Harold Palmer and The Massive Tort Liability

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.


2 Responses to “Harold Palmer and The Massive Tort Liability”

  1. You’re right, that was pretty good. Even a non-Potter fan such as myself can appreciate it. Thanks for the recommendation and for checking out TDB.

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