fingers these individuals will be greeted with in return for questioning the impetus behind my drinking

Zero: Amount of work I expect to do tomorrow

Fucking huge: Size of the hangover which will prevent me from doing work tomorrow

Very large: Size of the hangover which is preventing me from doing any work today

Two: Number of times I have moved from the bed in the three hours since waking up

Two: Number of times I’ve had the beer shits in the three hours since waking up

At least one: Number of times I expect to have the beer shits for the rest of the day

Twenty-Two: Number of aspirin I took this morning to make the headache stop

2112: Goddamn that’s a good number

America, Fuck Yeah!

2006-04-24T13:02:00.000-04:00

My roommate has now returned from the Honkey Mother Land. I went to pick her up from the airport and was standing around waiting for her. I looked around and saw approximately 17,000 other people holding up signs. I saw what looked to be two older parents with a piece of notebook paper on which they had written their daughter’s name with a ball point pen. Then there was the guy waiting for his wife who, the minute he saw her coming up the escalator, jumped forward and held up his sign: a piece of paper with a drawing of a small heart inside a much bigger heart.

That was when I felt sad and angry with myself for not having the foresight to get a piece of paper and write “Big Stupid Whore” on it.

Fuck Law School

2006-04-17T13:57:00.000-04:00

We’ re getting ready to register for fall classes. The past two semesters this has been like a really shitty treasure hunt with no map and no treasure. Basically, I tried to find classes that I was somewhat interested in; barring that, I looked for classes that, while not necessarily interesting, were at least useful; barring that, I looked for classes that I would hate the least. The past two semesters I was lucky and mostly took classes I was interested in (which was pretty much all the criminal law classes). I had high hopes this semester. I was hoping for some interesting classes. And then the schedule came out.

Out of all the classes being offered the total number of classes in which I have even a mild passing interest is exactly zero. They are all horrible, horrible classes. I have resigned myself to being bored out of my mind (even more than usual) for a solid twelve hours a week. I mean, not that I’m not bored now, but criminal law classes are way more entertaining than any other class. I just found it hard to believe that, aside from a seminar or two, I have taken every course in criminal law. Whatever though. It’s not just me that hates the schedule. It seems that everybody else I’ve talked to hates it too. Which makes me (and other people) wonder, is it because the schedule this semester really sucks huge hairy sweaty smelly balls, or is it because we’ll be 3Ls and so we have already started not giving a fuck? Either possibility seems to make sense. Of course, I think I stopped giving a fuck about law school classes and grades about two months into it. But that’s just me.

Regardless, this leaves me with a slight problem. What fucking classes do I take? I don’t care about the subject matter of any of the classes, so it doesn’t matter what classes I take. That leads me to the obvious solution: make the best schedule possible. That makes life much easier. I have stopped looking at the names of classes and the course description and instead I am focusing only on the days the class meets and at what time. After coming to that determination I immediately stopped considering any class that meets on Friday. I love having Fridays off now, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to give that up. After that, I eliminated all classes that started before 10:30. After going through that I think I’ve come up with a schedule that will bore me to tears, but that will be optimal to me slacking off and drinking excessively. If everything goes as planned I’ll start Monday at 12:30; Tuesday and Thursday I’ll start at 10:30. Even better, I won’t have any classes on Wednesday or Friday. Sure, every time I’m in class I’ll want to shoot myself in the face because I don’t give a fuck about the course material, but I’ll be able to sleep in and I’ll only have classes three days a week.

I have made the best of this shitty situation. I took the proverbial lemons and I threw them away and then made myself a wonderfully strong drink.

You are only young once, but you can be immature for a lifetime

2006-04-12T14:02:00.000-04:00

Today marks two years since I started this tool for procrastination, self gratification, and self entertainment. That means that this site has lasted approximately one year and ten months longer than I ever thought it would.

We've been through a lot together (I'm talking about the readers and myself; not myself and the site; that would just be stupid). Of course, I've been through more than you've heard about, but that's not the point. The point is that I'd like to thank everyone for taking time out of their busy schedules (or not-busy schedules) in order to read my pointless drivel. Even more thanks to people that have visited the site more than once. A special thanks to everyone out there that has put up a link to my site, to everyone that has taken the time to email me and heap praise upon me, and to everyone that has taken the time to IM me and not only heap praise upon me, but also distract me from whatever shitty class I was in or whatever I was trying to procrastinate from at that time.

Now here's another best of NDC list. Once again, it's all purely subjective and I don't promise that anything linked to here (or written on this site at all, for that matter) is any good or worth reading. But I've never let that stop me before.

Best of NDC: Year Two
Why My Mother Hates Me: #1
Why My Mother Hates Me: #2
Why My Mother Hates Me: #3
Why My Mother Hates Me: #4
Someone Hits On NDC
Why I'm Going To Fail Law School: Part 1
Why I'm Going To Fail Law School: Part 2
I'm Great At Studying
I Meet F&D
Don't Go Shopping Drunk
NDC Might Die Soon
NDC Almost Dies
NDC's Sex Horoscopes
Miles Kendall Is A Fucking Douche
NDC Might Be A Serial Killer
I'm Still Good At Studying
NDC Gives Back To The Community
Desperate For Booze
NDC Snoops In His Parents' Room; Is Traumatized For Life
Fuck Law Reivew
I Need The Internet
Advice About Law School
I'm A Mentor?
NDC Is Hurt
The Bitch Moves To Law School City: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4
Random Conversations
Don't Talk To Your Parents When Drinking
ALF For Supreme Court Justice
Typical Weekend
NDC Breaks Up With The Library
Best Pick-Up Line Ever
Interpretive Dance
What I've Learned In Law School
Why I'm Going To Fail Law School: Part 3
Why I'm Going To Fail Law School: Part 4
Don't Go To Law School
Vacation Sucks
NDC Runs Into The Bitch
Victims In An Elevator
Drink More; Study Less
I Love Being Single
Fuck You 1L
Women Are Hookers
NDC Loves Abortion
Exercise Time
Best E-Mail Ever
I'll Be Single Forever

Why I’ll Be Single Forever

2006-04-11T12:43:00.000-04:00

I’ve been thinking lately (don’t act so surprised) about why I’m single. Aside from the fact that I actually enjoy being single and much prefer it to a relationship, there are many other reasons why I am doomed (blessed?) to singledom for the rest of my, what will probably be, short, short life; honestly, if I make it through another five years I’ll be amazed (shocked and awed?).

