Not Your Therapist – The Specific Role of An Attorney

Welcome to Lawyers & Liquor, your now infrequent home for legal crap that comes out of my mind, with that being the mind of the Boozy Barrister though frankly these days does it really matter? I mean, is anyone really reading this for the author or is it more for the frankness and cursing that comes with it? Does anything I write here even matter to the extent that it helps some of those dipshits with degrees and not much else in their forlorn foray into the practice of law as a profession? Hell, nobody listens to me when I’m acting as an attorney, why the hell should they listen now?

Jesus on a Ritz Cracker, that’s about as maudlin as we can get, eh? That motherfucker has some mental problems from the sounds of things. Maybe some depressive episodes, a bit of anxiety, just one of those people that need an ear to listen to them and tell them everything’s gonna be okay.  Right? And who  better to provide that ear and shoulder to cry whiskey-soaked tears on then you, dear reader of the newly minted attorney variety, right? I mean, you’re a lawyer which means that, obviously, you’re an authority on a wide variety of topics. Surely you are the appropriate person to let me vent all of my emotional and mental turmoils on and spread oil on the troubled waters of the soul.

No. The answer to that rhetorical question is “no,” asshole. Or even “No, Asshole, Esq.” Either way the answer is a loud, resounding, and unequivocal “no.” Because being a lawyer qualifies you to do one goddamn thing: practice law. It does not qualify you to do any other form of service for your clients you dipshits. And that’s the point of today’s post: What being a lawyer isn’t.

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“CC: Client” – The Worst Form of Posturing

Welcome to another beautiful week here in the wide world of litigation and small firm chicanery.  I’m the Boozy Barrister, your guide through the minor hell that is the day-to-day practice of law in the real world, and this is Lawyers & Liquor, the internet’s equivalent of an overflowing septic tank of cynicism and legal ramblings.  

You know what I hate? You know what really gets under my fucking skin and makes me see red, white and blue (because even my fuckin’ anger is patriotic as shit)? Those goddamn letters that you get from opposing counsel in a case where they spend the whole goddamn time posturing and pissing on you, blowing themselves up more often than a remedial school for suicide bombers. These letters are the legal equivalent of two pussywillow thin frat boys standing on opposite sides of a room and screaming “Come at me bro” while not struggling very goddamn hard to get out of the grips of Teddy and Chugs (named for his particular skill)   because goddamn if that happened there may be a real fight.  It’s a lot of chest-pounding with little to no payoff and they are goddamn ridiculous pieces of a puffery that every lawyer sees right through.

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Still Not A Lawyer, Part 2 – Let’s Talk About The Oath

Welcome back to another bright and sunny day here on Lawyers & Liquor, where the coffee is as black as my twisted heart and the stress is as overbearing as your mother asking when you’re going to settle down and find a nice boy or girl to share the joy of your life with. I’m the matzo-loving litigator, the Boozy Barrister, and today we’re going to continue our discussion of all the things that have to happen after you pass the bar exam. That’s right, we have another day of celebrating the professional celibacy, or, if you’re caught up in the character and fitness portion of this whole mess, legal cuckolding that is the newly admitted baby lawyer. Be you the recent admission with the ink still drying on your license or the gritty old attorney slowly aging into irrelevance, we here at Lawyers & Liquor believe that you, too, deserve to be roundly lambasted and lectured about the poor life decisions you, personally, have made to lead you to this point.

You may recall that last time we discussed the simple fact that even with the board of bar examiners saying you are minimally competent to practice law on the basis of a few essay questions and filling in the right bubbles here and there, that doesn’t make you an attorney until you’re actually admittedto the practice of law. And, as we talked then, the admission to the practice of law is more than a mere formality, because it involved shit like the Character and Fitness examiners digging deep into your sordid little past of keg stands, requiring you to supplement anything their darkened little souls require. It’s a form of legal confession, except you don’t just think the person hearing your confession may be jerking off, you know they probably are, and there’s no penance for the past in the majority of cases. But whilst you wait for the cabal of legalistic proctologists of the profession to finish snapping on their rubber gloves and just getting elbow deep all up in your shit, there’s something else you can start considering on the assumption that everything will turn out okay, and that’s when are you going to take your oath and become a lawyer.

Because lawyers? We not only fucking swear, we are sworn as well.

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So You Passed The Bar, Part 1 – Still Not A Lawyer Yet

Welcome back to Lawyers & Liquor, the website where I genuinely don’t care what you think as I ramble about legal crap and try to impart a bit of wisdom to the Pampers-wearing pestilence that is the baby lawyer and the law student out there, as well as a healthy dose of spite for the experienced attorney who can find their way in the world.  I’m the Boozy Barrister, and it’s Wednesday, October 10, 2018 as we enter the dark and depraved world of the recent bar admissions.  To a lot of people out there that sat in a stuffy room during two to three days in July to take an exam, and then agonized through the months after, congratulations.  You’re lawyers now.  Or at least you will be as soon as someone administers the oath of office and character and fitness clears your baby-smooth bottoms for the practice of law.  But don’t worry too much about that last point.  If Michael Cohen can get a license to practice, so can you.

Instead, let’s take a moment and recognize that despite the fact you have a license to practice law, none of you really have any clue what you’re going to do next or how you’re going to do it.  And you definitely lack the bare minimum of experience that turns the license to practice law into something other than a license to commit malpractice and take your client from a million dollar house on the hill to eating Vienna sausages and saltine crackers in the local trailer park, right? Right. Don’t even try that “getting offended” shit with me here.  You still have concepts like “truth” and “justice” ringing in your fucking ears from all the idealistic law school professors that never once in their lives did a client intake.  You, folks, are fresh-eyed and happy people.  And I’m here to put an end to that shit right the fuck now.

So why don’t you little pricks settle into your high chairs and straighten the tie on your Baby’s First Real Suit as Boozy tells you some shit you need to know in the real world of the day-to-day shit lawyer.  Because, brothers and sisters, it’s about fucking time someone did.

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Four New Reasons I’m Not Bitter AT ALL: Clio Cloud Conference, 2018

You might remember around this time last year I talked a little bit about a conference full of lawyers in New Orleans, Louisiana who were gathering to trade practice tips and, I assume, laugh at all of us peons in the workaday world of shit law through their crystal glasses of champagne or whatever.  You can read why I was totally not bitter at all about not going to New Orleans last year to rub elbows with the hobknobbery of the legal world here. Or you can just hang around on the site for about a minute or two because, once again, while the “who’s who” of the legal online world are gathered in the land of beignets and booze, I’m sitting at my desk drinking some horrible faux Dunkin Donuts bullshit and spending a morning being completely not bitter at all about not attending.  Seriously you guys, not bitter AT ALL.

Motherfuckers.

So excuse me as I top off my cup of coffee that’s exactly as bitter as I am not, at this moment, being.  Give me a moment to suck on some lemons, just to get the morning off to the right start.  Take a second to breathe as I shove a chaw of unsweetened cocoa powder into my upper lip like the chewing tobacco of the totally and completely not bitter at all attorneys of the world.  And let’s look at why it’s actually a good thing that I’m not attending the Clio Cloud Conference in New Orleans for the 2018 year yet fucking again.

NO BITTERNESS AT ALL FOLLOWS