Objection!!!

I recently made the decision that I want to go to law school.  I figure that if I become a cop, before I go to law school, then it will never happen -- I'll be too busy being a cop to want to quit and go to school.


I've been asking myself recently, "Does the law school matter?"  Sure, it matters if you want to be a hotshot corporate attorney, Supreme Court justice, or a high profile criminal defense attorney.  But what about someone that just wants their own practice, and doesn't have the flashy private boarding school upbringing?


I think I want to go into family and probate law -- the type of stuff that deals with marriages, child abuse, custody, adoptions, wills, estates, etc.  So, I ask you, my e-friends, do you think it really matters?  My choice of law schools in Michigan are limited to Michigan, Michigan State, Ave Maria, Wayne, and *gasp* Cooley.  


The only way I'll go to a law school out of state is if it's one of the top, and unless I get a 170 or better on my LSAT, I don't see that happening, considering my major isn't considered "tough." 

Drink Etiquette

I'm a fan of sociology.  It's not my first academic love (criminal justice), but I can't help but watch people.  It's probably my favorite thing in the world.  My most recent foray of my informal study of sociology is bar sociology.  Basically, it's the face to face intimate actions and reactions of drunkards, skanks, and douche bags.

My friends and I visited a few bars this past Saturday night.  One of the bars we visited (let's just call it The Bar that has Shitty Wait-staff) was absolutely packed.  It's the type of bar that has the meat heads with goatees at the door asking for your ID and a $3 cover charge, loud shitty music, and a dance floor just waiting to be filled with Long Island Iced Tea induced upchuck.  

We get into the bar and walk through a sea of swaying bodies.  I ask my friend what she wants to drink, and I squeeze into an open space at the bar.  I get my money ready and hold it in my hand on the bar and wait.  And wait.  And wait.  I was under the impression that the bartender always knows when someone needs a drink, but I'm pretty sure this lady just made a hobby of running back and forth from one end of the bar to another.  As I was sitting there waiting to get our drinks, I noticed this girl flirtatiously dancing with a guy.  The girl must have been shnockered beyond belief, because this guy was really gay.  You didn't even need gaydar to see the aura of sodomy around this fellow.  I feel as if I describe anymore, then I might start looking at men differently.  Let's just say he was wrist-breakingly gay.  But she wouldn't stop flirting with him.  Placing his hands on her ass, pulling his head down to her neck, all the "Wanna go back to my place?" motions, but the gay man didn't have the heart to tell her.  I was amused, yet terrified.  It was going to be a good night for bar sociology.

Then I noticed this girl next to me.  She was anywhere from 21-24 years old, but a typical bar fly -- tight outfit, heels, and a pleasant perfume.  Standing by herself, waiting for her prey.  Don't get me wrong, she was cute.  

She looks at me with liquored eyes and, over the sound of some onomatopoeia named guy that goes by Chingy, asks, "What do you need, honey?"

"Two Bud Lights."

She smiles at me and sticks out three fingers at the bartender.  Amazingly the bartender notices her and the bar fly says to her, "Three Bud Lights."

I thought to myself, "Okay, whatever... Perhaps I'm in some bar that has some dumb ass protocol for buying drinks.  Wait.  THREE?!  I said two.  "Two" doesn't sound like "three" at all -- not even in French.  Maybe she just needs a drink too."

Oh, pity me.

The bartender walks back and sets three Bud Lights on the bar.  The bar fly looks at me and smiles.

Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't there a verbal agreement before a man buys a woman a drink?  This crazy bitch just volunteered me to buy a drink for her.  As if I'm running the charity arm of the Anheuser-Busch Companies.

If she were a friend of mine, or even a mutual acquaintance, I would have been more than happy to get this girl all liquored up so I could take her into a corner and nibble on her neckline.  But no.  Fuck no!  You can't do that shit to me and get away with it.  She wanted to fuck with me, so I fucked right back.

I asked the bartender for the price of two drinks.  Almost instantaneously the fly scoffed and grabbed her fake Coach purse and left.

Me: 1

Barfly: 0

You'd fuck her...

And you know it.

Every once in a while there is a hot female that becomes a celebrity. As soon as she becomes a celebrity, every man in America wants to have sex with her, of course there are anomalies, but you get my point. Then there is another point in her career when, for some odd reason that hasn't been researched by any credible scientists, most men vehemently deny the fact that they want to have sex with the particular celebrity. It's as if the denial of coitus with the celebrity becomes cool.

You know, it kind of pisses me off. I can be driving down the street with a couple of friends and see a mediocre woman walking and say, "I'd put it in," and they would all agree. But I bring up a name like Britney Spears, and half of them act like they would rather wrap a broomstick in sandpaper and sit on it.

You know what I'm going to do? I'm going to make a preemptive strike on any comments by saying there is going to be at least one that denies wanting to have sex with Britney Spears, Lindsay Lohan, or my personal favorite, Jessica Simpson, because she's dumb. Hey, guess what? She's a multi-millionaire, she can't be too fuckin' dumb. I digress. Besides, one of you dumb fuckers is going to spite me and spew your mind diarrhea, anyway.

You see, here's the thing. Let's use Britney Spears as an example. Now, imagine yourself chilling in your living room on an idle Sunday morning. You have your window shades open and there is a warm amber glow splashing on your walls and floor. The kind of sunlight that allows you to see the particles of dust floating aimlessly through your air as they constantly remind you that you don't really give a fuck about dusting.

You hear someone knocking on your door. You're surprised because you weren't expecting any guests, so you jump from your seat and walk briskly toward the door only to have the door swing wildly open as Britney Spears charges into your living room. She's frantic and excited. She says to you in her cute Southern twang, "I need to fuck -- bad. And I want it to be you."

You'd fuck her.