Legal Dilemma: A Crazy Lawyer

Some years back I wrote a speculative post about a former lawyer and political figure giving a graduation speech to a law school on his true motivations for behaving the way he did. My one mistake was in dating it for 2020. It is in that spirit, however, that I present the following: possible testimony before a Congressional committee.

"Members of the committee, thank you for having me today. It's nice to be back here among my colleagues from my days when we were all in Congress together. Now you might be saying to yourselves, 'he was never in Congress.' Well, maybe that's true, and maybe it's not. I guess it all depends on how you define congress. Do you define it as this institution? Sure. Was I a congressman? I'm honestly not sure. You figure that one out. But if we define congress as being in congress with a hooker, well, I've been there, and I imagine some of you have... you know what, let's strike that from the record. I didn't say that. I did not.

Okay, let's get down to why it is I'm here today. You've asked me to come and testify about this whole attempted coup thing and my part in it, and the part of my client. Well, former client, because I'm not allowed to practice law anymore for some reason, and because my former client stiffed me for everything I was due anyway. Where was I? Oh, yes. The coup. 

Look, here's the thing. Who can say what happened that day. Maybe it's all what you say happened. Maybe a bunch of my former client's fans got worked up and tried to overturn democracy and overthrow the government because their idol- my former client- told them to. Maybe it was a bunch of antifa guys and some FBI guys who framed them. I don't know, do you know? 

Because when it comes down to it, who knows anything? I don't know what I ate for dinner last night. Maybe that's just me being absent minded. Maybe it's senility. At least that's what I'm holding in reserve as my defense for any future criminal proceedings against me. As well as what I'll say to the fourth Mrs. Giuliani, whoever she might be, when it comes out that I was picking up a hooker on the Upper East Side.

Where was I? Oh, yes. January 6th. Okay. Yes. Now Tucker Carlson and his gang will have you believe it was all a big misunderstanding. That these were patriots who got a bit carried away, and the real bad stuff was all done by bad actors. I don't know. Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn't.

Because like I've said before, truth isn't always truth. And facts aren't always facts. And it's in that spirit that I'd like to say the following.

These are the real facts, ladies and gentlemen.

I've spent the last six years making an ass of myself.

Sorry for the bad language, but it had to be said. Besides, I have it on good authority that McConnell says much worse to his interns.

But why would I do that? Why would I sacrifice my dignity and constantly make myself sound like a buffoon?

Payback, ladies and gentlemen. Payback. 

But payback to one man.

My former client.

Donald Trump.

That's right. I said it. You heard it.

It was all for a good cause. Payback.

Don't think for one moment that I'd forgotten his insults of me before he seriously thought of running for office. Of course he was insulting everyone else too, but seriously, that hurt. Now I could have simply ignored it. I could have simply responded. Instead I decided on a different technique. I'd get myself in close with him. Do the whole sucking up to him thing that nearly every other Republican was doing after he got the nomination, even after he had savaged them. Instead of being a spineless toadie, I'd be doing it with an ulterior motivation. Revenge.

So that was my plan. Be his fixer, the guy who goes on television and says ridiculous things to deflect from the even more ridiculous things he says. Make speeches in which I'm making a fool of myself over and over again. All while slowly gathering evidence. Because let's face it, I was a prosecutor, and I know how to build a case and how to preserve a chain of evidence. 

And so over time that's what I did. Ladies and gentlemen, the seventeen briefcases I've brought in here today contains all the evidence you need. Recordings and documentation. Bribery and manipulation by the Russians of the former president. His seething contempt for his base and everyone else whose name isn't Ivanka. And his plans to use the January 6th siege to overthrow valid election results. Irrefutable proof that he betrayed the country in favour of his colossal ego.

I would like to enter all of that into the record of these proceedings as my service to the country, and who knows? Maybe my redemption.

I'll say this much. It was worth it.

Six years of behaving like a toadie and making an ass of myself on behalf of a man who treated me like garbage and ridiculed me endlessly. All to bring him down, one way or another. 

And he made it so easy. Easy in the sense of it that it wasn't that hard to gather evidence against him. Hard in that I had to put up with that orange dumbass with the toupee for six years and had to bite my tongue every time he insulted me.

It's my distinct privilege to provide you with all the evidence you need to put an end to the Trump era. To put him into the ashbin of history once and for all. If his fans are still too gullible to see him for what he is after all of this evidence is circulated, well, nothing will ever convince them.

Over the next few hours, I'll take you step by step through all of the evidence. But before I do that, I would like to have something a bit off colour entered into the record.

It's directed to my former client.

Donald: fuck you.

