real world update, part seven
Okay, um, so like The Man sucks ass.
There I said it. Take that Mister High and Mighty Judge.
Oh yeah, one more thing. . . go fuck yourself.
I had a court hearing last week, a review of sorts, so the judge could evaluate my "progress" with the court ordered therapist, the prick, and determine whether or not to allow me to continue my probation on the good side of the steel bars. All was going well. It was just another routine jump through the hoops to appease The Man so he leaves me the fuck alone for another month and I can go on living my life as I please as a prisoner of this fucking city.
As I said, all was going well. . .
The judge is literally seconds away from pounding his gavel to end the damn hearing. All is fine, stay the course, blah blah continue my therapy sessions blah blah blah community service blah blah blah.
Whatever dude. I still think the shyster could have, should have, gotten me a better deal in the first place. But whenever I say that the shyster reminds me about my circumstances and the drugs those asshole cops found in the trunk of my luxury sports sedan. Of course the drugs were inevitably ruled inadmissible. There is a reason why my father, The Bastard, is is paying the shyster's father's law firm around $500 an hour plus expenses. However, the best legal representation money can buy can't change the fact that despite what it read on their fake IDs, the girls were high school seniors at the time of my alleged infraction.
It cost my father, The Bastard, signifcantly more than what he's paying the shysters to minimize my family name in the legitimate press following my arrest. Tabloids always hound the rich, famous and attractive. We Barrington's are no more concerned with them than those at a picnic are concerned about mosquitos. They are an unavoidable annoyance to be swatted if they get to close.
But the legitimate mainstream press is another issue entirely. Those bastards aren't mosquitos, they're a pack of rabid wolves. And once they get a taste of blood. . .
I'm sure you remember how proud Old Grandad was of our family name. There was nothing Old Grandad hated more than to see his name printed outside of the business or society pages in the Old Gray Lady.
My father, the Bastard, inherited his fierce protection of the family name from his father, Old Grandad. And like Old Grandad, he is also a philandering asshole, but that is a story for another time.
Don't think for a minute, because I sure as hell don't, that any of my ongoing legal drama has anything to do with me in my father's eyes. I truly believe my father, The Bastard, doesn't care dick about me. He'd throw me to the wolves in a heartbeat if he could do it without tarnishing the legacy of his name. But he can't. So fuck him. Let him spend a small chunk of the family fortune protecting his name's legacy for the ages.
You want truth? How much truth can you afford? The rich and the powerful have always had the ability to bend and define reality to their liking, whether it be through the construction of grand monuments or purchasing permanent obfuscation. Google my name if you doubt me. Or try to find mention of my arrest in the news.
Now I'm ranting. My court ordered therapist, the prick, tells me that I do that when an issue strikes close to the bone. I usually just tell him to fuck off.
Anyways, the asshole judge is dramatically raising his gavel in the air, as he often does when he thinks he is going to make some grand pronouncement or dramatic point. What a douche.
And this intern law student in the DA's office who is looking to make a name for herself walks in. She's looking way hot. Damn, what is it about a red-headed woman in a department store business suit that makes me all a quiver? I've seen her before, she's been at all my court proceedings. I was planning on banging her.
I am still planning on banging her, and because I'm a Barrington, single, and insanely attractive it is a certainty that I will. But now I will sadly do it more out of spite than for the sheer joy of doing it that it should inevitably be. You might wonder what's the difference. Le'me tell ya. . .
If I bang her out of spite, I don't offer to buy her breakfast in the morning and she's got to pay her own cab fare home.
So anyways, this smokin' hot red-headed law school intern in a department store business suit walks in with a recent issue of SPIN magazine, you know, the one with the coverage of the recent big annual music festival, tucked under her arm. I swear she walks in slow motion like in some TV shampoo ad to the prosecutor's table across the aisle from where I sit with the shyster.
She puts the magazine on the table, opens it, points and speaks in hushed tones to the asshole assistant district attorney who is covering The Man's side in this hearing.
The asshole assistant D.A. slowly stands up, "Your Honor, there are new . . . "
Before he can finish the sentence the shyster leaps up screaming "Objection! Objection!" Damn is he ever quick. Guess that's one of the reasons he gets paid so much.
The law school intern chick glances and moves closer to me with seductive coyness while lifting and tilting the magazine so I can see what she's pointing at. Yeah, she wants me.
She's pointing at a large photo of the next big thing, Nirvana 2.0 or whoever the fuck it is, hanging out after their critic fellating gig at some local hotspot. I recognize the band because I was at the show.
I also recognize the image of myself, clearly visible standing at the bar in the background of the photo. I have a beer in one hand and a blonde in the other.
I'm not really sure what all happened next because it happened both really fast and in that weird slow motion way that you experience bad things.
The outcome is that a judge who was already pissed off about what he perceives to be my exploitation of his previous generousity thinks I am further taking advantage of his good nature.
He is not a happy camper.
It is a sad day when you find yourself a defendant in the courtroom of an angry judge.
That was last week.
Right now I am sitting on my high-rise condo balcony, overlooking the city in the cool breeze of spring time evening. It is a glorious night.
Except for the electronic monitor strapped to my ankle that will alarm if I step more than three feet out my front door.
