Indy Fur Con: The End Result Of A Series of Bad Decisions

My life is a blur of furries and cars these days.

There is nothing left for me. I’m dispensing with all of the neat and happy intro stuff this time to dive right into the breakdown of my time at IndyFurCon 2017.

I swear to god these guys are like a cult. They lure you in with all of the neat art and friendliness, you think maybe it’d be a little fun to interact with them, then next thing you know you’re hauling ass across three states in the dead of night because they raised money for a convention and your stupid ass made a promise to go to another convention on like three days notice if they did that. So, you know, you hop your ass in the car and drive in the dead of night through fucking Ohio to go visit the furries in Indianapolis, arriving in the “Oh my god, there’s a three in the morning now?” hours of Saturday worn out from a drive to shamble into a hotel and be greeted by a giant goddamn panda who, despite running a convention, is now currently waiting for your arrival in particular.

Every weekend has turned into a mixture of Hunter S. Thompson and Salvador Dali for me now. This is my life. So take my sweaty, cold, oversized hand and close your eyes tight, and we’ll just get right down to business here as we discuss Indy Fur Con: The End Result Of A Series of Bad Decisions.

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Fur and Loathing in Tyson’s Corner: Boozy Goes to Furthemore.

Oh.

Oh wow.

Just…Wow.

Okay, so, I went to a furry convention. I took a little trip down to the nation’s capital to spend some time with 1,050 furries at Furthemore ’17 last weekend. And…well, let me just tell you how this shit happened:

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Waiving Privilege: A Discovery War Story

So yesterday was a snow day for me, which meant I got to sit at my kitchen table and review my case files over and over again, churning out the billables in the comfort of my home and a pair of fleece pajamas with fucking labs on them. It was pleasant. I enjoyed it.

As part of reviewing my case files, though, I also ended up reviewing some discovery production that was going out soon, an electronic copy of which I’d uploaded to a secured cloud server so I can be a redacting fool from anywhere in the world. Most lawyers hate going through discovery production to the opposing party, and I’ll admit it’s a pretty big pain in the ass. It takes forever and can suck away entire days. Hell, that’s why big firms hire doc reviewers and first year associates to sit around and do nothing but obsess over what’s in each and every document.

Me, however? I like to do it all myself when possible, because what you produce in discovery to an opposing party can seriously fuck your case up, and I’m the type of guy who, at the end of the day, believes the buck stops with me and nobody else. I learned this from my boss, who from day one has made it very clear that on each and every one of his cases, the buck stops with me and nobody else.

So let’s talk about that, how trusting your case to someone else can seriously fuck you over and why it may be worth your time to go through the documents your own goddamn self.

I’m gonna tell you fucktards a story to illustrate my point today, so gather round children.

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The Estate, The Widow, and a Used Parrot: A War Story

So not too long ago I blasted a guy for making a post about a fucking parrot.  The post called out another attorney for possibly copying a tweet regarding a parrot in a divorce, it got thousands of views, and got me labeled as the “parrot post” guy.  Hell, it got mentioned in an online blog ran by People magazine.  A fucking parrot.

Ever notice how sometimes cases and legal issues in various matters, all of which are unrelated, become similar?  Not too long ago I was retained to sue a titty bar.  Since then, I’ve had a number of cases come in where I’m suing titty bars, all different cases.  Likewise, a while back I got one case against a car dealership, then while it was pending got like three more.  None of these people knew each other.  I have no idea how it happens, but it’s a truth:  For some reason certain types of cases seem to come in clumps.

Which, of course, means that a parrot became the central issue in an estate I handled recently…and then I started getting a variety of pet-related matters.  Determining the ownership of thirty cats.  Figuring out which neighbor’s dog was destroying prize-winning roses.  Etc etc etc.

Because, given my history with the species, of fucking course it would be a goddamn parrot that started the multiple rush of pet cases I’m currently handling.

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“The Customer is an Idiot”: Not being a client’s employee

There was a time when an attorney was a respected professional whose wisdom and advice was sought after by the members of the community.  We were more than sharks in suits who went after the highest dollar amount, we were learned men of an honorable profession.  Neighbors would come to our offices for not only legal advice, but life advice.  Our opinions were held in high regard, and we were viewed as trusted mediators and advocates for our clients.

Abraham Lincoln once said the following about lawyers:

Discourage litigation. Persuade your neighbors to compromise whenever you can. As a peacemaker the lawyer has superior opportunity of being a good man. There will still be business enough.

First, WHAT THE HELL …Mr. President?  “Discourage litigation” is the worst business advice ever!  How on God’s green earth am I supposed to hit my billables if everyone is being reasonable about easily resolved legal issue?

Seriously, though, the very fact that quote exists tells you something about how lawyers used to be viewed.  We weren’t “legal services providers,” we were the educated men who solved problems in a fair manner and ensured justice was carried out.

I’m going to let you in on a secret of modern legal practice:

Our clients don’t respect us. At. Fucking. All.

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