Oh, and in the spirit of being mature, 'nyah nyah nyah nyah!' 

Mike drop, baby!"

Murder Suspects And Mishaps

I have an image blog today. Enjoy!

The Fiasco At Ten Downing

Outgoing Prime Minister Continues To Make Fool Of Himself, Few Surprised

London (Reuters) The last few months have been eventful in British politics. Following a series of scandals, gaffes, resignations of ministers, and other acts of perennial stupidity from the Prime Minister, what was long overdue actually happened. Boris Johnson, the accident and gaffe prone moron who fumbled his way into 10 Downing Street after driving the country over the edge of the Brexit cliff, is resigning.

Not quite yet, anyway. Like a bad funky locker room gym bag sort of smell, he has a way of lingering too long. He's staying on until the British Tories can choose a new leader. As opposed to having the grace and tact to depart quietly with his dignity intact. That, of course, would imply he had the sense to do so- and of course he has no dignity left.

Johnson has been raked over the coals for multiple issues, including his mismanagement of the response to the pandemic, as well as his cheerleading of the Brexit movement and the fallout of that debacle. He's had a tendency going back all the way to his earliest days in political life of being accident prone, breaking bones in falls, and generally making himself look like a fool.

It's been rumoured that the Queen despises him. Her Majesty would never say, of course, but a call was made from the Palace to Johnson's Chief of Staff last year expressing that Johnson was persona non grata at any Royal property for any reason.

"She's too kind," Cambridge professor Cedric Appleton told this reporter. "The man is an oaf. How he got this far in life is a mystery. It would be within her power to have him imprisoned in the Tower of London for the rest of his life. Two hundred years back she could have had him sent to Australia with the rest of the convicts, far enough away that no one would have ever heard of him again. Too bad we don't live in that kind of world. Oh, to my Australian colleagues: sorry for the stereotyping."

Word has it from Ten Downing insiders that Johnson is not taking his decision to leave well. "There's crying, there's smashing of china, there's excessive drinking. Kind of like every day before the resignation, but ramped up by ten," a staff member speaking on anonymity told this reporter. "Oh, and there's tripping on the rugs. More so than usual. Maybe he's figuring that if he hurts himself and breaks his leg, he won't be carted out when the leadership count is made."

Boris die-hard fans aren't happy. "He led us to the promised land!" Mick Carter said outside a Sheffield pub. "No more European Union! We get to do what we want when we want. He said it was going to be paradise! Who'd have thought he'd end up being so wrong? I voted for Brexit three times and we got it and now I can't go to the south of France whenever I want and my job as a chimney sweep went up in smoke."

This reporter asked, "Are you aware you just admitted to voter fraud?"

"When?" Carter asked.

"When you said you voted for Brexit three times."

"I did?"

The previous prime minister, herself the very essence of ineptness, pushed out of the way after scandals and incompetence of her own, seemed amused by it all. "I told all of them what would happen if you let that dumbass waltz into Ten Downing," Theresa May remarked to reporters this week with a rather smug smile on her face. "This is the same chap who screwed up the country with Brexit, and you let him become Prime Minister?" She laughed. "I do say, there's a certain glee in being proved right."

Who might succeed Johnson- if only to be annihilated in the next election? The candidates have been whittled down to two: Foreign Secretary Liz Truss and former Chancellor Rishi Sunak. Neither of whom are that inspiring, and both of whom seem to know that disaster looms in the future for their party, even if they won't admit to it.

Meanwhile, the Labour Party, with new leadership, seeks to take advantage in the next election- whenever that may be.

As for Johnson himself, he met with reporters this week outside Ten Downing, looking as rumpled and befuddled as ever. "Ladies and gentlemen of the press, we have much left to do. I know I've said I'm leaving when the party chooses new leadership, and I will. I will. I promise. I just plan on dragging that process out as long as I can, so I can keep raiding the coffers for as long as I can."

"Do you realize what you just said?" one reporter asked.

"What?" Johnson replied.

"About you raiding the coffers for as long as you can," another reporter prompted.

"I said no such thing," Johnson countered. 

"We can play it back for you," this reporter suggested.

"You're all just trying to confuse me. Look, I was going to come out here and have a meaningful discussion with you, but it's clear that's not going to happen, so I'm going to go back in and play beer pong." He turned, looking back as he walked towards the front door. "And forget what I said about the beer po...." At this point he walked right into the door; a distinct crack was heard when his nose made contact with the door. He groaned, turned around, and blood was gushing out of his nose. "Um, a little help?"

