Humor

Some of my best friends are Attorneys, but…

gardenofeden

…what if they wrote the Bible?

Whereas Adam saw Eve inasmuch as she was without clothing, knowing that, heretofore, he himself had also walked, perambulated, skipped, and frolicked in the same aforementioned state, he was pleased to plead and petition that she would, henceforth, remain in the altogether.

And the Lord God spoke to the inhabitants of the Garden of Eden (hereinafter referred to as “The Garden”) and did recite section 7 of article 3 of the Notice of Easements and Restrictions:

  1. Tenants may, from time to time as needed and without prior notice, partake of all the fruit of the flora to be found within the confines of the Garden area proper as described and duly recorded in the Mesopotamian county office, Platte 272.
        1. Paragraph 1 shall apply in all cases except under the circumstances recorded in Subsection 23, paragraph A, points 1 and 2 titled “The Two Trees.”

Respondent Adam thereby did plead, “Huh?” He then turned his gaze upon Eve and began to drool.

At this opportune moment, a shyster* broke off from chasing an ambulance and slithered over to Eve. “May I present my card?” he hissed. “I am from the distinguished firm Slimey & Howe. We specialize in contract law: easements, conveyances, restrictions, boundaries, borders, and so forth. Our expertise, if I may, has less to do with enforcement and more to do with gaps and omissions; circumvention, if you catch my meaning.”

Co-respondent Eve did question, “Huh?”

“Loopholes,” replied Master Hiss, esquire.

Upon hearing his answer, Eve did take the card into her possession. Adam stepped over the pool at his feet and did announce publicly that he would take, carry, convey, protect and assume stewardship of the card seeing, as he stated, “that Eve didn’t–heh, heh–have a place to put the card anyway.”

He then resumed salivating and followed Eve as she began walking in a Southeasterly direction at a speed not less than 2 miles per hour nor more than 4 miles per hour…

*Any portrayals in this piece are purely fictional and do not represent any real attorney, living or dead–especially those I hope to remain friends with.
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3 Reasons to Follow me on Twitter (none of which are true)

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Warning: Crass, unapologetic self-promotion.

1. You will impress your teenage children or grandchildren.

2. You will put me over 1 million followers. (Would you believe, 100K? No. How about more than my Mom and her friends?)

3. You won’t miss my late-night-celebrity-like-drunk-tweet-nonsensical or idiotic posts.

Or, you might get a quick thought that will encourage, amuse, inspire, inform, or bore you. If not the next tweet, maybe the one after that.

You can scroll through a sample at the bottom of this page.

Thank you for your consideration!

Steve      [follow_me]

 

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Thanksgiving Turkeys Can’t Fly

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The key is to do something, anything, for 20 to 30 minutes at least three times a week.

One day Mary was driving on a little traveled farm-to-market road and was stopped in her tracks by a magnificent wild turkey leading his harem. Mary got some great pics as the turkey marched to the middle of the road, snapped to attention, pecked at the front bumper, and denied her passage.

He made an impressive sentry with his feathers puffed, tail fanned, dark uniform, grey cap, and red necktie. The standoff continued until a truck coming from the other direction demanded the turkey’s notice and he strutted over to check the driver’s ID. Corporal Turkey’s bravery, spit, and polish made a very favorable impression on the five or so rather drab hens he had brought to work with him that day.

Wild turkeys are strangely beautiful birds. What seems stranger is they are agile flyers reaching speeds of up to 50 miles per hour in short, quarter-mile sprints.

When I think of turkey, I think golden-brown, plump, sedentary, reclining on its back with feet in the air inviting a stab with my carving knife—not with wings outspread defying gravity.

It’s true, however, that domesticated turkeys cannot fly. I looked it up. They are bred for two things: either to be pardoned by the President and spend their life hiking the country like Woody Guthrie, or to embrace eternal repose at the center of my Thanksgiving feast.

Thanksgiving turkeys can’t fly.

I’m pretty sure most of us who’ve hit middle age don’t fly like we used to. We’re probably quite domesticated and need exercise (especially after the feast most of us enjoyed this Thanksgiving).

The key is to do something, anything, for 20 to 30 minutes at least three times a week and, more importantly, to give ourselves permission to not train like an Olympic wannabe. Walking, biking, and a light weight workout can be very healthful—especially compared to making a nest in the recliner and wrestling with the remote.

To borrow a phrase, you and I need to just do it…consistently. We may never fly the same way again, but after a short time we’ll feel better, have more stamina, improve productivity, sleep well, enjoy positive moods, and strut a bit.

Or we can hope the President will pardon us.

Happy Thanksgiving from our family to you and yours.

 

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McNeely Family Improves Golf (v.2.1.3-5)

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Winston Churchill said golf is a game whose aim is to hit a small ball into an even smaller hole with weapons singularly ill-designed for the purpose.

Since Dad and I play golf a couple of times a year—whether we need to or not—it has become necessary for us to improve the game so we can finish before our wives report us as missing persons.

Golf: Seductive game wherin one good hole in an outing convinces a man he really could play and should come back. (It is also the absolute best Father – Son – Grandson activity on any given April 16.)

As a public service I am reporting the official meaning of some golf terms compared with our singular improvements:

 

Birdie

  • Official: one stroke below par.
  • Improved: what flies out of the target my ball just whacked. (See Tree.)

 

Bogey

  • Official: one stroke over par
  • Improved: goal! i.e. “If I could just play bogey golf I’d be happy.”

 

Drive

  • Official: first shot from the tee.
  • Improved: practice shot. (See Mulligan.)

 

Eagle

  • Official: two strokes under par.
  • Improved: endangered national bird—never experienced one in the wild (or on the course).

 

Fairway

  • Official: the closely mown area leading from the tee-box to the green; the target for a drive shot.
  • Improved: the path real men walk across to find their ball. (See Rough.)

 

Gimmie

  • Official: a short putt to be conceded as if it were automatic (not in the official rules).
  • Improved: any shot after two putts. (See Why I still play basketball.)

 

"I'd use a four iron from here."

“I’d use a four iron from here.”

Mulligan

  • Official: in friendly, unofficial play a “do over” for a bad shot. (Typically one Mulligan is allowed per nine holes.)
  • Improved: Polite, tee-box chatter, “Why don’t you hit another one?” (Typically limited to nine per hole.)

 

Out-of-bounds

  • Official: marked areas where play is not allowed.
  • Improved: huh? (See Scratch.)

 

Rough

  • Official: the area outside of the fairway with higher, thicker grass; meant to punish golfers who miss the fairway.
  • Improved: challenging area where real men play.

 

Scratch

  • Official: player who consistently shoots par or Improved.
  • Improved: what a player does after finding his ball. (See Out-of-bounds.)

 

Slice

  • Official: dramatic, banana-shaped curve moving right of the target.
  • Improved: “I think you can find that.” (See Mulligan, Out-of-bounds, Scratch, Rough, Gimmie, and Triple-bogey.)

 

Tree

  • Official: hazard or challenge
  • Improved: target (See Birdie.)
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