Here is a short (and by no means all-inclusive) list of reasons why I’ll be single forever

It will take me at least three months longer to trust you than it will for you to break up with me

I don’t put up with bullshit and I won’t play your stupid fucking games

By the time I feel comfortable around you, you’ll have already placed me on your friend ladder

I loathe being told what to do; ever; really; don’t tell me what to do

I need my alone time; frequently; so fuck off

I hate it when anyone touches my stuff, much less goes through it; not that I have anything to hide (maybe), but it’s my fucking stuff

You’ll assume I have too much baggage and I won’t feel like taking the time to convince you otherwise

I hold grudges

I hate holidays

Really, don’t touch my fucking stuff

I’ll probably be poor forever

You know that whole “tact” thing? Yeah, well, I don’t

Ditto for political correctness

Seriously; I hold grudges for a long time; we’re talking years here

Humor trumps all; that is, I’ll say anything if I think there is even a small chance that someone will sort of give me a half chuckle

I am incapable of having a completely serious conversation; any attempt to conduct one with me will be peppered with inappropriate jokes and/or comments; please see above

People accuse me of crossing the line; the problem is, I know exactly where the line is (and not just where my line is, but where the line for everyone else is as well); I just choose to cross it on purpose

I say “fuck” roughly 8,000,000 times a day; if you were to be dumb enough to introduce me to your parents, the chances of me saying fuck during the conversation are about 75%

If I’m drinking, chances go up to 100%

Ditto for “shit,” “bitch,” “damn,” “goddamn,” and “cunt”

I’m not a fan of hugs and/or physical touching; except for sex

You’ll probably complain about my drinking and I’ll definitely ignore you and then get wasted just to spite you

NDC: Total Request Semi-Live Week: Version 2.0 - Part 6

2006-04-10T10:34:00.000-04:00

Anonymous has lots of requests. Apparently they don’t think I’m busy. Do you have any idea how hard it is to squeeze time for writing in between going to the bar and drinking at home? I’ll give you a hint: VERY. But I do it for you guys. Because I care. You’re fucking welcome. So here we go:

Intimacy gel – Only needed for anal sex unless you’re fucking an old bitch

Why tom cruise is afraid to die in movies – For the same reason he’s afraid to die in real life: Scientology isn’t real

Whether you can be an atty w/o being a drunk – Jesus fucking christ I sure hope not. Honestly though, I think becoming a drunk is more of a choice that is necessitated by the type and amount of work you have to do. You have to find someway to deal with, and it’s either booze, or sucking dick on the street for heroin. I chose my poison. What everyone else does is their business.

What happens when gunners at law school (the born to be law review) fail and fail badly....and how to laugh and point at them in the most cruel fashion possible – I’m pretty sure when that happens another black hole is formed in the universe somewhere. It is in this black hole that all of the gunners previous dreams and desires go. Instead of working on law review, they end up working on the night crew of a cleaning service. Instead of being a member of moot court, they go out and join AAA. Instead of mock trial, they get to beg on the street corner for change. But how to laugh at them? Loud, long, and hard. It wouldn’t be so funny if they didn’t think they were all so fucking smart and god’s gift to the world. It’s always the most entertaining when the pricks and douches of the world fall because it’s never pretty. I believe the best way to mock them is to simply remind them of their failures. Frequently. And by frequently I mean daily. Go rent a billboard advertising their failures. Take a full page ad out in the newspaper. Run a commercial on TV. Make it public, and make it flashy. They’ll probably end up committing suicide in a couple weeks and then you can pat yourself on the back for making the world a better place.

Oh and jennifer aniston. why do people think she is hot. She's not. She's a plain girl with lots of money and services to spend it on. – There are two main reasons: 1) her left breast; and 2) her right breast. Plain or not, she has some great tits.

Last one: Scarlett Johansson v. Tara Reid v. Kirsten Dunst nude canola no no wait for it....olive oil battle. Who wins? Why? – Johansson. Without a doubt. Dunst would lose real quick; she’s too anorexic and her tits hang around her waist. She’d get pushed once, fall down, then probably go home and cry. What a pussy. Tara Reid is a wily one with a lot of energy, but she’d still lose. Sure, she’d put up a decent fight, but she’d get knocked down at some point, fall on a boob, and have one of her implants pop. After that, she’d be done, leaving Johansson reigning as champ. But the real winner here would be everyone that got to watch these women coated in olive oil wrestle each other to the death. The thought of that makes my no-no-special-place very happy.

Marriage is the only war in which you sleep with the enemy

2006-04-06T12:38:00.000-04:00

This just in: India is my new favorite country. We share a lot of the same beliefs.

