real world update, part eight

So it's like going on what, an eternity or a couple weeks or something, after my last court hearing where that asshole judge sentenced me to this crazy weird Max Headroom version of the old ball and chain.

What a mother-fucking-cock-sucking-festering-pus-filled-prick.

Cripes man, if a judge can't handle it when you refer to him as Your Well-Hungness because he thinks its a crack at that whole "is he naked under the robe thing?" (apparently this judge is not).

I meant it as a compliment. I mean really, it would take a couple of grapefruits down there to be a judge wouldn't it?

But the asshole apparently didn't see things the same as I, so here I sit, in my luxury high-rise condo overlooking downtown. I am virtually chained to the phone by some little box the bastards installed. Apparently if I wander more than three feet out my front door it calls The Man and tells him I'm stepping out.

This is something I am allowed to to do twice weekly, to attend to my court ordered therapy sessions with my court ordered therapist, the prick.

To add further insult to injury, the asshole judge also suspended my fucking license and impounded my car to try to make sure I don't drive. You got that? The asshole judge impounded my car! He said something about "evidence blah blah blah". The sight of seeing my ultra-luxurious European sports car being towed off by a couple of Bubbas in ripped shirts like a common Ford or something from an expired meter was almost as grievious a mental blow as the moment that deputy slapped this contraption around my ankle. If those bastards put one scratch in the high-gloss finish gently buffed by the delicate hands of petite Asian women with hand woven silk polishing clothes, why I swear I'll tear someone a new one.

So for the moment, I am walking. The therapist's office is only a dozen or so blocks from my condo, near the other edge of downtown. Walking gives me some opportunity to be out and interact with people. While the pants leg of my Armani suit conceals the hellish device on my ankle, it does nothing to conceal the GPS eye in the sky that watches and tracks my every move. Twice now just for fun I have called the local police and been patiently bounced through their phone system until I get to speak to the desk jockey cop whose job it is to monitor me and make sure I don't go astray. I pretend I'm lost and use him as kind of a personal OnStar to safely guide me to my destination. What a hoot.

And none of that makes it any fucking better. What the fuck is wrong with this country.

House arrest is what they call it. House arrest? Don't they know who they're fucking dealing with here? I'm not some God-damned whiny-ass Nobel Fucking Peace Prize Winner. I'm a Barrington.

The Man's got me caged like a wild fucking animal.

And man, and am I ever ready to prowl and pounce.

I'm single. I'm filthy rich. I'm insanely attractive.

And those are just three of the reasons why the judge is full of shit.

As for the shyster? What a worthless pile of dung he's turned out to be. It's his mother-fucking fault things went so horribly awry at my last hearing. He told me to sit down and shut the hell up as soon as I began ranting. He just didn't say it loud enough.

I must confess, I did go a little nuts on his ass after that fat deputy snapped the lock on that thing on my fucking ankle. But c'mon, he's a lawyer. I didn't think they had feelings. Or souls.

Turns out, I may have been wrong.

I spent about ten minutes pacing around this conference room in the courthouse doing some exaggerated broken leg stagger on account of the ankle monitor, all the while screaming out a string of obscenities that would have made the most hardened marine blush. Every one was directed at the shyster. The fucking twat. My daddy's not paying his daddy's law firm $500 an hour for this shit.

He quit. He mumbled something about not having graduated near the top of his class at Stanford to put up with my shit for any price and walked out the door.

I'm not worried about it. He's hardly the first allegedly top notch lawyer that hasn't had the balls to stick with me through difficult situations.

The sucky part is I had to call my father, The Bastard, and tell him the shyster quit. It was a challenge to get a hold of my father, The Bastard. He's currently in the Dominican Republic, officially on business, but the only business he's tending to is the same business that other rich asshole white guys go there to take care of.

When I finally reached him, after he was through laughing, he told me to relax and sit tight, he'd take care of things and hung up. He called me back about 10 minutes later and said that he was reassigning a couple of guys from corporate to come down and clear this whole thing up. He said they had a couple of loose ends from previous business to tie up and that they would be in town by the end of the week.

So for the moment I am waiting in my electronic prison.

Since I can't go out and mingle with the beautiful people in the real world, I have decided to do so in a virtual one. I have been busy hanging out and meeting hotties on MySpace. Like using your hand, which I haven't had to do in about twenty years, it's just not the same. But for now sadly, my options are limited.