Those who follow the shitlaw, doc review, and law school scams know that things out there for newly minted attorneys from TTT law schools is beyond bleak. It’s a wasteland of no opportunities, no careers, and no hope. Abandon hope, all ye who go to TTT. Tom The Temp and Law is 4 Losers frequently post on the horrors of life in and near the major cities for such people. Today I came across one of my own and decided to share since it wasn’t posted anywhere else yet.

CL ad – 12 bucks an hour for attorney
Our firm specializes in personal injury in New Jersey and New York. We are looking to hire and train a newly barred attorney. Compensation will be as follows – $12.00 per hour 40 hours per week. There will be a 3 month review at which point we will discuss progress and any increases in compensation. You will be 1099ed. You will also have the opportunity to develop business on your own.

and it goes on to require fluency in russian or polish.

Sure, times are hard for everyone, and real wages are falling. Sadly though this ad is asking for someone to be an independent contractor, so they won’t fall under any legal malpractice coverage, and they’re paying little more than you would get waiting tables. I’d rather wait the tables, cause at least there I might get free food and won’t risk getting sued if I fuck up a case. Worse than that, is that ads like this are getting posted with more frequency. Employers know that TTT Wasteoids are fungible. I was telling a friend last night about my fruitless attempts to find work in Jurisdiction X. Lawyers are fungible in this job market. If an applicant doesn’t have 100% of what the employer is looking for, and then some, they can simply be tossed aside like rotting vegetables for any of the legions of unemployed or underemployed attorneys or biglaw castoffs from the recent volumes of layoffs.

But 12 fucking dollars an hour? You can make that with a GED. Why would you want to go to law school and get into debt to the tune of 6 figures for a job you can get right now without setting foot on a college campus? And if you work for some corporate restaurants, you can get insurance and even retirement plans after 2 years?

Beware, those who contemplate law school as a key to success, the road is perilous, and your chances are slim. Guys like this are slowly becoming the norm.

I think i will avoid lengthy wall of text bullshit from now on. I can’t imagine what I was smoking to think it was a good idea to post 2500 words on eating a loose wizard’s sleeve.

I grew up in a town called Heresville. (I love sim city) Heresville sits on the edge of a body of water about 2 and a half hours east of City 17. I had some good times there, despite it being a tourist town with little to do. However, Heresville is in the past, and it belongs there. I have family who still live in that area and when I’m there I visit, but by and large I stay the hell out. I don’t even talk to people I used to hang out with there. That all changed thanks to Facebook.

They all found me and amazingly haven’t caught on to the fact that in general nobody gives a flying fuck if you’re a lawyer. Well, at least in City 17 nobody gives a shit because you can’t travel 500 feet without seeing 20 ads for a lawyer. In Heresville, though, I guess it’s still a job with status. Nobody knows lawyers are generally bitter, in debt up to their eyeballs, and reprobates of the worst order. The old crew eventually got ahold of me and here comes the farmville updates, the mafia war bullshit, everyone’s inane photos of their insipid crotchspawn, misspelled updates about how Obama is destroying the world, and when the next air show is. I tolerate it, as its something to remind me of why I left that shithole to begin with. However, I am a businessman, and when presented with a client by a friend of the family who has money and a drug addled daughter with a Armed Robbery charge, I gladly take the 5500 fee. This means I have pretrial conferences to attend, and time to burn as I don’t really want to drive over to Heresville from City 17 and drive back in the same day.

I made the mistake of putting an update on facebook so the sex milf will know not to bother the fuck out of me, and lo and behold every sonofabitch and his sister in Heresville is sending me messages. One of them catches my eye: Baseball. I love baseball and this is a special time of the year signifying that summer is almost here. I gladly accept to go see a minor league game, which will keep me from having to blow my brains out playing poker with the dullard fogies at the race track while waiting for the next day’s court hearing at 9am.

I meet up with everyone around 6pm at a local chicken wing and beer joint. What amazes me is that 4 of these people are girls from cheerleading/dance team who never gave me the time of day in high school, all of which got fat, pregnant, and ugly as fuck. I’d consider it justice but for the fact that if I had ovaries I’d probably be right there. At least I had the ugly and fat part down. The night goes pleasantly enough to start, then the phone starts ringing. It’s the client’s mother, who paid the 5500. I made the mistake of giving her my cell phone number to reach me after hours, but I never figured after hours would include calling me at 8pm. and 810 pm. and 830pm. I put the happy little radio samba tune from portal as my ring tone, and I was growing to hate the fucker. Aggravated, at about 833 I got up from my seat to go get a beer and to shut my phone off for the night. Right as I got up i heard a noise and felt an unfamiliar sting on my right shoulder. Well, it was less a sting and more like getting shot with a bullet. I fell into the seat in front of me as fans around me swarmed to get the projectile. I’ve been to many MLB and spring training games, and I have never caught a foul ball. Thanks to my client pissing me off and me turning my back for a split second, my chance to get one just bounced off my shoulder at about 70 mph. I spend the next 15 minutes being attended to by park employees, who wrap an ice pack around my injured appendage. Next time I have to go to court I’m appearing telephonically. Heresville and everyone in it can go fuck themselves with a sautering iron, I swear.