Learning Experiences

2006-04-05T14:06:00.000-04:00

Things I have learned from Law Revue and the golf tournament:

Apparently, have six Bourbon and cokes in two hours along with a shot or two while drinking on an empty stomach is enough to get me a little bit drunk

You’ll get some odd looks from other students if you stumble into Law Revue drunk at 8:00 on a Wednesday

Professors will give you odd looks when you start laughing for no reason

Especially if they are at the table right in front of you

Having four to five more drinks in the next two hours is enough to become sufficiently wasted

This might cause you to remember only the first two performances

It’s a bad idea to go back to the bar when everything ends

It’s a bad idea to drink excessively when you do get back to the bar

It’s a bad idea to tell the (not working) bartender if she needs a chaser for her shot that she can “chase it with my penis”

You also might not really remember any details of what happened at the bar

I suck at golf

Nothing cures a hangover like beginning to drink at eight in the morning

It is hard work to suck at golf because you have to go find your fucking ball after every shot

It’s fun to do doughnuts in a golf car

I advise against driving the golf cart in reverse for any period longer than five seconds

I definitely advise against driving the golf cart in reverse across a bridge and up a hill and then continuing in reverse for a solid five minutes

If you insist on going in reverse for extended periods of time, don’t be surprised when your golf cart starts to smell funny

It is entirely possible to drive a golf cart with a beer in one hand, a cigarette in the other, one leg working the pedals, and the other leg steering the cart

If you drink a lot of beer, you’ll probably end up pissing in the wood about eight to twelve times

You know it’s going to be a fun day when a member of the law school staff walks by your foursome, looks at you and says, “This is a dangerous idea.”

Nothing makes me feel prouder than when someone driving one of the beer carts tells your foursome that we’re having the most fun out of anybody

Goddamn I suck at golf

Playing golf is awesome

Picture This

2006-04-04T18:14:00.000-04:00

I received the best email the other day. It rocked my world and made me laugh. The email itself was very nice, but the best part was the attached drawing:

NDC,
I just spent a good portion of my weekend avoiding homework by reading some of your archives. I alternated between being slightly appalled and greatly amused (with the occasional "Aw, that's sweet!" directed at posts about "J"). Thanks for being highly entertaining! You've earned yourself a sketchbook doodle. The attached illustration is what I assume a perpetually-drunk-pervert/law student would look like...

The drawing is surprisingly accurate. I mean, there's the perpetual cloud of smoke, the Bourbon in my hand, the arm raised in the air, and the constant drunkenness. It was beautiful. And I loved it.

It's A Great Day

2006-04-03T12:51:00.000-04:00

I fucking hate daylight savings. It fucks me up worse than an STD from a horse. I'm tired as shit. It's Monday. I woke up late and walked into my first class about five minutes late. My zippo ran out of fuel on the drive to school. The spare lighter I keep in the glove box for such an occasion also decided to say fuck it and then it killed itself. So I was late, tired as shit, trying to see through the paste covering all my windows made up of dew and roughly three inches of pollen, trying to drive the car, and then attempting to light my cigarette with the goddamn car lighter while attempting to shift the damn car while trying my best not to burn my face off or drop the hot as fuck lighter in my lap. Basically, I was pissed off.

But then I got to class and while fucking around online I realized something: it's opening day for baseball. That little fact negates the fact that the rest of my day has been shit. Opening day makes everything better. Add to that the fact that the NCAA men's championship is tonight and this makes for an NDC who is surprisingly happy for a Monday. Additionally, I get to "sleep in" on Tuesdays (until 9:30...but whatever) which makes the heavy drinking that will occur tonight much less of a problem.

Back to the point though, it's fucking baseball season. No more of that meaningless spring training exhibition games. Now it's for real. Sadly, my team will most likely stumble out of the gate because of their pitching, but whatever. I'm a happy man until tomorrow morning, so don't try to take that away from me; bastards.

We both know that I'm a drunk. And I know you are a hooker. I hope you understand that I am a person who is totally at ease with that.

2006-03-30T12:50:00.000-05:00

Recent email from a friend:

Saw this and immediately thought of you ;)

Whatever. Obviously my friends hold me in very high regard. In order to continue making my friends proud to know me, here's a favorite quote of mine:

Are you desirable? Are you irresistible? Maybe if you drank bourbon with me, it would help. Maybe if you kissed me and I could taste the sting in your mouth it would help. If you drank bourbon with me naked. If you smelled of bourbon as you fucked me, it would help. It would increase my esteem for you. If you poured bourbon onto your naked body and said to me "drink this". If you spread your legs and you had bourbon dripping from your breasts and your pussy and said "drink here" then I could fall in love with you. Because then I would have a purpose. To clean you up and that, that would prove that I'm worth something. I'd lick you clean so that you could go away and fuck someone else.

Goddamn I'm such a good person.

Golf combines two favorite American pastimes: taking long walks and hitting things with a stick.

2006-03-29T14:21:00.000-05:00

While I didn’t go to barrister’s ball, I have at least two more chances at public intoxication in front of law students and professors. And I’m going to both. First up is Law Revue tonight. Most people plan on going to have a good time. Not me. My plan is not only to get drunk while there, but to show up drunk. Nothing better than a pre-party.

Friend: Let me know if you’re going to [the bar] before Law Revue.
NDC: Ok. [One second pause] I’m going to [the bar] tonight.
Friend: I meant let me know what time. Asshole. I don’t want to be there alone.
NDC: Oh.
Friend #2: I’m sure if you show up any time after five he’ll be there.
NDC: If by “five” you mean “three,” then yeah. I’ve actually had three or four people tell me that they have never been inside [the bar] without seeing me there.
Friend: Doesn’t that make you sad?
NDC: Fuck no it doesn’t; it makes me happy. I’m the perpetual drinking buddy. I go to [the bar] so that nobody ever has to drink alone. It’s really a public service for everyone else. You should thank me.

So tonight I’ll likely show up drunk, proceed to get even more drunk, and yell inappropriate things in front of students, professors, and the administration. Overall, it should be a good night.

Saturday is the SBA golf tournament. Now the only golf I’ve ever played in my life is putt-putt. And I’ve only played that two or three times. And I’ve only played that sober once. I wasn’t going to play, but then a friend emailed me and some other people and the following email exchange took place:

Friend #1: What do you think? We should be a foursome. It should be a great chance to get drunk together, and maybe get in a fight with some lawyers...

NDC: I'm totally down with getting wasted in front of legal professionals. The only problem is that I have never played golf in my life (aside from putt-putt). I understand the rules and the whole "lesser is better" mentality, but that's it. Regardless, if you're willing to put up with that, then let's smack the fuck out of some balls.

