Harold Palmer and The Massive Tort Liability

Posted in Writings with tags , , , , , , , , , , on July 14, 2011 by tegrichardson

One dark evening, an old man stumbled onto 33 Cherrytree Lane, then realized he was in the wrong place. It had been several years since a certain British nanny had flown away from this very same street, and ever since the neighborhood had been going slowly but surely down-market. There were dancing chimney-sweeps and rosy-cheeked children whose complexion had more to do with excessive drinking than it did with a cheery disposition. Furthermore, the old gentlemen who had formerly occupied the navel ship double-parked on the edge of town had decimated half the street from cannonfire. So, lifting one haunch, the old man let fly with a nauseating burst of flatulence and sauntered toward 321 Private Drub. Extricating a silver pistol from his left breast-pocket, he fired in the direction of the street lamp overhead. The bullet ricocheted off the post, nailing a poor bum fishing in the garbage can. “Wrong one” the old man chuckled. Then, fishing into the deep folds of his robes, he began to play pocket-pool until he finally retrieved a similar pistol with gold-plating. Clicking it twice, there was a giant power surge, and one or two of the lower income houses caught flame. “And they wonder how we gentrify these neighborhoods so fast” said the man under his breath, shaking his head. Suddenly a large black cat sprang from the bushes, shaking its haunch suggestively at the old man. “My dear professor McConjugal!” exclaimed the old man, eying the cat in a somewhat inappropriate manner. The old man snapped his bony old finger, and from out of nowhere Marvin Gaye brayed in the background. Seven minutes later, man and cat emerged from the bushes that ironically lined number 69 Private Drub. The old man looked somewhat confused, as he contemplated the high-wizard’s executive ban on inter-species relationships, and the implications of the fact that this cat was in no way as flexible as the seven-hundred year old female professor with whom he was currently cohabiting with. The cat, looking ruffled but not unpleased, meowed furtively and licked itself. This the old man dismissed by removing his silver pistol from its holster and firing two rounds into the feline. “Dead cats tell no tails” quoth the old man, laughing maniacally at his own bad joke. The cat twitched.

A baby’s cry broke the uncomfortable silence. The old man looked down at his belly and rubbed his stomach, as if trying to soothe a foregone meal. The cry came again. The man looked in the direction of the garbage can and noticed that the bum he had nailed had in fact been keeping a baby in a basket. The old man took immense pity on the small infant, and promptly scooped up the basket and dropped it on the nearest doorstep.

Eleven years later, the baby had grown into a contemptable lout. The adopted parents who took him in off their doorstep had tried in vain to compensate for his neglect, but as is the tendency of babies in all families, adopted or not, the now prepubescent boy was a greater emotional terrorism threat than the whole of al-Qaeda. Harold, as he came to be called, even from his earliest stages of development had exhibited strange tendencies his kind British parents could not explain. At age one, while at the supermarket, Harold grabbed one of the tabloids and uttered his first word “Kardashian.” His parents suspicions began to elevate after Harold’s fourth grade history project on “The Smartity of President Bush.” But it was only after his parents discovered Harold’s phenominal grades were stemming for imported Chinese labor that they knew the truth beyond all reasonable doubt: Harold was born American.

Naturally, this discovery alarmed his parents no end. For weeks they agonized, but in the end they did the only sensible thing they could: they removed Harold from all of his classes and got him on full atheletic scholarship. This did not take however, as the young boy had already been abusing A-rod level steroids for several years. He never made it to his second piss cup, needless to say. Harold was not clever, nor was he possessed with the basic arts of subtlety. He did the only sensible thing within the confines of his American intellect and sued the hell of the school for wrongful termination and emotional distress. Fortunately, he stopped at the butcher shop on the way to the courthouse where he met Madoff’s former counsel, and he convinced them to work on a retainer of snawsages which he casually tossed into the roadside.  Despite the lack of precedent, legal theory or evidence, the court gave the boy all the damages he asked for and several respectable British primary instructors were out looking for work. A short investigation was conducted which was summarily dropped after Judge Primbottom refused to make a statement regarding his decision. It was later revealed that when Harold took the stand, he began to laundry-list the names of boys who had attended private school with Primbottom, which mysteriously hastened the ruling in his favor.

This was when Harold’s life changed forever. The tort damages were more than enough to set Harold up on his own, and with the money from the bleeding justice system it seemed he would lead a life of quiet contentment. But it was not to be.

