Post by NOTTHOR on Sept 3, 2009 12:29:18 GMT -6
This was in the comments on abovethelaw.com, a legal blog. It is fucking hilarious and made me think of the time LP shat himself at work:
I bet these K&E associates are having a bad day, but nothing tops the day I just had. I am stuck in a Podunk town in Louisiana for depositions and trial prep. Left our make-shift office late last night -- so late that the only place open for a bite was Wendy's. Two Baconators, a large fries, small chili, diet coke and medium chocolate frosty later, and I was comatose on the couch in my extended-stay hotel suite.
In my lipid-induced drowsiness, I forgot to set an alarm. I am awoken by the crack of sunlight that snuck through the black-out blinds. 8:14 a.m. In approximately 45 minutes I had to be showered, shaved, dressed and to deposition that was 35 minute drive from my hotel. I cut steps out of the normal morning routine. Shaving had to go. The tie would go on at a stop light. And the morning shit. There was no time for such luxuriating. This would become my undoing.
I am 15 minutes late to the deposition, but the videographer who was caught in the same traffic saved me on that one. We begin at 9:31 a.m.
It is now 10:20 a.m. The first cup of coffee is setting in. I can feel the remnants of the Baconators and fries vying for seats near the exit. This is not my deposition, and not my witness. I am just here to observe, so there is nothing to distract me from the hot irritation. The only thing I can think is "how long will the videographer's first tape last? Don't they usually change these things every hour or so?"
It's approaching 11:00 a.m. Not a peep from the videographer. The witness looks comfortable. His counsel seems rested and eager to plow through. Opposing counsel has a thick pad filled with questions. I am on my second cup of coffee. I don't know why I did this to myself. The second cup of coffee is habit. Pressure is building inside. I begin to release it ever so slightly. The room takes the aroma of rendered fat; Wendy's is the only food in the world that smells the same going in as it does coming out.
11:12. A break. Finally. But disaster strikes. There is only one bathroom and it is occupied. The location of the deposition is an auxiliary office for the deponent. They are some sort of trucking company. I ask the inbred Louisiana receptionist for the location of another restroom. The standing and moving about has the fetid refugees ready for evacuation. There is only one bathroom. I stand and wait.
11:21. They are about to go back on record. I ask if we can have a few minutes, but witness's counsel insists they resume. Client has to be somewhere by 2. Back in my seat, I can feel the brown dome apexing, pressing against the seat. I turn the release valve and let out a little more pressure. It's audible this time, but, luckily, the witness is in the middle of an answer. Nobody seems to notice, but I am sure my microphone picked it up. The record shall reflect...
12:02. Lunch is delivered in the next room. The delivery man peeks in to signal. The witness is looking weary. We have to break soon.
12:08. Opposing counsel suggests a break for lunch, but witness's counsel suggests that we keep going "if there is less than an hour left." My sphincter tightens; air passes over molten liquid inside me like the contents of an overheated lava lamp.
12:32. The fatal mistake. My insides are a maelstrom. I make the decision to be more aggressive in relieving the built-up pressure. I lean left slightly, and lift my right leg ever so much off the chair. It is silent, but quickly overwhelms the surrounding area with the smell of a Wendy’s dining area. A second wave comes immediately. I lean down as if to fish a pen out of my attache. This allows me to lift my left leg and send a salty-sweet missive the way of the videographer. No lasting relief. I decide to elevate. I place each hand under my backside, as if to warm them. Without the seat to create a trumpeting effect, I am free to let slow air flow. Consequences of the fact that it must be painfully, noxiously obvious to those around me be damned.
I am at this for some time, until it hits. I will not forget. It was 12:41. I looked up the clock for a split second to see if I could make it to the end. The thought of the restroom flashed before my eyes. I think I grunted and/or sighed. But it was too late. My hands could feel the indirect warmth of the moist pile in my pants. For those with dogs to walk, it's the feeling of their leavings through the bag. It was not silent. It sounded like ketchup escaping the squeeze-bottle in a belched rush. The videographer and reporter were gracious; neither looked up from their work. Opposing counsel genuinely seemed not to notice. Witness's counsel shot me a queer look, but looked away when our eyes met. And just as I thought I was in the clear, the witness turned to his counsel and said "that sounded like someone just shit his pants."
