Being This Stupid Should Be Illegal


I work at a law firm when I’m home from school for the summer. My co-worker’s are awesome, funny, laid back people, the kind of people you feel extremely fortunate to share the same facilites with. My boss is a great guy, and being that he’s close to my family he lets me get away with murder. All the makings of a very stable, euphoric enviornment, right? Not even. It’s the clients. The unfathomably ignorant, dismal clients that have some how, under God’s limitless grace, made it this far in life. For example, one lady calls in with this setup: she wants to sue the cops……for pouring draino down her walls. That’s right, draino. Imagine the attorney’s response when I asked if he’d like Gertrude nutfuck to make an appointment. Then there’s the guy that swore by Christian Slater’s sobriety that he wrote over half of Pearl Jam’s songs and incidentally didn’t receive any credit from the band. “Sir when did you supposedly write this song ‘Black’ ?


“Really, because If I remember correctly that song was released a year earlier”

Dipshit. Oh yeah, I almost forgot, XBox was his idea too. Fucking Microsoft, you scallywags.

There’s an unemployed client that, upon her leaving her initial consultation, I was called into the conference room, was handed a bottle of windex, a can of air freshener, and a roll of paper towels and told to, and I quote: “go to where she was sitting and go to work.” I’m still experiencing cold chills and fits of nausea from that day. Now whenever she comes in I find something, anything, to get me out of the office, whether it be a mail run or to go stand in line at the DMV while being punched incessantly in the face. It’s that bad.

And this last one is what I’d like to consider the all time great, the brightest star in that big festering sprawl of glee that is the socially inept universe, and her last name, and I shit you not, is (drum roll) Tortilla. T-O-R-T-I-L-L-A. I’ve had the privelege of being interrogated, harrassed, and verbally abused by Tortilla via phone several times. And the best part is, she’s not even a client, she’s the sibling of a client. I only put up with it because it’s so damn funny. So that’s pretty much a teaser of what my life is like during the summer, and in the midst of me writing this I’m looking at the elevator door slide open to reveal a derranged looking seventy year old man in camo clutching a variety of mangled envelopes and alongside him is his….daughter? no, grandaughter, holding her baby. Oh my dear sweet lord, this job is banana fuckin sangwich.

posted under Angry Customers
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