Congratulations Fraudulent Lawyer!

There's lots of ways to make a living.  You make it as a lawyer.  But you're not a real lawyer.  You're a fraudulent lawyer!

"What does that mean?" the desperate young woman in your office will ask you.  "Do you specialize in fraud causes?"

You'll shake your head.

"Nope," you'll tell her, putting a cigarette out in the elaborate ivory ashtray on your desk.

"Then what?" she'll ask, holding out a cigarette for a light.

You'll put a lighter made out of a vintage hand grenade from WW2 and spark her up.  As she exhales into your face you'll breath it in, lick your lips real nice and creepy and whisper at her:

"I'm not a real lawyer."

She'll inhale and hold it, thinking, before she lets it out and punctuates her exhale with a "What?"

"I never passed the bar or went to law school, and I never appear in court.  I just trick people into giving me money, then relocate.  I share part of my earnings with my clients, to enlist them in keeping the authorities off my back."

"Really?" she'll say, rubbing your crotch through your pants.

"Really," you'll reply.

With that, she'll clap a handcuff on one of your wrists and then slip the other end on your chair.

"You're under arrest," she'll inform you, flashing a badge from the International Lawyer Commission.  You'll try to spit on her, but it'll just get on your pants, so you'll start flipping out, screaming at her.

"YA GOT ME AGAIN," you'll shout at her.  "GOD DAMN DAMES!  YA GOT ME AGAIN!"

Congratulations Fraudulent Lawyer!

Congratulations on Redacting That Statement!

Today you’re a sassy courtroom stenographer engaged in a hot illicit affair with a lawyer who’s attempting to acquire evidence so he can expose your hot illicit affair with a circuit court judge. He’ll be working with a lady reporter who you’re also having an affair with so that the story can get national press when it finally breaks.

In order to stop the story from breaking you’re going to spend the entirety of this Friday redacting various documents and the transcripts you’ve been keeping of your hot, steamy affairs with the aforementioned individuals, as well as the governor of the fine state in which you reside, the district attorney and the businessman under indictment for fraud.

In the end you’ll save your own skin as well as the skin of the judge, who is the only person you’re sleeping with who isn’t kind of a dick through your tireless editorial efforts. But we’d like to point out that this whole thing could be solved if you just looked a little bit farther a field for partners instead of banging your way through your office every other weekend.

Congratulations on Redacting That Statement!

Congratulations on Finding Out Where Belgian Chocolates Really Come From!

Today while touring the corporate headquarters of a well-sized shipping magnate you’ll stumble across a curious manifest, a manifest detailing the shipping patterns of a particularly popular (though nameless for legal reasons) brand of European chocolates. Puzzled, you’ll note that the shipping seems to originate from a factory in central New Jersey.

You’ll shuffle through the papers in an attempt to find some evidence that the chocolate does, indeed, come from Europe. But after a lengthy period of searching all you’ll have for your efforts are paper-cuts and evidence of grand larceny and insider trading performed by the CEO of the well-sized shipping magnate.

The gravity of the situation won’t be lost upon you. You, indeed the whole of America, has been lied to for decades about the origin and veracity of their foreign chocolate holdings. You’ll know what you need to do. You’ll take these files, clutch them close to your chest, and hurry out of the building at breakneck (slightly faster than walking) speed.

If this were a movie this would be the part where you’d be chased by assassins from the well-sized shipping magnate’s parent company, who desperately wants to suppress their insider trading and choco-fraud. It would be awesome and a hot chick would end up fucking you prior to revealing some sort of betrayal and just before another hot chick who turned out to be the one you’d been looking for all along in your life came along to help you. When the credits rolled the information would’ve been leaked to the press and all would be right with the world, the criminals in jail, justice served.

