Freaky Friday: Felonious Fortune Telling

Welcome to the May, 2018 edition of Freaky Friday here on Lawyers and Liquor!  Yeah, I know, I got my dates all messed up, this is normally supposed to be the second Friday of the month and all that, but we’re in the process of re-vamping the Friday post timing and shit to match up to the interests.  Freaky Friday will lead the month, followed by Fetish Friday, then Furry Friday on the third Friday of the month, with the last Friday of the month being open to topic suggestions from the Patreon supporters of the website.  So, now that all that boring shit is out of the way, let’s get on back down to the brass tacks of talking about the law and shit as it relates to the paranormal, the strange, the creepy, and the down right strange with your ghost host, the BOOzy Barrister.

If you’ve ever been on the streets of any major city, you’ve likely seen a couple of places with neon signs in the window that blink on and off, saying shit like “FORTUNES READ!” or “PALM READING!” or other shit that’s really similar to that.  It’s like a staple of the urban experience these days that there’s always some fortune teller willing to fire up the crystal ball, put on a headdress, and take your money in exchange for getting your fortune read in a room decorated to look like a Romani caravan from some bad 1930’s black and white Universal monster movie, right?  So you amble in the door, you plop down your money,  giggle with your friends even if you’re a member of the toughest of the biker gangs, and decide to see what the fates, or at least the person putting on weird accent across from you, has to say about your future.

[Newsflash: Your future will likely involve furries. I don’t know how at this point, but it’s a safe bet that furries will be involved].

It’s all in good fun, right! It sure is, Frank the Future-gazing biker. Right up until you realize that you may have assisted the fortune teller in breaking the goddamn law in your state.

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Guest Post by Bill M. Hours – A Concussive Blow To Contact Sports Coming to a Family Court Near You?

[Boozy:  Today we welcome back Bill M. Hours, our erstwhile contributor, with another guest post to keep my goddamn queue from overflowing.  Bill is an insurance defense attorney, a peon, a pleb, and an all around nice guy despite his work for the evil empire of Defense Attorneys.  You can find him on Twitter at @billmhours.]

If someone you cared about asked for your opinion on whether they should play football; full contact, pads and helmets, grass-in-mouth football, what would you say?

Many of us today probably would caution against it. I know that when I run this scenario through my mind, my hypothetical self goes through various derivations of “fuck no” before deciding that phrases which aren’t broke don’t require fixing. I’d imagine that if one of my children ever asked me to let them play football, I’d most likely ask for a paternity test, but then also immediately lodge my opposition. In my case, this probably wouldn’t be too difficult to enforce because my spouse, while very interested in cooking, probably isn’t looking to be dealing with scrambled brains any time soon.

Perhaps I’ve tipped my hat too soon, in terms of expressing my opinion on the effects of football, but I don’t wish to make it sound like I hate ‘sportsball.’ In fact, where I come from, football in all its forms is a celebrated pastime. I even partook in the bashing of heads myself as a younger fellow (it was “Billy” back then), and I know from secondary experience that playing football can help young men in having an outlet to express hormonal emotions, and by helping them to develop discipline which can transfer into everyday life.

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Tiny Clowns and Shotguns

Every day I come in the office and fix my cup of coffee.  Then I look through the regional papers.  It’s no secret by now that I’m an attorney somewhere in the counties which surround Philadelphia (Ha!  I narrowed it down to a corner of a large state), so part of my morning reading normally includes the Reading Eagle, the premier paper of Reading, Pennsylvania.

Today I caught an article in it about a drunk shooting at clowns.

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