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.:[Thursday, March 17, 2005]:.
"National Take Your Loser Brother to Work Week"
So it's Spring Break, and of course, I'm not at South Padre looking at scantily clad females wrestling in Wesson oil. I'm not skiing in Vail. I'm not even sitting on a sun soaked river bank fishing for white bass. I'm in Houston. Working. For my brother. Again.
At least I'm not painting the house this year. Or ripping up tackstrip. It could be worse. I could be giving blowjobs for spare change down at the wharf. But since I'm working at my brother's law office, the work I'm asked to perform lacks the physical satisfaction of tearing up carpet and lacks the quiet dignity of performing fellatio for 37 cents in a deserted back alley.
Actually, there are probably a number of people my age or younger from my school who are spending their Spring Break working in law offices. Of course, they're probably at some Naderite consumer protection outfit waging some moral crusade against Clarke Baby Classics because the ComfortSport Convertible Car Seat doesn't include 5 point safety restraints or keeps spontaneously combusting or whatever. Or they're making copies at some sports agent's and fetching Barry Bonds a decaf mocha latte. Hell, maybe they're interning at some faceless corporate firm and learning how to be nameless cogs in the capitalist clock. But work like that would be too personally fulfilling or financially rewarding for the likes of Benjamin, Servant of Humanity.
No, glamorous fields of law with famous faces or worthy causes are not for me. As the maggot glories in his home of runny piles of poop, so I relish the manifest insanity, the contempt of the community, the lack of money, and the sheer monkeys-going-crazy-and-biting-people-on-the-groin chaotic pathology that is my one true calling, my passion, my vocation and avocation... yes, I speak of lobbying for the legalization of prositution.
Not really. Though that would be kind of cool. Actually, it's family law.
In the beginning, working in family law is sort of like driving down a long highway with some sort of crazy, decapitation-causing rollover accident with juvenile fatalities every 2 or 3 miles. Sure, it's unpleasant to think about too closely, but you stare at the mangled wrecks and blood-spattered pavement and intestines hanging from street signs because sick fascination dictates that you can't do otherwise. Also, there's that spiritual lift you get when you thought you were having a shitty day and you can look at someone and say, "Better you than me." In this way, family law can be initially rewarding in an insidious and perverse sort of way. Family law attracts a certain sort of person, that being the sort who likes to say "I'm helping children" while sniggering behind their hands as someone's life as they knew it runs into a ditch and bursts into flames.
But the longer you work in the field, the more tiresome it gets. Why? Remember this guy? That's all you hear, from 8 am until you crawl back to the freeway underpass you call home to trade handjobs for half of a Big Mac. Every single client says the same goddamn things, ad nauseum, and every single one of them think they're the first person to ever get divorced. Listen, we've heard everything. Husband gave you crabs? Well, you should be thanking your lucky stars it isn't herpes instead of talking your attorney's ear off about it at $300 an hour. Your family law attorney can't walk on water, and he can't make your husband stop demanding anal sex. Your family law attorney can't turn water into wine, and he can't give you the last 20 years of your life back.
Do your divorce attorney a favor. Tell them something they haven't heard. Try one of these:
1. "I would have filed two years ago, but I wanted to see how Scott Peterson's trial turned out."
2. "Did you know that the domain name www.howtokillyourwife.com hasn't been registered yet?"
3. "We have to get divorced. She just isn't the scabby whore I married anymore."
4. "I guess it's finally time we filed. We just got married so we could could use the HOV lane."
5. "I just can't take it anymore. He's always demanding anal sex, and I don't like to wear a strap-on." (Ha ha, just kidding. We've heard that one before)
| a BEN production by me at 8:01 PM