Post Number Thirteen

“Bills, Bills, Bills”

If “having a bone to pick with someone” is any sort of accurate metaphor (though personally I prefer the much more straightforward Aboriginal phrase “having a bone to point at someone”) then I not only “have a bone to pick with someone” (per se) but an entire fucking SKELETON to pick with and/or point at someone. Specifically, a certain “someone” (so-called) who goes by the name of Uncle Mike Spilligan AKA MIKEY-MIKE SPILLY-GUTS! (And yes, in case you don’t get where I’m comin’ from there, that nickname is intended as a vicious insult). After all, was it not Mikey-Mike Spilly-Guts who referred me to (or to me) the first in a long line of closely related lawyers?

I think you’ll find it was.

And why? Well, so great was my concern about Justice I bypassed all avenues that might accidentally lead me to it and consulted a lawyer instead. And after consulting one lawyer, I found– in the same way that one might run into sizeable difficulties only stopping at one cashew nut (unless there was only one left in the packet)– I also couldn’t stop at only one lawyer. So I consulted a couple more, which raised the Legal Bar from bad to worse. Because after every new consultation, I found myself putting more and more names on  my “to sue” list– including a couple of the abovementioned lawyers.

The good news is (or was) that I’ve worked out a way to hire one lawyer to sue the other (and vice versa), thereby making both lawsuits a win-win situation for me AND  my two lawyers. Because the money I get from one will be the money I use to pay the other (and vice versa).

Or at least, that’s what I thought.

But then I got their fucking bills !! You call that “legal”?? I’d have to take out a mortgage on my parent’s house to pay for those fifteen lousy minutes (each) of consulting time! How exactly would I do such a thing? I’m a left-wing student, f’ fuck sake. I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT A MORTGAGE IS!! Hence my justified rage against Old Man Spilly-Guts who got me into this mess in the first place by helping me out when I asked him to (the bastard). And also hence my grim determination to confront this hardened Sausage-Smuggler and force him to withdraw his offer to help (even though, technically, it’s a few days late for that… I guess).

Of course, having a skeleton to pick with Uncle Mike (so-called) was not my main reason for visiting the dungeon. There was also a small matter of NATASHA DE NASHA, my ex-designated bully from Schooling Times whose modern day hotness came as a complete surprise to me. I’m ever so hopeful that her bullying might pick up where it never left off– that is, the crippling of my newly tattooed nipplings. Because, in a world where justice is governed by the laws of tit-for-tatt, her twisting of my TATTS would surely call for me paying her back with some groping of her TITS, thereby satisfying two (2) principles:

  1. the Principle of Law; and
  2. the Principle of Satisfaction.

 

So, y’see, I had a couple pairs o’ things to grapple with in jail, with no time to waste by making an appointment. I simply stormed onto the prison grounds, angrily kicked open a few doors, bent the bars on a gate and squeezed through, then leapt under the turnstiles– and all the turnkeys could possibly do was boggle wide-eyed and open-mouthed at my chutzpah.

Angrily, I demanded– no: duh-MARN-ded– Visitin’ Rights. The prison guards (an Obedient Race) promptly gave me those rights, dashing off to collect Uncle Mike (even though I was actually demanding visiting-slash-conjugal-rights to see Natasha De Nasha). When I further demanded (of Uncle Mike) that he himself go forth and fetch me that screwable screw, Mike said he’d given her the day off, which surprised me. Didn’t realize the crims had that much power in there…

As a kind of consolation prize, though, Mike said Natasha had left me a “note” folded up lovingly and completely enveloped in an envelope. I snatched it from his hand (forgetting to sniff how he smuggled it in there) and then (on an unrelated theme) chided him (angrily) about the lawyers he referred me to.

“IDIOT!!” he cried, inaccurately. “I only referred you to ALBIE Werdpsert, not his troublesome siblings! Don’t you know nuffin’?? Digby Werdspert is a big, fat mega-slezoid who gets his jollies from rubbin’ the stumps of chop-chop cases, and Wendy Werdspert is a swirly-titted Striptease Artiste, associated closely (through sex) with a bikie gang called THE BROTHERS-IN-HARM.”

NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!! (I thought). Those guys are the same gang belong-um Tattoo Neanderthal itself! How– in my whackiest nightmares– could I have possibly guessed that Wendy Werdspert would be “associated closely” with him and Co.?? I mean, yair, okay, the way her office was located right above that guy’s Tattoo Parlour may have given me some sort’a clue… But aside from that HOW ELSE could I have possibly known??

All this, of course, made my constant suing and counter-suing of basically everyone I’ve consulted so far even more tricky than it ever was. Do-able, yes. But, still. More tricky.

Believe it or not though, Reader, that wasn’t the most complicated thing– as Old Man Spilly-Guts revealed when he spilt more (of his guts).

“Y’see,” he said, “the reason Wendy Werdspert is friendly wi’ that gang is because their official tattooist (whose nickname is “Mal”) rescued the stripteasin’ career she planned on having to pay her way through Law School.”

“How he do dat?” I wondered aloud.

“By tattooing a massive set of human head-sized NIPPLES on her pendulous norks,” he declared. “Because– just like you, Nephew Dunky-Dunk” (hate it when he calls me that. Hate it when he calls me “nephew”) “Wendy Werdspert was a FREAK born without nippular endowment.”

So! I had a non-twistable sister! She wasn’t a “blood-related” one, of course, like my real sister, DEBBIE-DALLAS DOOLIGAN (or “3-D” as we call her). But she was a pseudo-sister, bearing an obvious non-family resemblance (meaning our shared pre-tattoo lack of nipples).

“And now,” Old Man Offal Guts continued, “my fee.”

“I’m… sorry, did, er… did you say–?”

“My fee,” said he (as I suspected). “My consultation fee? For all the legal advice I been givin’? Cough it up and/or fork it over.”

Momentarily stunned, I told him that Mega-Perv Digby and Striptease Wendy had (in spite of their “free” consultations) found legal-type loopholes wherein I was legally compelled to pay their fees for all stuff not resembling a consultation. Like lawsuits. In which I was (legally-speaking) suing each of them. Which, in turn, made paying Mike’s fee all the more tricky.

“In that case,” he said, “you better check Natasha’s note. Like did.”

So I did as well. And, Reader! Opening that envelope was like opening a BOX OF SURPRISES. Except in this box of surprises (AKA the envelope) all the surprises were, like, written down. On a note. In the envelope. Which, in hindsight, prob’ly isn’t… y’know… all that surprising. Anyway, what she wrote was a few things about her Bullying Days, and how they basically stopped when she discovered that (apparently) “boys ain’t got no nipples”– a rumour I spread myself when I discovered the same thing about me.

But when The Gnasher found out, it seemed she (sadly) lost interest in bullying and fell into a deep sulk. “What point was there going to school when half the kids had no nipples to cripple?” she wondered. So she went through the rest of her schooling days not going to school.

I knew something was different about the place!

But that’s not the worst bit. On the back of the note was a bill charging me TWELVE YEARS BACK-PAY for all the other kids lunch-money she didn’t steal!

Damn it all, the bills keep triplicatin’.

To pay them I’ll just have to do something I never– in a zillion light years– thought I would ever lower myself to do. I’ll have to (gulp) get a “job”.

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