Friend #1: Ok, we need to fill four positions. I have team approval from [the person we need team approval from]

I've only played golf once before in my entire life, but I like drinking and hitting things with a stick, so I am definitely in.

[Friend #2] and [NDC] have indicated interest. This leaves [Friend #3] and [Friend #4]. I suggest that this Friday we have a cage match – [Friend #3] and [Friend #4] enter, but only one man leaves. If either try to escape by conceding their position to the other, I vote that we ignore their pathetic cowardice and force them to face their fate. We could arm them with toothpicks, or maybe crowbars....

What say you?

Friend #4: Do either [Friend #3] or I know how to play golf? That's a question I would ask if I were you. Plus, I'm scared [Friend #3] might eat my children if I have to go head to head with him.

Friend #2: The question you should ask is: does it matters if you know how to play golf? I don't know how; [NDC] doesn't seem like a golfer to me, and [Friend #1] has already stated that his only interest in the event is the availability of refreshments. Your not knowing how to play golf is not dispositive; it isn't even a factor. Your fear of [Friend #3] eating your children, however, is a reasonable fear under the circumstances. Nothing outside of pride requires you to put yourself in harm's way for the common good. Thus, you may be excused, coward.

NDC: As evidenced by my toned frame and muscular build, it is obvious that I am a natural athlete. While I have special Olympic medals in javelin, shot put, curling, and pole vaulting, and I was also a member of the award winning "egg on a spoon" relay race team do not fear my golf skills. My golfing experience has been limited to a few rounds of putt-putt (most of which were drunken). However, I refuse to let my lack of experience stop me from anything (if I let lack of experience intimidate me I'd still be a virgin...). Besides, let's call this "golf tournament" what it really is: an excuse to get drunk on a Saturday morning and drive around in a golf cart while heckling the beer cart girls.

In other words, it will be a perfect Saturday.

And then there was the last email, Friend #1 needed to know shirt sizes and handicaps. He received the following email from me in response:

Put me down for a large. As for my handicap, it's slight mental retardation coupled with manic depression.

My plan is get drunk, drive the cart around, and try to hit people with golf balls. Only one question remains: How long will it take until the word “foursome” is no longer funny? Hopefully I’ll get a solid three hours out of that word.

The chances of me getting arrested and/or getting kicked out of law school sometime before next Monday currently stand at 43%.

Let's Go Play With Myself

2006-03-29T13:42:00.000-05:00

I was out downtown the other night (really; don't be shocked; I've been known to go downtown on occasion). I went to take a piss and came back to the group I was hanging out with. I then said,

NDC: Now, is it more than two shakes and you're playing with it, or more than three shakes?
Friend: I'm not sure. I think it's three shakes.
NDC: Because I gave it six shakes just to be sure.
Friend: [Silence]

Let's Play A Game

2006-03-28T10:51:00.000-05:00

Here's a fun game to pass the time in class. Try to figure out if you are A) Hungover, or B) Still fucking drunk. Invite your friends to play too!! They're probably bored as well.

I'm pretty sure the answer is B today.

I can't believe that I believed I wished that you could see

2006-03-27T10:58:00.000-05:00

I pulled a muscle in my neck the other day. It hurt like a bitch for two days straight and it's still stiff and painful. The best part is that I pulled this muscle after I got out of the shower. While drying my hair with a towel. That's right, drying my fucking hair made me hurt. While most people might ignore this, I clearly see this as a sign from Buddha. The problem is that there are two interpretations. Buddha either:

1) Wants me to realize not only that I'm slowly getting older, but that I should stop smoking, stop drinking excessively, and begin exercising (apparently walking from the parking deck to the bar does not count as exercise in the eyes of the great Buddha) because otherwise I'll probably die of lung cancer, mouth cancer, throat cancer, liver failure, liver cancer, cirrhosis, stroke, testicular cancer, diabetes, cervical cancer, and heart failure all at once at the age of 25

OR

2) Is advising me to eat more pussy in order to strengthen those neck muscles

I'm going to assume he meant interpretation number two. Because, honestly, number one sounds like a lot of work and a lot less fun.

Come on out and get your free beard rides.

Spring Break Has Sprung

2006-03-24T17:42:00.000-05:00

I’m not dead. I’m not in jail. I haven’t been in jail. I was never arrested (I probably should have been, but I wasn’t) I wasn’t in the hospital. I didn’t drink myself into a coma. I was not stuck tied to a bed by the hooker. I wasn’t trying to figure out where I was after waking up in the middle of a corn field. I was on spring break. But that’s done with now.

Actually, spring break ended Monday, but I had some recovering to do, and I had a bunch of work to do that I effectively procrastinated from doing during the break. What did I have to do? Well, aside from your sister, I had 1100 (yes, that’s eleven hundred) pages of records I had to sort through and shit. It was lots of fun. I really enjoyed. I enjoyed it so much, that I skipped all of my classes yesterday, thus giving myself a four day weekend. I mean fuck, I’m sure nobody expected me to actually go to all my classes the week right after spring break. If you did expect it, well, you’re fucking retarded and you’ll probably die by getting your head stuck inside a freezer. Good luck with that. Fuck face.

And that’s all I have for now. There will be stories later – don’t you worry. Like about last Thursday where I was probably two drinks away from alcohol induced death and I have no real idea what happened for a solid three to four hour block of time. I’d tell you now, but I have someplace to be.

I’ll be at the bar if you need me…

To Go Or Not To Go?

2006-03-08T19:07:00.000-05:00

I’m trying to decide whether to go to Barrister’s Ball (a.k.a. Law Prom; a.k.a. Excuse to Dress Nice and Get Super Fucked Up ) or not. I went last year and from what I remember I enjoyed myself. I mean, if you put me in a room with an open bar of top shelf liquor I will always have fun. Of course all of this booze also made me partially responsible for getting the law school banned from using the University buses again (just picture me, wasted, in a suit, standing up on the bus and leading everyone in singing (and I use the term “singing” very loosely because it was more of a “drunken yelling”) “Tiny Dancer.”