You find yourself thinking at the damndest times. In this rough and tumble word, you rarely find yourself in a position that affords you an opportunity to sit and ponder things on a more existential level. Sure, I have moments at work where I daydream about escaping the toilet, moving North, making marginally bigger bucks, getting married, having kids, living the American dream. Such delightful respite lasts rarely more than 2 minutes before I am interrupted by a phone call from a client in jail asking why the prosecutor hasn’t agreed to a 20 year suspended sentence and house arrest or some equally pie in the sky bullshit for their racketeering case. The sickly sweet stench of toiletlaw’s reality prevents me from getting lost in the clouds. Occasionally, while blindly click-grinding my way through NL10 on full tilt, I sometimes catch myself wondering what I’m doing with my life, and when will this purgatory change, when will it be time for me to pack up and bail out of city 17, gesturing for this humid, oven baked cesspool to kiss the fattest part of my ass. Then I find myself misclicking an all-in call with 9-3 offsuit on accident and piss away another buyin. Aside from those rare instances, though, I’ve kept away from purposeful introspection. Sure I try to use my blogging time as a chance to stretch out on the digital shrink couch and permit Anonymous to comment and mock my existence, but other than that, nothing. Until today. Yeah its a sex related post. You don’t like it, go to Russia.

I had the milf ex roommate over for the weekend since my current (lesbian) roommate was out of town on a weekend getaway. Yes the sexual experiment continues. The weekend started with her coming over for a homemade dinner, except she made most of it. At the store she was insistent upon making home made alfredo sauce. I haven’t had fettucine alfredo in ages, seeing as its pretty much congealed fat and carbohydrates, most of which I try to avoid. I clutched the Mondavi merlot in one hand, and the grill spatula in the other as i watched her botch her way blindly through the sauce, combining a whole container of cream cheese with shredded Parmigiano-Reggiano and barely a fourth of a cup of milk, and less than a quarter stick of salted cream butter. I knew the result, but I wasn’t going to tell her what to do. I was busy trying not to blacken the chicken while grilling in the dark. The sauce was stringy, like microwaved cheese. She blamed adding the whole container of pasta to the sauce for it’s lack of meaningful texture. I kept my mouth shut. The milf doesn’t like being told how to do things. In fact, she doesn’t take criticism well. The fact that she can fellate like nobody’s business makes her relatively immune from criticism. If I wanted dessert, I had to suffer through the main course.

The things we do for sex. The whole weekend was more sex in two days than I’ve had in the past 9 months. It almost didn’t happen, though. After dinner concluded and we retreated to the bedroom, which I had meticulously cleaned, even going so far as to position vanilla candles throughout the room. I had to mortgage my man cred somewhat for this, I admit. However, business proceeded as usual, and right as I was about to work my way to more southern climes, she stopped me, and did what turns out to be her most erection-killing move ever. She opened her mouth, without me in it.

The fact that she and I are intimate in any capacity, as any recent reader might now, is by my design. In lieu of trying to pick up a woman I don’t know, I stayed within my facebook circle of unmarried females. Actually I sought this one out, since I had thought about her in a sexual manner for a while. The thought of trying to pick up a woman I don’t know crossed my mind, and in retrospect might have made things a little easier to deal with, but taking a woman on the battlefield is like a hawk taking a bird, it pays no attention to any other than the one that it has first marked. All this hot 42 year old sex though carries with it a price – non sex conversation. This woman is a talker. Not that I do not mind talking. I like it; stimulating conversation can make a woman very sexy. However, conversation about how you’re unemployed, living with a 54 year old neckbearded goon who cooks turkeys at 1130 pm at night and plays yugioh on the PS2 is not scintillating conversation. Also, when all you can talk about is “sharing” about every little thing that crosses your mind, and apologizing for how needy you seem after seeing each other for about 2 weeks, it makes intimacy difficult.

So Friday night she decided to share about where “we” were going. I have not lied to this woman. She knows full well about my plans to move North and the reasons why. I told her I cannot make promises to leave the person up North, and that in all likelihood if I ever got offered a job I would have to go. She tells me that she doesn’t want to be a friend with benefits, and that she is really attracted to me. Well, I thought to myself, this train has come to a stop. No worries, I knew this would happen sooner or later, it just happened a lot sooner than later. I told her that I didn’t want to hurt her, and that unlike what TV says, we can be just friends. In the interim all the blood that had rushed south has dispersed to the rest of my body, and I figured that all that wine I drank and all the shitty alfredo sauce I suffered through was for naught. She was going to announce that she had to go home, and that this was best to avoid being hurt. It was no big deal, it was an early exit off the titanic superhighway. She droned on for 20 minutes or so about how hurt she was in the past, and how she didn’t want hookup sex, and that when she was intimate with someone that she grows more and more attached. I told her that wasn’t for me, but I care about her deeply and that if she wants to find that emotional attachment elsewhere that was fine be me, I wouldn’t hold it against her and in all likelihood I wouldn’t try to replace her either.

So after all this erection killing discourse, I let her nuzzle up to my armpit, and figuring it would be best to sleep this off, I blew out the candle by the bed and proceeded to catch some Z’s. Fifteen minutes later I feel a now slightly familiar sensation, her lips moving from my neck to my own and then down my chest. Slightly drunk, I started to regain my focus, and instead of trying to figure out how she just went from telling me she didn’t want to have sex with me to pleasuring me in a very personal way, I just let it happen. We proceeded to coitus. Now she is a unique woman in that she claims to be able to orgasm from intercourse, and prefers that to cunnilingus. This goes against everything Dr. Drew ever told me, but lo and behold I know this to be true as last week it was a nearly sisyphean task to get her to orgasm; as I noted a few posts ago, I pushed that rock up the hill for nearly 40 minutes before she popped. But seeing as the best way for *me* to climax was through intercourse, I obliged. Another odd thing about her is that she is nearly insistent upon missionary sex. I’m not terribly flexible, nor am I so massively endowed as to be able to perform every position in the kama sutra, but I like to mix it up, and having rolled with guys in the guard, half guard, and mount, I find that jiujitsu translates into the bed in interesting ways. However, for her to reach her orgasm, she insists on missionary. Not a problem, I happily oblige.