Some members of the Tories wish they could go back in time. Back before Brexit, to warn their younger selves against it. To warn them against the curse of Boris. To advise them to not allow again what happened to a former foreign secretary. That political figure, taken for granted at the time and forced out through political skullduggery, has retained his respect and dignity. World leaders have always spoken highly of his candour, calmness, and grace under pressure. Many are now wishing he could be back, taking over as PM and leading the country back to a state of stability and dignity after so much foolishness. 

But that former foreign secretary has retired from political life and has now taken up a tenured post as a professor at Oxford, where he has become a popular instructor in world history. Oxford is where reporters caught up to him this week asking if he'd consider a return to politics. 

To which, Professor Beaker simply said, "Meep, meep meep meep meep!!!!"

A Day In The Life Of A Cat

Just as I begin with the perspective of the dog, so too do I end with the point of view of the cat, who, as one of the higher beings of the world, must always have the last word. 

6:59 AM. Waking up. Slept well. Dreamed of melting popsicles for some reason...

7:01 AM. An inspection outside. The thermometer reads 23 Celsius, and it's only going to go up from there. For the record, I don't like heat. Fortunately my house is air conditioned. Okay, some flying lunches pecking around at the grass outside. It's going to be too hot to chase you today.

7:03 AM. An examination of skies to the west suggest we may be in for rain. Good. Just as long as I don't get caught outside in it, because if that's the case there will be hell to pay...

7:09 AM. Wondering what's taking my staff. I can hear her moving around upstairs, so I know she's awake. But not coming downstairs yet. Oh, well, good things come to all cats that wait.

7:21 AM. The staff finally comes downstairs. It's about time, staff. Now then, it's time you see to my breakfast, don't you think?

7:23 AM. ....and while we're at it, staff, no more of those field rations. Are we clear on that? I have told you this many times, but you keep putting down field rations with the rest of my breakfast. And this is not what I want to be seeing from here out. Is that understood?

7:24 AM. The staff puts down a bowl of milk and a plate of tuna. Unfortunately she also puts down a bowl of field rations. I sigh with dismay and set to work on the breakfast I actually want. I shall ignore the field rations.

7:26AM. Finished with breakfast. Didn't touch the field rations. I shall leave my staff in peace to have her breakfast.

7:35 AM. On the back of the couch, looking outside. Somewhere in the distance I can hear the barking of that foul hound who lives down the road. 

Dumb dog.

7:40 AM. The staff is on her way out the door to go to that work place she insists on going to most of the week. Staff, by the way, we're running low on milk. You were planning on doing something about that, right?

7:42 AM. Observing as the staff drives out the driveway in her car. Well, technically my car. But I let her use it.

8:13 AM. What was a few drops of rain has turned into a downpour. Oh well, maybe it'll break the heat and humidity. At least I'm not out in it.

8:22 AM. The first burst of lightning followed by thunder in what looks like a considerable storm. Batten down the hatches, this is a big one....

8:38 AM. Maintaining watch out the windows as the storm rages. Note to self: if this winds up becoming a tornado, will it delay the staff in getting home?

8:55 AM. Okay, that's enough of that. The storm can take all the time it wants. As for me? I think a nap is in order right about now. Excuse me, storm? Would it kill you to keep it down for awhile?

11:09 AM. Waking up from my nap. Slept well. Storm appears to be over outside. Good.

11:13 AM. Reconnaissance of the kitchen has determined that the only food out in the open is that bowl of field rations.

11:14 AM. After much internal debate and soul searching, I decide to sate my hunger by eating some of the field rations.

1:28 PM. Woken out of a sound sleep by the sound of that idiot mutt from down the road barking. The mailman must be passing by.

3:43 PM. Working my claws out on the scratching post. Inadvertently unleashing some residual scent of catnip while doing so. Uh oh, I'm going to go into a catnip zoomie phase in five, four, three......

4:20 PM. Totally tuckered out after sprinting through every nook and cranny in the house while under the influence of catnip. I've earned another nap.

5:36 PM. The staff comes home, waking me up from my nap after opening the door. She's bringing in groceries. This I approve of.

6:47 PM. Dinner with the staff. She's having carrots with her steak. She's cut up steak into bite sized pieces for me and put it on a plate. Bravo, staff, well done.

8:02 PM. Staff? Why are you watching a Hallmark movie? I knew you had low taste, but this is ridiculous.

8:21 PM. Okay, that's it. I'm going upstairs. If you want to waste the next hour and a half watching a couple of washed up soap actors in a movie that's the script equivalent of a paint by numbers kit, go ahead. 

11:48 PM. The staff comes upstairs into her bedroom. Well, my bedroom, where I am presently occupying the bed. Time for bed, staff? 

You may do so. Despite your horrible taste in movies.