CQ's Law Blog

This is my Blog about Law, also known as a "LawBlog". Younger generations typically shorten it to simply "Loblog" - different spelling, same pronunciation. I extend my sincerest gratitude to Bob Loblaw, who created the Loblog with "Bob Loblaw's Law Blog: Bob Loblaw Lobs Law Bomb". True ingenuity at its finest.

So I'm sitting in my room on a typical overcast Friday afternoon in San Francisco, preparing for my "Oral Blowjob Argument" which is rapidly approaching this Monday. Well, it's actually just called an Oral Argument, but the whole thing is a real blower in my book, so I include Blowjob in the name.

"Preparing" for the Blowjob Argument consists of sitting in my room, by myself, with no music on, staring at the wall, and repeating the same bullshit to myself over and over again like a schizophrenic crack whore outside of the Carl's Jr. on Market St. Two of my three roommates are here, doing whatever normal enjoyable activity you do on Friday afternoons, and every time they walk by my room, they regret living with a crazy secluded law student.

OK, a friend of mine just came over, after a normal human day of working a normal job and actually producing something of tangible value for the world (all things that I am barred from doing as a law student), and he is now urging me to go across the street to a bar that offers, simultaneously, both the best and worst things in the entire city of San Francisco: Every Friday afternoon they have 50 cent margaritas, and every Friday afternoon the bar fills with babies.

Countless illiterate, high-body-fat, balding babies, escorted by a robust mix of Pac Heights yoga moms, Marina moms with strollers that retail for twice the price of my car (another side-effect of being a law student), and dads that just stumbled out of happy hour at the Gold Club, and still reek of brass polish and the (delicious) Gold Club surf 'n turf buffet while they slop big kisses on their pudgy crying infants, squeeze their 2nd (younger) wife's (rapidly depleting) ass (still in yoga pants) and then quickly hustle to the bar to watch the playoffs. Believe me, regardless of the clientele of this joint, I want to go down there and get bombed on these 'ritas that are so cheap they'd put a Mexican cantina out of business. Shit, for 50 cent margaritas, I'd go sit at a bar between Dr. Phil and William Hung. Please note that my never-ending desire to get smashed for under five bucks is, again, a result of my being in law school. And we come full circle...