Fucking judge.
There I said it. Take that Mister High and Mighty Judge.
Oh yeah, one more thing. . . go fuck yourself.
I had a court hearing last week, a review of sorts, so the judge could evaluate my "progress" with the court ordered therapist, the prick, and determine whether or not to allow me to continue my probation on the good side of the steel bars. All was going well. It was just another routine jump through the hoops to appease The Man so he leaves me the fuck alone for another month and I can go on living my life as I please as a prisoner of this fucking city.
As I said, all was going well. . .
The judge is literally seconds away from pounding his gavel to end the damn hearing. All is fine, stay the course, blah blah continue my therapy sessions blah blah blah community service blah blah blah.
Whatever dude. I still think the shyster could have, should have, gotten me a better deal in the first place. But whenever I say that the shyster reminds me about my circumstances and the drugs those asshole cops found in the trunk of my luxury sports sedan. Of course the drugs were inevitably ruled inadmissible. There is a reason why my father, The Bastard, is is paying the shyster's father's law firm around $500 an hour plus expenses. However, the best legal representation money can buy can't change the fact that despite what it read on their fake IDs, the girls were high school seniors at the time of my alleged infraction.
It cost my father, The Bastard, signifcantly more than what he's paying the shysters to minimize my family name in the legitimate press following my arrest. Tabloids always hound the rich, famous and attractive. We Barrington's are no more concerned with them than those at a picnic are concerned about mosquitos. They are an unavoidable annoyance to be swatted if they get to close.
But the legitimate mainstream press is another issue entirely. Those bastards aren't mosquitos, they're a pack of rabid wolves. And once they get a taste of blood. . .
I'm sure you remember how proud Old Grandad was of our family name. There was nothing Old Grandad hated more than to see his name printed outside of the business or society pages in the Old Gray Lady.
My father, the Bastard, inherited his fierce protection of the family name from his father, Old Grandad. And like Old Grandad, he is also a philandering asshole, but that is a story for another time.
Don't think for a minute, because I sure as hell don't, that any of my ongoing legal drama has anything to do with me in my father's eyes. I truly believe my father, The Bastard, doesn't care dick about me. He'd throw me to the wolves in a heartbeat if he could do it without tarnishing the legacy of his name. But he can't. So fuck him. Let him spend a small chunk of the family fortune protecting his name's legacy for the ages.
You want truth? How much truth can you afford? The rich and the powerful have always had the ability to bend and define reality to their liking, whether it be through the construction of grand monuments or purchasing permanent obfuscation. Google my name if you doubt me. Or try to find mention of my arrest in the news.
Now I'm ranting. My court ordered therapist, the prick, tells me that I do that when an issue strikes close to the bone. I usually just tell him to fuck off.
Anyways, the asshole judge is dramatically raising his gavel in the air, as he often does when he thinks he is going to make some grand pronouncement or dramatic point. What a douche.
And this intern law student in the DA's office who is looking to make a name for herself walks in. She's looking way hot. Damn, what is it about a red-headed woman in a department store business suit that makes me all a quiver? I've seen her before, she's been at all my court proceedings. I was planning on banging her.
I am still planning on banging her, and because I'm a Barrington, single, and insanely attractive it is a certainty that I will. But now I will sadly do it more out of spite than for the sheer joy of doing it that it should inevitably be. You might wonder what's the difference. Le'me tell ya. . .
If I bang her out of spite, I don't offer to buy her breakfast in the morning and she's got to pay her own cab fare home.
So anyways, this smokin' hot red-headed law school intern in a department store business suit walks in with a recent issue of SPIN magazine, you know, the one with the coverage of the recent big annual music festival, tucked under her arm. I swear she walks in slow motion like in some TV shampoo ad to the prosecutor's table across the aisle from where I sit with the shyster.
She puts the magazine on the table, opens it, points and speaks in hushed tones to the asshole assistant district attorney who is covering The Man's side in this hearing.
The asshole assistant D.A. slowly stands up, "Your Honor, there are new . . . "
Before he can finish the sentence the shyster leaps up screaming "Objection! Objection!" Damn is he ever quick. Guess that's one of the reasons he gets paid so much.
The law school intern chick glances and moves closer to me with seductive coyness while lifting and tilting the magazine so I can see what she's pointing at. Yeah, she wants me.
She's pointing at a large photo of the next big thing, Nirvana 2.0 or whoever the fuck it is, hanging out after their critic fellating gig at some local hotspot. I recognize the band because I was at the show.
I also recognize the image of myself, clearly visible standing at the bar in the background of the photo. I have a beer in one hand and a blonde in the other.
I'm not really sure what all happened next because it happened both really fast and in that weird slow motion way that you experience bad things.
The outcome is that a judge who was already pissed off about what he perceives to be my exploitation of his previous generousity thinks I am further taking advantage of his good nature.
He is not a happy camper.
It is a sad day when you find yourself a defendant in the courtroom of an angry judge.
That was last week.
Right now I am sitting on my high-rise condo balcony, overlooking the city in the cool breeze of spring time evening. It is a glorious night.
Except for the electronic monitor strapped to my ankle that will alarm if I step more than three feet out my front door.
Fucking judge.
posted by dr noyz @ 11:12 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home