Here’s the dilemma: I can pay about thirty bucks and take advantage of some snacks, a live band, and an open bar, or I can just go downtown and get wasted. If I go to Barrister’s ball I’ll most likely have to wear a suit (not that I have to, but I probably will) where as if I go downtown I can dress for comfort (meaning a thong and a wifebeater). Of course thirty bucks isn’t that bad of a deal for all I can drink. Because I can drink way more than that. But drinking downtown is pretty cheap; especially when you know the owners/bartenders at the bar and you consistently get a hookup. But even with catching a break on prices at the bar I can easily surpass a thirty dollar tab. And that doesn’t include any food (aside from peanuts) or entertainment (aside from the other drunk fucks in the bar).

On the other hand, there are some people (many people?) in law school that I don’t really care for and attempt to avoid at all costs and, as much as I like drinking, I’m not a big fan of drinking with cunts. Admittedly though, once I get a solid twelve to fifteen drinks in me I won’t really care (or notice for that matter) who is and who isn’t there. But if I embarrass myself at Barrister’s Ball then everyone will hear about it by the next day (not that I haven’t embarrassed myself at law school functions before, but fuck you) but if I go downtown only the people in the Bar will notice. Plus, there are generally a few law school professors and members of the administration at Barrister’s Ball and I do everything I can to avoid drunk talk with professors; they have a low enough opinion of me in class that I don’t need to give them more ammo against me. However, if I’m going to embarrass myself I enjoy having a large audience to laugh at me; what can I say; I like crowd participation.

And no, finding a date (or not) is not part of this equation at all. If I go to Barrister’s Ball I’ll officially go by myself (just like last year) but will probably be with however many of my friends decide to go. I’ll probably just find the drunkest 1L in the room and offer to “take her home” because she “needs to go to sleep” which is a euphemism for “make her suck my dick and then let me fuck her in the ass.”

Just think, if you’re lucky, that girl could be you.

Fuck You South Dakota

2006-03-07T14:20:00.000-05:00

I lived in South Dakota from the ages of about three to nine. It's an empty wasteland that sucked then and now there's proof that it still sucks now.

But it's ok; I have a plan to protest. We're going to have an abortion-in. It's a lot like a sit in, but with abortions. First, we need a bunch of people to go to the state capitol building. Then right in front of the building everyone will have tons and tons of unprotected sex. Tons, I say; TONS. No birth control pills. No patches. No rubbers. No pulling out. We're going to fill those women with sperm until they can't hold anymore. We'll turn them into sperm geysers. It will be like a bunch of sperm fountains. More entertaining that Disney World, I say.

Then we enter phase two, which is the waiting period. Everyone should probably wait at least three weeks or so, and then we doll out the pregnancy tests. Then we go back to the capitol building and all the women drop trou and piss on their sticks (don't worry; it's not gross if it's part of a protest). Then comes the collective two minute waiting period to see who got knocked up (if you fucked me you're probably knocked up - I have some strong swimmers; trust me).

Then we take all the pregnant women (hopefully they'll number in the hundreds; no, thousands; actually, fuck it, MILLIONS) and all twelve million of them will have their abortions performed right in front of the governor. It will make great TV. Just imagine thirty-eight million women lined up on the steps all becoming un-pregnant at the same time. The entire time all the guys and the ladies that didn't get knocked up will be on the sidelines cheering on the women and the abortion doctors. It will be glorious.

After that, we'll collect all the four hundred million fetuses (fetusi?), put them in a paper bag, go over to the governor's mansion, set the bag on the front steps, light it on fire, ring the doorbell, and then go hide in the bushes so that the governor gets fetus all over him.

Suddenly, we'll all jump out of the bushes, point at the governor and scream, "YOU JUST GOT PUNK'D!!!!!!!!!" The governor will laugh, realize that he's a stupid fucking moronic douchebag, wipe the fetus off his face, laugh with us, buy everyone a drink, and that repeal that goddamn stupid law.

Alternately, he might have all eight hundred million of us arrested for trespassing or damage to property or something like that. Then he'd probably ban sex, "for the children."

For Future Reference

2006-03-07T12:36:00.000-05:00

I’m generally against drinking games. I have plenty of success in getting fucked up on my own that I don’t need help. Occasionally though, I’ll agree to play. One thing about drinking games though is that they should not be played with liquor. That is just bad news waiting to happen. The last time I played a drinking game with liquor I ended up doing some really stupid shit. I thought I learned my lesson.

While it’s never a good idea to play with liquor, playing a drinking game with Wild Turkey 101 is about as dumb as you get. The only thing worse would be drinking Everclear.

So I guess I have a little further left to fall before I reach the point of fucking retarded. Right now I’m hovering somewhere between “fucking moron” and “fucking dipshit” stupid.

Of Course I Don’t Listen To Reason

2006-03-06T13:13:00.000-05:00

If you’ve gained any knowledge from reading this site it’s probably the fact that women piss me, that I make bad decisions, and don’t generally do what is best for me. Somehow though I haven’t learned from my own mistakes. I just keep right on doing whatever the fuck it is I want to do. I prefer to view this more as “confidence and persistence” rather than “stupidity and inability to learn.”

So I was faced with a choice Thursday night. Because I have to wake up early Friday morning and go to the office do I 1) stay at home Thursday night and go to bed early, or E) go out and party. This decision should have been made simple when I started feeling sick around noon. By “sick” I mean “tired as shit, sore throat, runny nose, headache, congested sinuses, and a general overall feeling of ass-like.” To be honest, the decision was always easy: I was going out no matter how the fuck I felt.

