So You Want To Be A Lawyer, Part 2: You’ll Disappoint My Dad and be Poor.

Now you know a little bit of the historical background of the legal profession, and know that we date back over two thousand years. Even as the Middle Ages stomped out scientific, cultural, and medical advances, it preserved the fucking lawyer nearly intact. The same bullshit systems that were in place under the Romans are still in place, and that’s not unexpected given the fact that lawyers, as a whole and individually, are about as likely to embrace change as Hitler would have been to appoint a Rosenbaum to his cabinet. We may not wear togas anymore, but we’re still the same goddamn profession people bitched about in Rome, and we always will be.

Still want to be a lawyer? Awesome. Spread your wings and fly, little fucking snowflake. I’m not gonna try to talk you out of it.

NOW LET ME TALK YOU THE FUCK OUT OF IT.

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“Put Your Phone Away:” 5 Tips For Defending Depositions

Well, we’ve had some fun. Coming off of Fetish Friday and last week’s ramblings on non-profits and law school, I figured maybe it was about time I wrote something that had some bearing on the actual practice of…you know…law. Something that lawyers may actually like to read, because that’s the reason I initially started this shitshow of a website, to give profane and profound opinions and advice on the practice of law.

So, today I’m talking to you baby lawyers out there, you assholes with more ego than experience who are about to start forming a whole fuckin’ steamer trunk of bad habits that you’ll carry with you through the rest of your practice. This Bud’s for you, guys, now loosen up those ties that you’re paying way too much for, unbutton the jacket of that suit your Daddy bought you when you passed the  Bar, and take a seat at Boozy’s feet to listen to me ramble about defending depositions.

Because, contrary to what a lot of fucking websites and lawyers will tell you, it is fucking important that you actually defend a deposition appropriately or risk looking like a goddamn moron.

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“No, Reverend, You Can’t Buy Rims With Donations.” : Boozy on the Non-Profit Form

Before we jump into today’s post, I want to touch on a few things that seem to have occurred over the weekend. Over the past week, I’ve been subjected to conversations with the dregs of humanity. These are people with absolutely no moral fiber, no education, and no future. I can’t believe how many of them have retweeted me since Friday evening, and frankly I’m ashamed that they follow me.

I’m speaking, of course, of Ohioans (What? What did you think I was talking about? Bigot…).

A second order of business before I go into today’s topic is a disclaimer: I’M NOT A FUCKING TAX LAWYER. There is a very specific sub-set of very boring attorneys that handle things like “tax codes” and “Tax Court.” I’m not one of them. I’m your general civil litigator with a bad fucking attitude and a bottle of whiskey in my desk, so don’t come running to me if you try to form a church and get your ass audited. It’s your own damn fault. You shouldn’t be taking tax advice from an inebriated asshole with a website just because the furries really like him at the moment.

In fact, you probably shouldn’t be making your life decisions based solely on what the furries like. That just…That seems like a bad idea to me. Great people, but think of the optics of justifying your decisions with “And it’s all because a six foot badger told me to do it.”

ALRIGHT! So, now that we’ve got all of that shit out of the way, let’s move on to talking about motherfucking non-profits!  Yeah! Can you feel the excitement? We’re about to get all 26 U.S.C. 501(c) up in this bitch!

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Lawyers Don’t Judge: A Followup to Yesterday and Some Art

Whoa.  Just…Just whoa. So apparently I became popular with furries yesterday. The Twitter feed for BoozyBarrister is, in the words of Habeas Porpoise (whose blog you can find in the “Links” section), a “veritable fucking Noah’s Ark of animals.” There’s fan art that has been made (I’ll stick it in the bottom of this post), and apparently more fan art being made, and people are trying to talk me into attending conventions to ply me with booze and give drunken legal talks to rooms full of furries.

I’m fucking loving it.

However, it got me thinking about some shit, mainly about why a salty lawyer such as myself somehow obtained cult status within a community in the course of 24 hours, and how it came to pass that I’ve been adopted as some sort of unofficial mascot (is pet a better word? Am I their pet lawyer now?) for furries.  I raised this issue with a couple lawyers in our super-secret-chatroom last night, and got this response:

“I think this is a result of an often ostracized group feeling as if you’ve given them mainstream legitimacy in a way that doesn’t shame them for who they are,” responded one lawyer.

“Yeah, sure,” I answered, “But, you know, people are people.”

“Yes for sure,” he told me, “but they are a group that doesn’t get that sentiment. They’re pushed to the fringes of society and I can only assume when they get a little bit of legitimacy without being made fun of they’re thrilled.”

I then may have proposed writing something about fundamentalist, evangelical Christians to see if I could attract an equal number of them to the blog and Twitter, then try to broker some sort of Camp David accord between the Furries and the Freewill Baptists.  But you know what?  Fuck that noise. I’m gonna have a much more meaningful conversation, and it’s directed at my regular readers, what I can only assume are my now-Furry Masters, and anyone else out there who feels like they can’t just be who the fuck they are with a lawyer.

We’re your lawyers, and we don’t care.

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Screw The Optics: Why Lawyers Need Vacations

So, this weekend I had the chance to talk to my father. If you’re a reader of my inane ramblings that aren’t exclusively practice guides, you know a little about Dad already, and if you don’t you can read a lot more about him here than you really want to know. The gist of the phone call was arranging a pickup point for us to exchange my kids this weekend, as they’re going to spend a week with my parents and explore all the wonders the Bluegrass state has to offer…or at least all the wonders they can enjoy before they turn 21. Which, considering the main exports of Kentucky, are bourbon, tobacco, and horses, aren’t much.

During the course of the conversation, Dad said to me “You should really take a week off and come down to visit. It’d do you some good.”

“Gee whiz Dad,” I answered, “I’d love to, but I’ve got so much going on right now. Depositions, hearings, client meetings, and some appellate stuff that has a pretty firm deadline. Maybe next year.”

“You know, if you don’t get away from that office you’re going to lose your mind.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I told him as I built a new friend out of pipe cleaners and drain hair, “I’ve got it all together.”

“Just remember, you gotta take care of yourself or you can’t take care of your clients.

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