Now I may have mentioned this in a previous post, or perhaps not, but it bears repeating. For 42 years old, this woman has no need of synthetic lubricant. Far from it, in fact. So much so, that she likes to tell me about it. Okay, that’s kinda hot. But she complains. Incessantly. “Oh I’m wet” starts as a moan and develops into a Marge Simpson like disgruntled nag. “Can you feel me” becomes less of a passionate whisper and turns into a concerned inquiry. That follows up with the comment all men absolutely never want to hear at any point ever during intercourse:

“I can’t feel you”

At that point, all things come to a grinding halt. With a concerned look on her face, her brow wrinkles. She cannot understand what she said wrong. When I explain to her that I would rather be drug 90 mph naked across a field of broken glass than hear that phrase during sex, it dawns on her and she explains that it’s a result of her excessive personal excretions. It’s okay to writhe and wriggle underneath me to get the right angle for the dangle and beat of the meat, and direct me when we’re hitting ground zero, but I DONT WANT TO EVER HEAR THAT COME OUT OF YOUR PIE HOLE AGAIN YOU WRETCHED CUNT! Which came out “Well, uh, my dear, it’s counterproductive to tell me how you cannot feel me, because i can’t help but think it has to do with my own shortcomings, if you will” to which she responds that its not that at all, that in fact last time we had sex she did orgasm from coitus and that I feel just wonderful. Not much consolation.

This comedy of errors marred our first session. I made up for it by waking her up at 5am for round two, my signature move. Groggy and unable to resist, I pretty much did what I needed to do. She didn’t mind one bit, and frankly was in awe of my issue when I climaxed, managing to paint the wall behind her with force George Zimmer would be impressed with, I guarantee it. The rest of the weekend was more of the same, but for the last session, whereupon we come upon the moment of introspection and the protagonist reflects upon himself when presented with an opportunity to contemplate his role in the universe.

I like giving oral pleasure to my partners. It’s a mutually satisfying event to give a woman an orgasm, and I’d like to think I have gathered some skill at it. Nobody has complained, and I have grown somewhat efficient at the process, usually being able to achieve success without needing to come up for air much or feeling like a python with an unhinged jaw. You’d think I would have learned my lesson from last time. Oh Sisyphus, it’s time to push that rock.

After the last session of coitus, whereupon she insisted that she was close to orgasming from me so many times, I decided I needed to finish before she said something stupid enough to kill my erection. I climaxed, and she asked me to finish her off in the intimate manner I previously described. Since she was fairly aroused, and we weren’t starting from scratch, I figured this would be an indulgence I would gladly pursue. It was about 1:25 when I disappeared beneath her thighs.

I set about my work diligently. I won’t go into great detail, but i have a game plan that usually works fairly well in getting things done in about 10 minutes. After a while, she started shivering, and her stomach contracted a few times. I suspected I was on the right track and it was time to bring this train home to the station…

After more moments than I thought, I noticed she relaxed a bit. “I’m almost there, oh it’s so close,” she exclaims. I kiss her thighs to clean off my work area, and glance at the clock by the bed. at 1:43 I return to my task at hand.

My tongue begins to feel a little sore. I notice my right hand falling asleep. I reposition it to over her vulva to ease my approach to the desired location. Once again she shivers, once again I notice her writing underneath my head. Finally, the Orient Express is coming in to the station a little late, but completely as expected. The shivering lasts, but somehow the emergency brake is not applied, and I find myself having to crank my neck up and down and stiffen my tongue as my styloglossus muscle feels like it’s spasming from overwork. Wikipedia that term. Men know what it is.

Somewhere around 2:05 I’ve stepped away from myself. Yes she is going through the usual spasming and shivering, and making pleasant noises, but every 13-14 minutes or so she tells me she is coming, but never does. I know what it’s like when a woman pops. I know when a woman is faking. I appreciate her honesty, but I am determined to push that rock up the hill, even if she keeps kicking it down to the valley. I’m going to make her orgasm, I’m going to do it, dammit. However, I enter a nearly ethereal state. My hands are numb, I can no longer feel the sweat combined with the lubrication slowly tracing its way down my neck and soaking the sheets beneath. I’m performing cunnilingus and taking a stroll in my mind. In the back of my head, I open doors to past experiences with other women. I’m not terribly pleased with the selection my subconscious has made. I’m trying to focus on pleasing this woman, and please myself by taking myself away from the pain and monotony of tracing the Alphabet in a Carwinian fashion, to more simplistic movements akin to binary code. Up, down, side to side, circular. 1,0,1,0,0,1,1,0,0.

I think it’s 2:15. at this point her convulsions and claims to be on the doorstep of some great orgasmic pop fall upon deaf ears. Her gyrations do not register on my mandibular radar. My neck begins to stiffen. I, meanwhile, am replaying hands of Omaha Hi Lo in my head. Then segueing into map designs for the video game Portal. Then I think of Rape Boy’s appeal. I notice an acidic taste on my tongue there but it must be more subconscious than actual.