I loaded myself up on drugs (some Tylenol cold, some aspirin, some cough drops, and a couple of roofies) and went to the bar around 6:45. I was waiting there for my friends to get out of class because there was a party at 8:00. Yes, I went to the bar alone. Don’t act surprised. No I’m not an alcoholic. I hung out there with the bartender and played a game of pool with the bartender who was about to come on and shot the shit with another bartender and some regulars. Now I’m still feeling like ass and I’m cold as shit. What’s the only way to cure this? Do a shot. Awesome. I feel amazing now.

One friend comes to the bar because I’m going to drive him to the party. That’s right, NDC is the DD tonight because he has decided, in really the only decent decision of the night, that he shouldn’t get drunk because he has to wake up early. I follow my friend to his place so he can drop of his car. We then head to the liquor store to get some booze. It is at this point that we decide to class up the party a little bit. He buys to 40s of Bud Ice. I buy a 40 of Miller Lite (yes, just one – but remember, I’m driving), which is a slightly classier 40. I’m special though; I at least got a ghetto coozy for my 40; my friend, on the other hand, didn’t. Because he bought some other shit too. He received the ultra classy Boone’s box to put everything in. We are some high rollers.

Around 10:30 I started feeling like ass that has been dragged through a pile of shit and then run over by a steamroller. But we didn’t leave until after midnight. Whatever. I was having fun. I finally get home and that is when I really start feeling bad. First off, I’m fucking freezing. It’s not that cold outside and it’s pretty warm in the house, but I swear I almost have hypothermia and frostbite. I take some more drugs, climb under the covers and ball up into the fetal position in order to stay as warm as possible. Now this is where my real fun starts.

Suddenly I start alternating between freezing and burning up. All of a sudden I have the cold sweats. I can’t stop coughing and it hurts to swallow. I’m trying to get to sleep here, but it’s not working. The damn bubonic plague is keeping me awake. Then the delusions start. Great. I’m fucking thrilled. I’m still awake and now I’m imagining shit. And it’s not even cool shit. I’m not having delusions of an orgy with three beautiful women. I’m not even having delusions of an orgy with three ugly women. I don’t even know what the fuck I was seeing, but I know it wasn’t enjoyable at all. All it did was remind me further that I was sick, I was tired, and I was still awake.

I finally fell asleep somewhere around 2:00 thinking I could get a solid seven hours of sleep. Instead, my body decided to be a dickwad and it woke up early. At 5:00. For no fucking reason. I then spent another two hours trying to get back to sleep and the I got two of the shittiest hours of sleep in my life.

I woke up still feeling like shit and with the promise of three hours of round trip driving in front of me. Obviously I love this day already. So I drove. I met with the guy I needed to. I drove home. I promptly took a nap. You would think I would have learned from Thursday night and just stayed home on Friday. I mean, I still felt worse Abe Vigoda looks, so I staying in would have been the best decision. Until a friend called me around 6:30. My body said “Fuckhead, you’re sick; get your ass into bed and don’t go out.” My liver said, “Please, give me a break.” My brain said, “Dude, listen to your liver.” Some part of me didn’t listen and I still went down to the bar.

What have I learned from this experience? Not a goddamned thing I didn’t know already. Basically I like to go out drinking and being sick won’t stop me from doing that. I mean fuck, I had a fever of 102.7 Friday afternoon and that didn’t stop me.

I’m pretty confident that when I’m on my deathbed I’ll be hanging on for dear life. Not because I’m scared of death or because I don’t want to die or because my soul isn’t ready. But because I won’t want to miss whatever it is that’s planned for later that night. I’ll probably try to extract a promise from my friends to drag my body around, Weekend-at-Bernie’s-style, and pour a couple drinks down my dead throat so that I can pretend like I’m still having fun. So if you ever see a group of people dragging a corpse around a bar, come up and say hello to me. My corpse might buy you a drink. And if you’re hot, well, just wait until rigor mortis sets in and then I’ll have a special present for you.

How To Ruin Thursday Night

2006-03-02T12:32:00.000-05:00

Generally Thursday is my Friday night. Because I don’t have class on Fridays I like to spend Thursday nights in, what is generally known as, a drunken alcoholic haze. This generally encompasses such things as going to the bar around four and getting my pre-drunk on while waiting for my friends to finish class. It might involve getting drunk at two with my roommate and her fiancé and playing drunken Tetris and then passing out on the couch for an hour or so. It might involve getting shitcanned at the bar and then going drunk to a basketball game. And then going to someone’s house and drinking until about three. It might involve hanging out at the bar until I sober up sometime around four. It might involve drinking at the house until four and then sleeping for a solid twelve hours. Basically, Thursdays rule.

Except this one. Because I have to get up pseudo early tomorrow to drive about an hour and a half to the office I’m doing a clinic with this semester. The guy I’m going to see just told me to come anytime in the morning, but that he doesn’t want to wake me up early on what is usually a day off. But If I’m going to be there in the “morning” I probably need to leave the house by nine thirty at the latest so that I can make it there by eleven. Which means I’ll need to wake up around eight forty-five. On a Friday. So that I can drive. To get work to do. And this work will cut into my drinking time. And since this is a professional office and all that shit, I should probably find a way to cover up the giant “FUCK YOU” tattoo I have on my forehead. And I’ll probably have to shower so that I don’t come in there reeking of cigarettes, Bourbon, and hooker. And I’ll have to wear some khakis and a nice shirt. This all pisses me off. A lot.

This means I can’t stay out all night tonight. I’ll have to go to bed at a semi-reasonable hour. Sadly, this will limit the amount of crazy shit I can get into tonight. I probably shouldn’t do more than two car bombs; I should stay away from the flaming Dr. Peppers; tequila should be a no (honestly, tequila should always be a no); Irish whisky shots should also be a no; I should limit myself to three Jager shots; I should limit by Bourbon intake to the single digits; I should drink roughly seven gallons of Gatorade before bed along with around fifteen aspirin.

But that is only what I should do. The chances of me actually listening to the voice of reason are roughly negative thirteen percent. As a friend likes to frequently remind me, I “make bad life choices.”

