I'm suing you, reader

I'll tell you what I told my lawyer this morning, uncaring and thoughtless reader: I'm suing you. Yeah, that's right, I'm cramming the long arm of our country's fine and just law system right up your ass.

Not literally, of course.

You're about to get a vicious enema of grand legal system proportions, reader. You have wronged me, and in return for your wrongful wronging of my unwrongable rightness, "Johnny Law" is putting on the white gloves and asking you to bend over so he can check you everywhere. And whatever contraband he finds will be mine.

To be clear, the "contraband" is your money, and there's no way my lawyer will accept money kept in . . . that place, even if you stored it carefully in a balloon or tightly-wound plastic baggie before swallowing it. He'll make you change it in at the bank for fresh bills and coins first. Now, if you keep non-money-related contraband in . . . that place, then it's all yours. I have no interest in that stuff. I was just making a clever analogy, for crying out loud.

But yeah, by the time my lawyer is done applying the Cold, Hard, Metal Fist of Justice ^TM to your Underlying Regions of Naught ^TM, you're going to be walking kinda funny, like George Michael leaving a park bathroom in West Hollywood. Your ass will be a bright, shiny red color, like a bare-assed baboon at the monkey house.

Just to be clear, "the monkey house" is the place where they keep all the monkeys at the zoo. While not all zoos refer to it as "the monkey house", and while many zoos that do refer to it as "the monkey house" do not put up proper signage to inform people of the name "monkey house", and while some zoos don't even have a separate house-like area where all the monkey cages are kept, "the monkey house" is still a universal term. But either way, I'm-a-gonna get your money, punk.

You may wonder what I'm suing you for, reader. Well, let me ask you this: do you or do you not read this column? You do? Aha! Congratulations, foolish reader, for you have just admitted to being one of the perpetrators of this crime. What's the crime? The burns on my legs from my laptop. Every night I sit here typing a new column for my readers, and the placement of my laptop in the same area for hours every night has slowly burnt my legs.

Laptops get hot. They get very hot. It doesn't matter what model or size you buy, or what brand you use, laptops just get really, really hot. Most people don't get burns on their legs, because most people aren't pushed to create perfection every day. But I am, and it's all your fault, reader. If you didn't read this column every day, I wouldn't feel the need to be perfect, and wouldn't have gotten burns on my legs. So I'm suing you.

Do you want proof of the burns on my legs? No problem. Luckily, for legal purposes, I took pictures of the third-degree burns on my legs. Here they are.

Oh man, when my lawyer gets done with you, repentant and remorseful reader, you won't have a penny to your name. You'll be lying on the street, sobbing as my lawyer grabs the few coins that your pathetic, homeless self made from begging strangers all day. You'll be living in a cardboard box, which my lawyer will also take away when he realizes you've claimed ownership of it. You'll be sprawled out behind a dumpster, licking a dirty puddle for sustenance, just like Dustin Diamond from "Saved by the Bell".

I own you, reader. Your total worth of 48 cents is all mine.

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Dec 31, 1969 • 4:00pm        Dec 31, 1969 • 4:00pm        Dec 31, 1969 • 4:00pm        Dec 31, 1969 • 4:00pm        Dec 31, 1969 • 4:00pm        Dec 31, 1969 • 4:00pm        Dec 31, 1969 • 4:00pm        Dec 31, 1969 • 4:00pm        Dec 31, 1969 • 4:00pm   Bec      Dec 31, 1969 • 4:00pm   i think this is the FIRST time I didn\'t follow the naked volleyball link.

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