2:22, I’m at my old home playing with my dogs. Faux brown boxers, George and Martha Washington. My mother was a presidential trivia geek. And a Rhodes scholar. I actually begin to miss my mother. Somewhere I can hear Freud laughing; I immediately force myself away from this Oedipal recall. The pain in my jaw reaches a crescendo, and the pain invokes a familiar reaction.

2:34 – I’m in the dojo, recalling the last sparring match with Judo Dave. I only know him as Judo Dave. He’s a white belt, but apparently well versed in Judo. I had been sparring in 2 minute sessions with half the class for the past 20 minutes. I still have enough in the tank to roll with Judo Dave, and the instructor and dojo owner have both commented on my recent improvements. I had stripped off my outer t shirt and was rolling in just a rash guard, letting it all “hang out” though admittedly there’s less to hang out than there used to be. I defend Dave’s advance and get to half guard on the bottom. He works a kimura, and i attempt some sort of sweep manuever, but somehow he ends up at my back, I begin to go to turtle position, but my left arm is out straight. He captures it, and instantaneously bars it, somehow. My left elbow is weaker than my right, and I scream out, 15% in pain, 85% in reactionary fear. I am afraid of hyperextending my left elbow and breaking my arm. It is an irrational fear, akin to my fear of drowning. Instead of immediately tapping, I cried out. Dave chastised me for not tapping, as we react faster to tactile touch than aural stimulation. He reminds me that if he had a rear naked choke on me, I couldn’t say a word, and if i relied on verbally submitting, I’d be put to sleep before the hold could be released. I dwell on this, and resign myself to the pain and needing to bite my tongue and tap something. Submission, giving up.

2:40 – There’s no dishonor in tapping out, there’s nothing wrong with admitting you’re beaten. You’re not going to always win. I’m not going to make her orgasm, no matter how wet she claims she is or how many times she insists she’s “right there” and to “keep going.” Sore, tired, and ready to give up, I instinctively tap her thigh. “I can’t keep on, my mouth hurts, my tongue is numb, I can’t feel my hands,” I tell her. What I don’t tell her is that for the past 40 minutes I’ve been somewhere else entirely, probably like her. It was an exercise in futility, me desperately trying to find the orgasm that wasn’t going to pop, no matter how hard I tried.

When i think back on it, that 70 minutes or so I spent down there was symbolic of my relationship with her, not a waste of time but ultimately unfulfilling for both of us. I know she isn’t going to replace the girl up North, and she knows I’m not going to leave the girl up North for her. Part of me fears it’s symbolic of my career, desperately trying to find something that eludes me: the rest of my life, where I transform from a 31 year old bachelor toilet lawyer into a grown man with a family and children and a decent job. If I’m going to be pushing the rock up the hill for the forseeable future, I hope I take time to stop and reflect now and then.

For those of us trying to get out of the toilet (and in all likelihood just into a slightly less awful toilet), sending out resumes is a lot like being on a deserted island. Except in this version of castaway, we’re third tier toilet grads supping on ramen noodles, and instead of a painted volleyball, Wilson is instead the name of the Sallie Mae bill collector calling every 30 minutes asking when their money will come in. Other than that, metaphorically, we’re living the same meaningless life with little to call our own, isolated from the rest of the world due to our career choices and suffocating debt. We send out resumes in mass, on anything we can find, desperately praying for salvation, or a least a reprieve to a better island. I couldn’t imagine having to do this job search without the benefit of email. Because the odds of response are minute, the amount of time put in to applying would reflect minimal emotional investment. I have perfected the art of the form cover letter. Each job opening requires only a few moments of google searching to get the gist of the firm at which I would apply, after which I would change the address, and use the appropriate OpenOffice macro to insert the corresponding copypasta. I have a certain one for criminal defense, a certain one for civil litigation, a certain one for government work, appellate work, and so on. I have created an assembly line means to generate hundreds of cover letters in minutes, with PDF versions of redacted criminal motions or civil motions with memorandae as writing samples, and even tweaked resumes depending on the profile of the firm. I have turned email applications to law firms into an art form, cramming hundreds of PDF kilobytes into tiny binary corked soda bottles, shipping them out into the ether, knowing full well that the vast majority of them would never see the light of day, not to mention the loving spray of printer toner, forget ending up in a partner’s inbox.

So it goes to stand that any news is good news, even if it is in fact the same bad news normally packaged as no news. Which is to say that although I got a phone call from a firm I applied to, telling me that they weren’t interested in me in any way shape or form, it was a step above the standard, substandard noncommunication those of us in shitlaw/unemployment are used to. To compare: Its akin to asking out 1000 girls, and getting 999 nonresponses, and number 1000 takes 30 seconds out of her day to tell us to fuck off. It’s common courtesy to at least shit on us instead of ignore us. Thank you, sir, may I have another.

