So tomorrow is Monday and the rent hasn't been paid. What can I say? Oh, of course I'm talking about last month, dumdum, who's ever heard about getting paid on time? What do you think this is, General Motors? Nah, she has to understand that rent will never be paid on time. Why should she expect that from me? Who does she think she is? Just because she owns this little shit of real estate, she thinks she can push me around like we're on on 5th Avenue or something. I'll pay her before she crosses the threshold of having her attorney call me. An attorney that's supposedly sat in classes for 4-5 years in a liberal arts undergraduate program at some Midwestern college, and then he gets accepted to Law School, and then he spends years and years there, studying all night, having mock trials by the moonlight. Him and his friends got together in someone's tiny dorm room, and they conducted mock trials. Like one would become the judge, one the Prosecuting Attorney, and one the Defense. Nobody wanted to be the defense. They all wanted to be Prosecutor. Because it looked and sounded a lot like Persecutor. Who doesn't want to be a persecutor? We would all jump at the chance if the opportunity would arrive without the baggage of legal repercussions.
Look who and how we would persecute. With belts and chains, with cuffs and weights. With temperature swings we'd persecute. Too high sometimes. Very low other-times. Just right, never. Make them suffer.
Who would we persecute? You don't even have to think about it. Your sister, for starters, who all her life has figuratively jabbed you in the ribs with her superior knowledge of all things Science and her precocious mastery of the times table. You'd persecute her without batting an eye. And lining up would be Mother, Father, Brother, and Uncle Louie. You'd persecute him for his foul-smelling breath. And does he have to get so close to you to say "hi"? Since you were little, he'd put that red nose of his real close to you and tickle you, and say "Howzmalilbabybeendoin?"
"I'd do a lot better if you would not come over, Mister", you always thought of saying since the first day he picked you up. You were 2 days old. And you smelled that smell, right there in that hospital room. How did they let him in, you thought?
That lawyer (who's become a lawyer by now), that imbecile of a person, that President of the Left Behind Coalition in college, now he's a debt collector. I'm sure this is what he imagined himself doing in Law School. He saw himself arguing before the Supreme Court! Or at least at the Circuit level. Instead he's chasing deadbeat renters, going through the indignities of District Court in the rotten heart of the inner city. There he is, before the judge, where even a court reporter is not needed. And when needed, she is called to report that same day. Invariably it is a woman. Why, you may ask. You think back to all the times you've been summoned to court. Every time, a woman in that lonely chair. No one even gets near her. She is positioned in a maximally optimal area to catch every word, utterance, and grunt of everyone involved in the case. That's the plaintiff, the prosecution attorney, the defendant and the defense attorney (if defendant can afford one, otherwise, one is judiciously provided at taxpayers expense). You never know how cheap the government is until you've witnessed one of these "court-appointed" attorneys. They can spend $737 Million on a single Stealth Bomber, which just sits there and may go on a "training mission" every once in a while, but they won't spend more than $50 per hour to see justice get done. We all pity the poor fool who has that loser for an attorney. Good attorneys make money. Losers enroll themselves with the Court. They have such a hard time gaining clients that they apply for welfare. There it is. And God help you if that's what's sitting to your right in court.