Instead, because you’re a freelance financial analyst who grasps how our justice system works, you’ll take the documents to the assistant district attorney and blow this case wide open over the next four to seven months, mostly working long, lonely hours out of your one bedroom apartment. Eventually the company will be fined and everyone will know that the precious foreign chocolates which they’ve been paying so dearly for in fact come from New Jersey, where nothing anyone wants comes from.

Congratulations on Finding Out Where Belgian Chocolates Really Come From!

Congratulations on Your New Car!

On Thursday you’re going to purchase a new car. It’ll be your first new car ever, a Mazda Protégé purchased with money from the economic stimulus package. It’ll be an absurd misappropriation of government funds for personal gain, and you’ll relish every penny.

Oddly enough, however, when you get home and start checking the car out you and your wife will discover several bodies in the back. Panicked, you’ll call the dealer and inform him that your car was, in fact, used as it, like most used cars you’ve purchased over the years, was filled with corpses.

The dealer will be very apologetic, but will insist that the car is new and that his company maintains a stalwart “no backsies” policy. As such he will offer a slightly better finance package, but will steadfastly refuse to exchange the car for another model.

You’ll be furious with him, swearing for a solid minute and a half, but as a car dealer who sells mostly to shady, overpaid investment bankers with little moral sense and less courage he knows that you’ll give up soon enough.

Sure enough, after two minutes of shouting your voice will start to crack and you’ll hang up, already assaulted by vaguely homoerotic thoughts which you feel would somehow threaten the car dealer as much as they threaten you. You’ll yell at your wife across the house that that faggot car salesman wouldn’t offer you a new model and she’ll roll her eyes as she shouts back that that’s just too bad.

Frustrated, you’ll call your mafia contact, Tony, and he’ll send a few guys over to deal with the bodies. Then you’ll have awkward unsatisfactory sex with your wife and go to sleep.

The moment your eyes close your head will be filled with tortured dreams. Your every nightmare will come to light, every forbidden thought aired to your colleagues. Your father will live once more and your mother will be out of the home and cooking for you in your kitchen.

You’ll wake time and time again, screaming, into a new nightmare. When dawn finally comes you’ll be soaked through t and your wife will be above you, concerned.

You spent the entire night screaming and eventually she had to move to the couch just to get some rest. When you didn’t wake up at six and start screaming about Jews she thought something might be wrong, so she came up and dumped a bucket of water on you.

That day you’ll call the car dealer once again, complaining of the nightmare visions which accompanied your recent purchase. He’ll simply laugh menacingly and inform you that his dealership cannot be held responsible for any paranormal activity experienced by the purchaser. Then he’ll hang up.

You’ll be too unnerved, after the horrible night and his unearthly calm the previous day, to call him back. You’ll just go about your day as normal, driving to work in your new Mazda. The day will go by without incident, an eerie way for events to proceed given the previous night. It’ll all be horrifyingly mundane, that is until you begin your evening commute.

You’ll be shocked when, during the ride home, Abraham Lincoln’s image appears in the rear view mirror. You’ll turn around and see nothing, but when you look in the mirror again he’ll be there, sitting cool as a cucumber in your backseat. Then he’ll speak in a stenorian voice that shakes your very being.

He’ll tell you that you’re a terrible man, worse than a war profiteer. He’ll tell you that all you’ve done in your pathetic little life is pursue material gains and that he has returned from the afterworld to render vengeance for the fraud you’ve committed against both the people and government of the United States. But he’ll call it the Union.

Then he’ll smile grimly as you scream no, informing you that the rest of your brief life will be spent in the most profound mental anguish imaginable and that you’ve always been gay.

This will break your fragile little mind and you’ll hurry home to start weeping on your wife’s dress. She’ll roll her eyes and try to calm you down until its bed time. Then she’ll head to the couch, assuming that you’re going to scream all night again.

But you won’t. Tonight you’ll be silent, laying awake in your bed waiting for the horrors to come. This is how you’ll die, horrified in your bed, praying against sleep, murdered with an axe by Abraham Lincoln’s ghost.

Congratulations on your new car, asshole!