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London Calling #1

Posted in Writings on July 13, 2011 by tegrichardson

The telephone rang amidst the ruckus of screaming and gunfire. Ms. Janet Fortesque answered the phone in the bored tone of a woman who has long endured domestic life, and to whom imminent danger poses no real interest. She paused, hearing the voice on the other line, and her bored expression changed to one of vapid indifference. “It’s London Calling, sir” she said without inflection. Mr. Elton Fortenbras, the resident senior consul, picked up the phone on his desk just as a live grenade crashed through the window and landed at his feet. Mr. Fortenbras gently nudged the explosive with his foot, rolling it just far enough for it to decimate the east side of his office. He covered the receiver “Rose, dear, would you mind getting that?” He uncovered the receiver, and masking his normal droning formality with calculated cold civility, he spoke to the man on the other end of the wire. “Hello Mr. Prime Minister.”

The man on the phone was not the Prime Minister, and he answered in a thick western accent. “The name’s Calling, London Calling.” Fortenbras sighed. This man was the American Superagent who had been promoted to double aught status the week before by the obscure “P” branch. In the short course of seven days, Calling had managed to cause diplomatic incidents across all seven continents, which had resulted in the current state of mass global warfare. The tabloids had taken a shine to Calling, not really so much because of his role in international affairs, but because he was also dating Paris Hilton. Fortenbras rolled his eyes. “What can I do for you, Mr. Calling?” The shots outside had stopped. A voice came from behind him. “You can die, Mr. Fortenbras.” Calling pulled out a triple-barreled shotgun and sent the British Bureaucrat flying heels over head across his own desk. Calling slid lightly into the high backed leather chair of the now littered office and lit himself five Malboros.

The heavy clack of a gun loading echoed off the wall behind him. “Not sho fasht Mishter Cawlling.” The man behind him was obviously a guinea-wop from the wrong side of the tracks, Calling thought to himself. The question was; what was a thirties mobster doing in a modern spy novel? Calling slowly raised his hands, his quintet of smokes still in his mouth. He slowly raised himself out of the leather chair. “Nishe aand eashy, shee?” Calling turned towards the Mobster, and was confused not to see anyone behind him. “Down ‘er shee?” said the mobster. Calling looked down to see Danny De Vito standing at his feet holding a loaded Deagle with both hands. Calling smirked. “Name actors, you never will learn.” And Calling punted the poor midget out the third story office window. Somewhere in the distance he heard a bounce. Calling took a long drag off his death sticks and breathed out a perfect smoke ring. He spun around suddenly upon hearing a noise behind him, his 357 magnum clutched smartly in one outstretched hand. Calling fired six shots into the hapless cameraman behind him. Blood oozed down the lense of the camera, and from seemingly out of nowhere a brass band and a tinny guitar sounded in the background. Calling struck a pose and cast a smoky glance at the still rolling camera. It was the beginning of a beautiful relationship.

Dating in a bad economy –

Posted in Rants, Uncategorized on June 6, 2010 by tegrichardson

Being single is a lot like being unemployed. Without relationships or jobs, anxiety about the future increases while self-esteem proportionately decreases. Freud said the two most important things in this life are the work you choose and sex. Even if Freud was wrong, there is a substantial amount of effort people go through to acquire these things.

I have always seen dating and interviewing as virtually the same process. The hierarchy of dating is markedly similar to the steps on the corporate ladder. Some women I have met hire a lot of entry-level men, while others close the position for the CEO after a few months. The constants in the formula of love are the interviewer and the interviewee, and as in the job market the interviewer is always whomever holds the resources (from my crude understanding of economics, women frequently are enabled to do their own hiring because of the high price of mammary stocks). Once a mutually beneficial arrangement is reached, the interviewer and interviewee become employer and employee. The whole system of currency in dating is of course entirely imaginary, and within the system those who profit the most usually perpetuate a great deal of fraud.

I discuss these ideas because I feel the love economy is beginning to slump. I think people are aware of this decline, but they have underestimated its magnitude. The media has done nothing to bring awareness to the impending crisis; if anything they have continued to spin a narrative of “it’s all good.” Like the movies tell us; no matter how toxic our relationship assets are, our relationships are simply too big to fail and they deserve another bailout.