However, not all is lost in the land of toiletlaw. In fact, I have a phone interview on Friday. After the last interview debacle, where I flew up just to have someone tell me they weren’t interested, I included a little caveat in my macro cover letters. I “respectfully request a phone interview to determine if my skillset would fit well with your office, and to determine mutual interest” after which i would fly up for an in person interview. Not only did someone’s secretary email me asking for time on Friday for such an interview, they even asked me to send a picture of myself to accompany my resume. This means not only are my emails getting somewhere, someone’s actually taking the trouble to spend 1 minute reading what I have to say. This makes me feel doubly good as I weighed in just under 285 pounds this morning, making it over 51 pounds lost since November 2009. Combine this with fitting comfortably back into size 42’s, I actually start to look presentable. At least my facial features are recognizable from the surrounding fat.

Aside from that, I’m hoping someone still recognizes the musical reference in the previous post. It’s obscure, but I might send you a prize or recognize you in some way, and as fairly anonymous people on the internet, recognition is what we all strive for. Oh, and Bayan Rabbani from life at 160 (click link on right) interviewed me on Sunday night while I was watching Wrestlemania for free on my computer. He didn’t ask me nearly a lot of substantive questions, but it might be his style to save anything of value for his own writing. Sorry Bayan, I won’t shower with you.

TL DR at the end.

Things proceed to their inevitable conclusion. This weekend will be a continuation bet on last weekend’s preflop raise on the ex roommate. Thanks to the magic of priceline, I’m getting a 4 star hotel on Saturday night for a hundred bucks, and I’m sure I overpaid. This whole week we’ve been texting back and forth. I knew I was getting somewhere when she send me a detailed description of what she was wearing underneath her clothes and how she pleasured herself over what went down the previous weekend. It did excite me a bit, but I have to keep a clinical aspect to this whole experiment, which might just extend a bit longer than I had thought. If she is willing to have a languid, all night into morning evening with me once, why the hell would I not want to do it again? She knows about the woman up north, and we’re trying to postpone that conversation as long as possible. Even if that situation were to work itself out, such that I would abandon all hope of moving north, (to some extent with the job market the way it is, and the black hole of the advertising firms failing to give even a belch of a response… well wait, i take that back – time for a family guy style non sequitur – remember that time when

[cut to me reading another boring police report] Fuck another got damned post miranda statement – fuck. Let’s see whats on the usual sites, CL, LawJobs, Symplicity, aint no jobs in..
[phone rings, its an unusual number, i dont readily recognize the area code, but its not an 888 or 800 so its not a creditor] Uh, hello?
Hello, Toiletlawyer?
You’ve got him how can I help you?
Oh this is so and so from Smith and Wesson, Attorneys at Law.
Oh really? Ah yes, well…
[interrupting] Yes we got your resume and I was just calling to say we won’t be offering you an interview and best of luck with your job search.
Oh, well you got my resume, well I guess that’s something. Ah thanks for calling, you know, and uh, getting my hopes up for a split second instead of just ignoring my resume like everyone else. The brief rush of adrenaline certainly improved this deary hour.
Yes well, good luck and all that! [click]

Anyways if things up North were abandoned, I don’t think I could go into a deep long term relationship with this woman. She is fairly hot for a 42 year old woman and all, but you know if I wanted to get married or have a kid, which she doesn’t want, well, you can see how that might pose a problem. However, since this is all about me wallowing in my crapulence, I’m all about Saturday night at a beachside suite, with me genitals-deep inside her, nibbling away at whatever I can crane my neck and strained left trapezius to get to.

–Fast forward to Sunday–

And it was worth every fucking dollar, if you don’t mind the pun. Between the hotel, his and hers pedicures, lunch, dinner, clothes shopping, wine, breakfast, massage oils, I spent about 500 bucks, but she was soft butter in my hands. The only downside is the conversation we’re not having, or avoiding. The woman up north. She has asked about her and has her concerns. It’s the iceberg, and we’re the titanic. However, she was insistent on no condoms, and was willing to do practically everything, so I figure since this is destined to end in a watery crash somewhere I might as well enjoy the trip. I’m making every effort to avoid deep meaningful conversation simply to avoid getting the notion of love wrapped into my intense desire to ravage every inch of her flesh. She is very open but with that comes her saying things that don’t need to be said, or even heard. I’m not going to tell her to shut her noise hole, because I actually like it when the woman gives a little direction and suggestion to matters coital, but I don’t need you to apologize when you use sardonic wit to skewer me for something stupid, and I admit defeat. I can take a barb or two, I’m a grown man. But for fuck’s sake please don’t tell me about how your ex completely fucked up your mental wiring. I know he was a douchebag and a complete sack of shit, I know you had to practically beg him for sex, and I know you have a hard time letting yourself come from cunnilingus since nobody’s done it to you in forever, I WAS JUST DOWN THERE, IT TOOK DAMN NEAR 40 MINUTES BUT I GOT IT DONE! Just shut up and enjoy yourself.

Anyways the experience didn’t entirely live up to fantasy, but her body was what I thought it would be, and it was pretty good. First time sex doesn’t always work the way you want it to, but that’s ok since round 2 and 3 were spaced out a little later when I was slightly more sober. So in the end, Toiletlaw finally succumbed to the ways of Lifeat160, and in doing so, he gave just a little bit of his soul away. Toilet and 160, what a couple of dumb shits.

TL;DR HAY GUISE I HAD SEX LOL

When I first started this blog, I was about 340 pounds of mess. I looked like 50 pounds of mashed potatoes stuffed into a 10 pound potato bag. The only thing separating me from the guys on the biggest loser was initiative. I tried abortively to get my rotund, cellulite ridden ass into shape in 2008. I had some moderate success but never went out and got a digital scale and really just thought I could get it done by eating and weightlifting and even then my interest waned right as I was closing in on 310 pounds. It wasn’t a good idea for obvious reasons, my bank account was still being pinged for 30 bucks a month for the gym I was suddenly not going to. Also, combined with the fact that I moved 3 times in 2009 it wasn’t conducive to staying at the same gym or even being motivated. I wasn’t living with people who were making me motivated to get the job done.