Of course I can’t argue with that. Because it’s very, very true. And no; don’t ask for examples; You and I both don’t have that much time.

NDC On Economics

2006-02-28T13:32:00.000-05:00

Here’s my theory: all women are prostitutes. Not a couple; not a few; not a handful; not many; not most; but all. What I’m not saying is that all women are streetwalkers that have to make sure their pimp is happy and that find it in their best interest to get tested for STDs at least twice a day (although some women out there totally fit that bill...). I’m also not saying that all women have sex for cash. Basically, sex is like bartering where women have the desired goods (literally and figuratively) and men are willing to trade in order to obtain those goods.

Surprisingly, most women tend to disagree with this theory. They also tend to want to slap me in the face and kick me in the nuts (not necessarily for the theory, but other reasons as well). On the other hand, most men tend to agree and nod their heads in that slow up and down bob that lets you know they are really considering what you are saying and taking it to heart. After the nod most men tend to say, “You know, you’re fucking right!” And I tend to say, “I know. Now get me a drink bitch.”

However, that leads to the question of what makes women hookers. I haven’t crunched the numbers, but I’m willing to assume that a very small percentage of women out there have accepted cash in return for a hummer or a quickie in a dark alley (although I’m sure some of you have). I like to think of sex as an economic market (mostly because supply and demand graphs make me horny as fuck).

Women are in control of the supply. In fact, women are the supply. And the supply is very elastic. One day there might be tons of screwing to be done, but three days later the supply is gone. Demand, on the other hand, is consistently high. Very high. Very, very high. For the most part, demand will always surpass supply. This gives women very high bargaining power in transactions on the sex market. In effect, women are able to set whatever price they want for sex. Not that men aren’t at fault, because men put up with the demands. There are also demands that aren’t really demands – where women aren’t explicitly asking for anything, but men know that if want to do the bumpy-bumpy later on they better make the woman happy first.

For the most part it’s a vicious cycle. Men want sex. Women want caring and to be wanted and all that other bullshit (although there are times when women just want to get fucked too). Basically men provide what women want and/or need at a certain point. It really turns into a win-win situation that generally happens to be more expensive for the man. We buy dinner, tickets to something you want to see, and then we go with you and pretend like we give a fuck what you have say; we try to make you happy and content in the hopes that you’ll bone us later that night.

Sure, there are some people out there that don’t enjoy guilting women into sex. These men are gay (and I don’t know for sure, but I would guess the same theory applies for homosexuals just as much as it applies to straight people). To the guys that have concerns with this, well, I have a little secret for you: you’ve already paid for sex. You may not have realized it, but it’s happened. Tough shit. And get over it.

And it doesn’t really stop when you get married. You just limit yourself to (maybe) one woman. And I’m not the only one that thinks so. Really. There’s an article out there. From Forbes. See. It’s right here. So don’t blame me. Prostitution is the world’s second oldest profession (right behind being a cunt faced douchebag). It keeps the world turning.

Fuck it. Blame me. See if I give a fuck.

Here’s a hint though: I don’t.

NDC's Thought Process

2006-02-27T13:10:00.000-05:00

I was in class today when the professor informed us that class is cancelled tomorrow. That means instead of having to be at school tomorrow at by 10:30, I have until 12:30. Because I have an 8:30 on Monday, Wednesday and Thursday, I usually go drinking somewhere on Mondays; but I don’t drink too much (only thirty or so drinks, to keep it light) because of that damn 10:30 (granted, I usually go drinking Sunday, Tuesday, and Wednesday as well, but that’s not the point).

While everyone else I talked to was happy to be able to sleep in a little bit or to not have to read for that class tonight or to be able to get some other work done, I had only one thought: “Sweet. Now I can get really fucked up tonight.”

And people say I don’t have my priorities in order.

Fuck Face

2006-02-23T10:23:00.000-05:00

Dear Cuntfaced 1L,

I just have one quick question and then I’ll leave you alone: What the fuck is your problem? Seriously. I’m not kidding. Are you fucking retarded? I’d like to hope that you are just dumb as shit, but it must be something more than that. Why in the name of Ganesh did you feel the need to walk into the classroom you were waiting on the second you noticed someone in the room begin to pack up. You sir are what I like to refer to as a “Fuck Face.”

You see, there was a big crowd in the hall outside. That would be the rest of your section. The problem is, however, the rest of your section obviously have some modicum of social skills and basic intelligence that clued them in on the fact that rushing into the room one-half a second after our professor stopped talking would be fucking retarded. Because it was.

It would have been bad enough if you had just walked in the door and stood there. But no. You had to take it a step further. You went and upped the Fuck Face ante. Instead, you walked in the door and noticed the aisle in front of you was full of people trying to pack up (see, because we just finished class and would like to leave) but it’s obvious that you want to go down that aisle. Instead of just waiting in the back of the room like a normal person (or like someone who isn’t a fucking dumbass) you walked to your left to the other (somewhat less crowded aisle) and forced your way to the front of the room like Rosie O’Donnell running towards a buffet. You then crossed the front of the room and circled around to the aisle that you really wanted to go down in the first place. You went up about three steps and stood there.

But that wasn’t the best part. The best part was the look of pure indignation and contempt that you had on your face when there was still someone in the seat you were aiming for even though, by that point, everyone had had a solid forty-five seconds to pack up and leave the room. You then waited for the aisle to clear, and you rushed into your seat. I’m not really sure what happened after that because your actions were so stupid to me that I had to run to the bathroom in order to pull the Bourbon out of my bag so that I could do a couple shots to keep myself from running down to you and strangling you to death (does Wayne Brady have to choke a bitch?).

In the future please refrain from being such a complete and utter Fuck Face. I’m sure you have an assigned seat in all your classes. And even if you don’t, I know that there are, at the very least, about twenty five more chairs than your section needs. I mean, you could get up and switch seats every two minutes and never sit in the same seat twice. There’s no reason to run. There’s no reason to be a Fuck Face. And there’s really no reason to irritate me at 9:20 in the morning because that really turns the rest of my day to shit and makes me want to stab someone.