That, kids, is a bad day.
I bet these K&E associates are having a bad day, but nothing tops the day I just had. I am stuck in a Podunk town in Louisiana for depositions and trial prep. Left our make-shift office late last night -- so late that the only place open for a bite was Wendy's. Two Baconators, a large fries, small chili, diet coke and medium chocolate frosty later, and I was comatose on the couch in my extended-stay hotel suite.
In my lipid-induced drowsiness, I forgot to set an alarm. I am awoken by the crack of sunlight that snuck through the black-out blinds. 8:14 a.m. In approximately 45 minutes I had to be showered, shaved, dressed and to deposition that was 35 minute drive from my hotel. I cut steps out of the normal morning routine. Shaving had to go. The tie would go on at a stop light. And the morning shit. There was no time for such luxuriating. This would become my undoing.
I am 15 minutes late to the deposition, but the videographer who was caught in the same traffic saved me on that one. We begin at 9:31 a.m.
It is now 10:20 a.m. The first cup of coffee is setting in. I can feel the remnants of the Baconators and fries vying for seats near the exit. This is not my deposition, and not my witness. I am just here to observe, so there is nothing to distract me from the hot irritation. The only thing I can think is "how long will the videographer's first tape last? Don't they usually change these things every hour or so?"
It's approaching 11:00 a.m. Not a peep from the videographer. The witness looks comfortable. His counsel seems rested and eager to plow through. Opposing counsel has a thick pad filled with questions. I am on my second cup of coffee. I don't know why I did this to myself. The second cup of coffee is habit. Pressure is building inside. I begin to release it ever so slightly. The room takes the aroma of rendered fat; Wendy's is the only food in the world that smells the same going in as it does coming out.
11:12. A break. Finally. But disaster strikes. There is only one bathroom and it is occupied. The location of the deposition is an auxiliary office for the deponent. They are some sort of trucking company. I ask the inbred Louisiana receptionist for the location of another restroom. The standing and moving about has the fetid refugees ready for evacuation. There is only one bathroom. I stand and wait.
11:21. They are about to go back on record. I ask if we can have a few minutes, but witness's counsel insists they resume. Client has to be somewhere by 2. Back in my seat, I can feel the brown dome apexing, pressing against the seat. I turn the release valve and let out a little more pressure. It's audible this time, but, luckily, the witness is in the middle of an answer. Nobody seems to notice, but I am sure my microphone picked it up. The record shall reflect...
12:02. Lunch is delivered in the next room. The delivery man peeks in to signal. The witness is looking weary. We have to break soon.
12:08. Opposing counsel suggests a break for lunch, but witness's counsel suggests that we keep going "if there is less than an hour left." My sphincter tightens; air passes over molten liquid inside me like the contents of an overheated lava lamp.
12:32. The fatal mistake. My insides are a maelstrom. I make the decision to be more aggressive in relieving the built-up pressure. I lean left slightly, and lift my right leg ever so much off the chair. It is silent, but quickly overwhelms the surrounding area with the smell of a Wendy’s dining area. A second wave comes immediately. I lean down as if to fish a pen out of my attache. This allows me to lift my left leg and send a salty-sweet missive the way of the videographer. No lasting relief. I decide to elevate. I place each hand under my backside, as if to warm them. Without the seat to create a trumpeting effect, I am free to let slow air flow. Consequences of the fact that it must be painfully, noxiously obvious to those around me be damned.
I am at this for some time, until it hits. I will not forget. It was 12:41. I looked up the clock for a split second to see if I could make it to the end. The thought of the restroom flashed before my eyes. I think I grunted and/or sighed. But it was too late. My hands could feel the indirect warmth of the moist pile in my pants. For those with dogs to walk, it's the feeling of their leavings through the bag. It was not silent. It sounded like ketchup escaping the squeeze-bottle in a belched rush. The videographer and reporter were gracious; neither looked up from their work. Opposing counsel genuinely seemed not to notice. Witness's counsel shot me a queer look, but looked away when our eyes met. And just as I thought I was in the clear, the witness turned to his counsel and said "that sounded like someone just shit his pants."
That, kids, is a bad day.