In the summer of 2009 I answered a CL ad for a place to live. (since I was trying to move to jurisdiction x, i reduced myself to nearly nomadic possessions: clothes, a bed, and a tv. I’ve since gotten rid of the bed) It was in a furnished house with a woman who had recently lost her job and wanted someone to help defray costs. She was kinda attractive in a no-kids milfy, cougary way, but since I was living with her and we had a financial relationship I knew nothing could come of it. But the place was nice, and she had some cool dogs, and the rent and utilities contribution was next to nothing. I drew up a month to month lease and we lived together but never really bonded. Eventually she signed a short sale contract and I had to move to where I live now. I always thought in the back of my mind how she had this sexy way about her, and she lost a significant amount of weight while I lived with her, since she lost her work and barely ate. She got a job eventually right as we were forced to leave. I remember picking up my deposit check from her office, and the outfit she had on was so tight I couldn’t help but gulp audibly as I met her in the parking lot. I kept up with her on facebook. This goes somewhere, bear with me.

I moved into my new place, and at some point fell into a rut of shit: get up, go to work, be unmotivated about a hell of a lot, go home, play portal/tf2/fallout 3/whatever, go to bed. It was then that i started writing for toiletlaw. I looked at my life at some point and said to myself “Self – You need to get your defecation united.” I may practice shitlaw but I dont need to look like shitlaw, and feel that way. Get confident, stupid! So it was late October/early November when I decided I needed to get ahold of myself before I hit 350 pounds and make something happen. I started with the weightlifting again, and was making marked progress, going from 336 on November 3, 2009, to 310 by the end of the year. It was around then that one of my relatives convinced me to try doing Brazilian Jiu Jitsu to supplement my workout. It has worked a lot in building my confidence and my appearance.

Last weekend I weighed in at 287 pounds, admittedly after a pretty sweaty 4 hour BJJ seminar. I had put pictures from the past week showing where I was and where I am, and the difference is pretty remarkable. I got a facebook message from the 42 year old chick saying congrats on getting sexy. Then it hit me. A devilish idea, a horrid, deplorable, completely XY chromosmal idea: I was going to ask her out. I always wanted to. I had this inside desire for her that was part fantasy part who knows what. But i thought to myself “Self – you’re going to get her.” I don’t exactly know *why*, but I guess the lack of sex for a while had something to do with it. I don’t describe myself as “having game” or being a player or anything of the sort, but I figured it was worth a shot. What’s the worst that could happen? She would say no?

So I asked her out to dinner. She was a little surprised. I never asked her to dinner when I lived with her, even though she said “Hey next time you go to get BBQ bring me with you!” I never did because well 1. I didnt want her to see me crushing smoked pork like a monster and 2. I had a shitty little car with no air and it was always a mess littered with various fast food bags. Fast forward to today with my newly acquired, paid for with cash, SUV and a sense of confidence, and I replied “Because I want to be seen with an attractive woman in my new car and take her to dinner. A guy doesn’t need any other reason.”

Lo and behold the texts and facebook messages flowed, with subtle sexual suggestion. We went to a local fondue restaurant. I knew something was up when the waitress suggested a Merlot called “Menage a Troix,” which elicited a “I love that name” response from my date. Dinner was various cheeses, vegetables, meats, shellfish, lobster, and chocolate combined with the bottle of wine and after dinner whiskey. She made it clear she was in no desire to go home just yet, so we went downtown to see what drinks and trouble we could get into. I was imagining what circumstance would lead to me kissing her.

We ended up at a quiet bar attached to small club playing obnoxious club music. She had martinis, I had bacardi and sugar free rockstar. We talked and drank and talked some more. The bar grew crowded within an hour, and our conversation was at the same time both intimate and inaudible over the din of at least 3 dozen early 20 somethings, including a white guy with a ridiculous oversized and natural afro that very nearly got burned by the various 20 something beach blonde cigarette smokers.

After a while, we were both somewhat buzzed. She had for some reason asked me to hold onto her lipstick. She asked me for it, and as I handed it over I asked her if it had a flavor. “It’s whatever you want it to be,” she said. Green means go. “Well let’s find out.” I leaned in for a non tongue, yet soft couple of kisses which was about as sweet a payoff as getting it all in with Aces pre flop. It was exactly what I thought it would be. I pulled back a moment, in awe of the execution of my ham handed yet somehow successful plan. In the back of my mind I could imagine getting a slight disdainful nod from lifeat160. We both looked at each other with a half smirk/laugh, and then she went in again. Two for the price of one. I cut myself off, bought her two more drinks, and we stayed till about 130 am. The next say she was going to a hockey game, and complained that she had no shirt for that team. I suggested I would buy her one, but the only place open at this time of night to get such a thing was across town at wal mart. Off we went, and the store was nearly empty. We happened upon shirts she liked at the women’s department, and she grabbed a medium and a large, to see which fit better. She wanted something tight and sexy, but then something that wouldn’t look ridiculous if it shrunk in the wash. I stood outside the dressing room like a gentleman as she tried on the shirts, and agreed that although the medium showed off her natural assets, it might not be fit for the public if it shrank, and the large looked pretty good too, all things considered. She went back into the dressing room to put her back buttoning blouse back on. She comes out, asking me to button her up.