And just so you know, if I do end up stabbing someone, it will probably be you. Sweet dreams. Fuck Face.

Hugs, kisses, and even more hugs,
NDC

P.S. You’re a Fuck Face.

In the fight between you and the world, back the world

2006-02-22T13:46:00.000-05:00

I stumbled out of bed this morning running on, at most, four and a half hours of sleep (because I had a long, involved, and arduous night of drinking to take care of). I found my way into my bathroom and, after placing one hand on the toilet tank, one hand on the sink to the left of the toilet, and hooking both my feet over the shower curtain rod to the right of the toilet, I came to the conclusion that you will never be able to look normal while trying to take a piss with morning wood.

NDC: Total Request Semi-Live Week: Version 2.0 - Part 5

2006-02-21T13:54:00.000-05:00

J requests the following:

How 'bout writing about the incredible diversity of your community? Or your need to share the epiphanies you've had in law school with your HS buddies? Or how 'bout the booze? I vote for the latter, of course, but didn't want to limit you.

Three questions? You are one demanding son (daughter?) of a bitch. Fine. I’ll kowtow to your requests. And here we go:

Diversity? What the fuck is diversity? We don’t have diversity at the law school. We have, I think, five African Americans, two Asians, and one Hispanic. Other than that, it’s a sea of white here. I think the law school tries to get minorities in here, but let’s face it, the south is scary. I’m so scared of the white people that I don’t like to walk downtown alone after noon.

But what about the rest of the community here in Law School City? Well that’s a weird amalgamation of weird fuckers. There are the typical fratboys and sorostitutes that go hand in hand with a college town; there are the students that actually study (all four of them); there are the high school students that think it’s cool to hang out downtown (easily identified by their mother dropping them off and picking them up in a minivan); there are the there are the adults with jobs and shit that actually live here; there are the drunken law students; there’s the happy hour crowd at the bar (including the 45 year old man who is surprisingly normal when sober, but when drunk turns into Starey McStarerson that tries to eye fuck every girl that walks into the bar); there are the homeless people (lots and lots and lots of homeless people); there’s the homeless guy who swears he’s engaged to marry a millionaire; there’s the one with one arm and no hands that will draw you a picture with the pen in his mouth; there’s the guy who will rap for you on the street; there’s the guy in the wheelchair who will ask you to buy him something to eat and then get pissed at you when you give him money instead.

Basically this is a weird fucking town with lots of weird fucking people. And that’s what makes people watching here so much fun. You’ll see shit here that you never expected, and it never ceases to be entertaining. Especially once you realize that you’re a law student who will one day be a lawyer entrusted with real responsibility and given the power, authority, and duty to help people with problems they can’t fix on your own and that you’re at the bar, alone, on a Tuesday at five o’clock and you’ve been drinking for at least three hours and you have at least another five ahead of you and you are shitfaced and yet you are the one making fun of everyone else. That makes life great.

As to my epiphanies in law school, well, I don’t think I’ve had any. And I don’t really share anything with my high school buddies. There are two, maybe three, people from high school that I keep in sort-of-almost-semi-regular contact with. And that’s just to see what’s going on or to make plans to get drunk. But that’s beside the point. Even if I kept in regular contact with more high school people, I don’t have any epiphanies to share. All I can tell them is that law school sucks and that drinking makes it better. I could tell them how women are the antichrist focused only on their own wants, needs, desires, and happiness and that they will attempt to fulfill these goals regardless of the effect their actions will have on anyone else (granted, I knew that before law school, but that lesson has been cemented in my tiny little brain since I came here), and I could tell them how drinking makes it better. And I can tell you how much fun drinking is and how drinking makes it better.

I don’t really have much to say about the booze. That’s all been mentioned before. My feelings towards alcohol can basically be summed up in one word: love. It’s the only relationship I’ve ever had that has never disappointed me. Sure, we’ve had a couple fights that have upset me so much that I vomited; sure I’ve had to sleep on the couch (or the floor next to the toilet) a couple of times; sure there have been times where I swore I’d leave forever, but I always come back. Because that’s what you do for true love. And true love never dies.

We've Got High Hopes

2006-02-17T17:16:00.000-05:00

My mother just won't get the picture. I'm single, I don't plan on changing that status any time soon, and if I do change that status, any sort of serious long-term commitment such as marriage is roughly sixty years away. But that doesn't stop her from trying.

My parents are flying down to see my brother this weekend and I got an email from her earlier in the week:

Do you think you will be able to come down? Let us know--feel free to bring a (girl!!)friend!!!

She's so optimistic. Look at that. Two, count them two, exclamation points after girl. Not only does she use them in the middle of a sentence, but she throws two of them in there.

Jesus christ does she want me to date. This is evidenced further by the phone call I got from her last night to find out when I was going to see them. I again informed her that there was no girlfriend and that nobody would be coming with me. That led to this conversation:
Mom: Do you want me to help you find a girlfriend?
NDC: No mother. I'm not looking for a girlfriend.
Mom: I could send your [17 year old - Ed.] brother down there to help you.
NDC: No mother. I'm not looking for a girlfriend.
Mom: I guess those girls would be too young for you.
NDC: I like my women older.
Mom: [Silence]
NDC: It's better when they already know what they're doing.
Mom: [Silence]

I think about fifty more conversations like that and she'll finally give up.

Good Times, Good Times

2006-02-15T21:25:00.000-05:00

Without a doubt my favorite point of last night was my theory for how to reduce crime. The basic gist is this:

1) People commit crime because they are sad, unhappy, and/or dissatisfied
2) Monkeys make people happy
3) Ergo, if the government would fund a mass monkey giveaway everyone would be happy
4) If everyone is happy, crime would stop

NDC, problem solver extraordinaire at your service.