It was only 3 buttons up the back, but I slowly did the first two. I took my time with the third, noting a gigantic target in front of me. She was lifting her hair up as I worked the buttons, and the complexion of her skin was like a slightly mocha/vanilla. Throwing all hell to the wind, i went in and gave a soft, sucking kiss just to the side of the nape of her neck, tracing a small line with my tongue to her right ear. Her entire upper torso shivered. “All done,” I said.

We made our way home, I dropped her off at her doorstep, and gave her a simple goodnight kiss. I knew for a fact she would have had sex with me had I put any more effort into it. I didn’t though, because I didn’t want her to wake up with buyers remorse. I wanted her to know that I wanted to touch her just as much sober as somewhat inebriated, and that there would be plenty of time for this at some later date.

I don’t know how this will all turn out. She is too old for a meaningful relationship for me, but she is the fulfillment of a pretty substantial fantasy of mine for a while. She has told me about her sexual proclivities in the past, and seeing as right now the only thing regularly fucking me is Sallie Mae, I figured I deserved a little self indulgence. I channeled my inner 160, and you know what,

I liked it.

There is a big difference between Federal and State sentencing. In the Federal system, you cannot contract with the prosecutor for a certain sentence. Sentencing is entirely the judge’s job. How the judge arrives at a sentence is dependent upon a lot of things. First, each Federal crime has a corresponding entry in the US Sentencing Guidelines. That entry will spell out the base offense level, which is a numerical score. Certain factual circumstances can make the number go up or down. That resultant score can then be modified down by accepting responsibility by pleading, debriefing and cooperating with federal agents, and if he has no criminal history they have something called a “safety valve” provision. You end up with an adjusted offense level. Then the Defendant’s criminal history is scored, and depending on the number of convictions, a criminal history category is assigned. Then you consult a matrix, and at the intersection of the offense level and criminal history score lies the guideline sentence. But the beauty of it is that the judge doesn’t have to follow it since the Booker decision. This allows you to go in at a sentencing hearing and argue to the judge for a departure on any number of reasons. For example, I attended a seminar on child pornography sentencing where the USSG factors for determining a sentence and the sentences that have been imposed in the past 20 years are on their face arbitrary as all hell. You can also “set the narrative” so to speak about your defendant and the judge can depart from the guidelines for almost any reason in practice. It’s very easy to get sentences in many cases below the guidelines. This is the beauty of the Federal system.

The state system, not so much. If you beat the State’s case all to hell and the witnesses look like crap in depositions, you can contract with the state for almost any sentence, so long as the court accepts. There are guidelines as well. The state department of law enforcement sets out the guidelines. Similar setup – crimes have certain category levels which corresond to points, which get enhanced by criminal history, additional charges, victim injury, and other such tweaks. However, getting a judge to go below that amount requires a departure sentence. There is a statute for that which lays out the factors that a Defendant has to prove by a preponderance of evidence, and only then can a judge grant it even though he doesn’t have to. There is a catchall that allows a judge to depart for almost any reason, but on appeal, the courts have pretty much laughed them all off and remanded for resentencing. State judges don’t have a lot of discretion and frequently choose not to execute it. This is likely because they are subject to election, whereas Federal judges are lifers.

Recently we had an extremely notorious case involving a minor defendant and some serious offenses. There was no offer from the state as the victims did not want to offer anything. He made a full confession in front of his parents and police, who did their job. Trial was not an option. His guideline sentence was practically the statutory maximum for the offense. Our only option was to plead open to the court to ask for a departure. The sentencing hearing got media attention, and cameras and reporters filled the jury box. My boss and I went to the hearing with our witnesses and experts in tow, and were hoping for the best, arguing that the kid was too young to appreciate the consequences of his actions.

I didn’t get to be on TV as the sentencing was held at the podium before the judge’s dais, not at counsel’s desk. The judge, of course, did. We made legal arguments, put out experts on the stand, developed a good record, but my attention wasn’t on our client, who had a hangdog expression the whole time, nor was it on my boss who was going through her 20 minute presentation on the culpability of children, citing supreme court dictum and caselaw. My attention was on the judge. The judge could have cared less. He was repeatedly shifting back and forth in his chair, oscillating from one side to the other, his face growing increasingly stern with impatience. He grabbed at his water bottle several times, crinkling the plastic container loudly over my boss’s argument. It was obvious to me that in his mind, the Supreme Court could piss off on the horse they rode in on. When it was his time to speak, he boomed. The Supreme Court didn’t know what it was like on the state trial level, the current juvenile justice system is broken, kids get off too easy, they commit worse crimes, they know right from wrong and society is going to hell in a hand basket, cats are sleeping with dogs, biblical plagues, etc. He danced about in his chair, gesticulating wildly as the tv news cameras’ red lights glowed. This was all kabuki theater, the judge knew beforehand what the sentence would be.

After berating the supreme court, the juvenile justice system, saying our client was a horrific monster, and basically getting his face time for re election time, he handed out the statutory maximum sentence and got coverage on the news, where online comments on the news websites delighted in the judgment and actively hoped for the brutal rape and murder of my 15 year old client while in prison. Some even wished for the dismemberment of his family.

This wasn’t his only case. He had notorious charges in another county, and when sentencing went down there, the media was present and there was a large writeup. That judge was solemn, academic, and very even keeled. He did describe the offenses as “highly aggravated” but was nowhere near the rhetoric used by the TV judge. He also didn’t hand out the maximum sentence. The charges were less, so there was more disparity between the sentencing max and the guidelines, but it was night and day between the two.

I wish at the end of the day the media weren’t allowed to videotape proceedings, but they have their freedoms as well, and as long as our judges are elected, they have to show for the public which I believe taints the process. Thats it for seriouschat.

833 months to life in prison. Life to life. I’ve never seen a scoresheet that high. It hasn’t been a pretty week in toiletlaw. One client just went to prison this morning because he wouldn’t cooperate, and he is so sick he will likely die there, whereas he could have had guarded medical treatment in the real world. Asking the department of corrections to take real good care of a man with diabetes, sleep apnea, pulmonary disease, embolisms, a necrotic leg and oxygen tank needs 24/7 is a joke. The prison system is a deadly joke as it is, but this guy made the conscious choice and the best I can do is make as good a record as possible about his illnesses. See you in 3 years. Then we have sentencing on an infamous case. I saw the scoresheet, so fucking high its life or life. There was no need for trial. We have to pray for departure. The ugly side of criminal defense.

On the other hand I’ve finally cracked 300 pounds for good. 295 and change this morning. My instructor got me to buy a rashguard with the school logo on it. It helps actually draw water off my body when training. It’s tight as a motherfucker and leaves nothing to the imagination. I asked him for an XXL which is my t shirt size. “The largest is XL, dont worry itll fit right.” I put it on. I’ll never wear it outside of jiujitsu. You can see why:

However we’re moving in the right direction weight wise. I have a new suit coming in today. I feel better and look better. The job front is as bleak as ever though. One day this profession will let me move on from this purgatory. Not today though. Back to the shitmines.

I wanted to write a lengthy diatribe venting about how much I despise this particular client. I won’t. I’ll just say you know you practice shitlaw when:

A hearing date gets moved back a week, and you tell your witness a week ahead that it got moved but you didnt tell them immediately when you found out, so:

The client emails you 4 times accusing you of not caring
The client calls you and keeps you on the phone for 15 minutes because he thinks you dont care.
The client’s mother emails you accusing you of being racist and not caring since the client is black.
The client’s witness emails you at 930 calling you unprofessional and begging you to call them even though the opposing party just filed a pleading with the court admitting to the one fact the witness was being used to introduce.
After straightening everything out with the witness at 9 am the next morning, the client’s mother calls to yell at you accusing you of not caring and doing a horrible job on the case because we haven’t won yet, 40 seconds into I just zone out and play tetris while waiting for her to shut up.
After telling the witness that if they can’t make the hearing it’s ok, we will make do without their testimony (which we dont even really need anymore) the witness bitches at me for using the term “make do” and CC’s the client’s mother who bitched at me earlier today.

So, CLIENT NAME REDACTED, you get 5 homer salutes! Fuck You!

So we started last post with a healthy cry of “Death to America” after a trigger happy cop made me throw up in my mouth quite a bit with his gleeful tale of “shoot first, detain later”…

to a post where the Court has stepped back a bit on Miranda, and I won’t cry DTA/Police State (though commenter Greenfield might disagree, and I’m sure he has seen far more police abuses than I will in my next 10 years of criminal practice).

I am referring to This recent 9-0 decision. The kneejerk reaction to this is ZOMG police state. I disagree. Let’s go back to crim pro 101.

The Miranda rule is generally this: The cops must warn you of your right to remain silent and your right to counsel if you are subject to “custodial interrogation.” Custodial interrogation basically means: 1. You are not free to go and 2. The questions are reasonably expected to illicit an incriminating response. Its modified by something called the “Edwards rule” that says they can’t come back and talk to the guy some other day while he’s still in custody. This protects the remand/no bond crowd or the poor who can’t bond out. If you’re stuck in jail awaiting trial, the cops can’t come knocking on your cell door every week to entice you to blab.

If you read this blog you should be able to figure out how this is supposed to work.

But in this situation, the guy is in custody, claims his 5th right, and then gets sent upstate on an unrelated matter. 2 and a half years into his ride, someone comes out, he’s in gen pop, and asks him about a child abuse case, and he freely admits. (Probably because he thinks he’s going to get concurrent time, and he might actually have it, but as we all know cops are allowed to lie out their asses to get you to blab if you choose to do so. I don’t care for that one bit.)

The court came down 9-0 on this one. We normally expect 5-4 jobs on this one where one side will exclaim its “judicial activism” or “police state.” When Stevens, Ginsburg, Breyer, and Sotomayor agree with the ruling and Scalia writes the opinion, it’s safe to say this was a gimme and not some horrible destruction of basic constitutional law. The bill of rights is supposed to restrict the government, but you can’t yell fire in a crowded theater, and at some point an assertion of 5th amendment rights has to expire, especially when you’re not under the custody of the interrogating leo’s. Scalia mused that with such a recidivism rate, an infinite 5th amendment application would be ridiculous in the long run.

Hell it’s a friggin miracle if I get a Defendant savvy enough to assert it in the first place. Unfortunately the guys who come into my office who know 5th amendment principles pretty well and know “never talk to cops” are usually the biggest drug dealing scumbags. Oh well thats life in the toilet.