Bootlicking Millionaires with Severe Tongue Abrasion

Sad!

So nobody should be surprised that Trump is a vengeful petulant baby. Out of all the ways he could spend his time as the most powerful man on Earth, he decided to obsessively pursue a deluded grievance quest against anyone and everyone that may have sullied his honor. Recently the target of his executive order ire has been a bevy of lawyers and law firms, not because of any articulable misconduct, but because the lawyers had the temerity to pursue legal actions Trump disliked.

In yet another order, Trump also singled out attorneys at a third firm, Paul Weiss, for bringing a lawsuit against individuals who protested at the Capitol on January 6, and for hiring an attorney who had investigated Trump while in government service. Trump’s orders against Perkins Coie and Paul Weiss not only barred federal agencies from engaging the firms’ services but also suspended the security clearances of its attorneys and restricted their access to federal buildings. These sanctions cripple the attorneys’ ability to represent clients in disputes with the federal government. The administration points to no evidence that these firms are a genuine security risk, and expressly targets these firms for their client selection and speech.

It’s disappointing. One, god what a pathetic flail! What a flagrant red cape of blatant insecurity, advertised loudly to the entire world. What a fetid reflexively pathetic snarl of a response. What a belly cry of a scorned goat. How much of an amalgamated pile of phlegm must you be for this recourse to be worth a moment of your contemplation?

Two, holy shit it worked! Remember when Republicans could claim to be in favor of free speech without rupturing their spleen from laughing too hard? The dogshit executive orders are an unambiguous example of government reprisal against core and foundationally protected conduct, which means submission is a choice. Perkins Coie sued and was easily handed a gift-wrapped temporary restraining order. But then the law firm Paul Weiss — who situated their offices above a water main of cash that gushes $2.6 billions in revenue every year — quickly capitulated. They offered Trump $40 million in pro bono services in exchange for please do not hurt us please make it stop.

What sniveling cowards, seeing the stacks of cash wither away in front of their eyes. The evaporated contracts. The skittish clients. The spigots of lucre dripping dry, valve squeaking shut. The weekends at the Hamptons. The car collections. The piece of pussy those riches magnetize. The evaporation of it all. The feckless fear of watching it all go away, and their dogged willingness to sacrifice anything in the world — anything! — to get it back. The cookie snatched away and the rivers of tears begging for it back. Including sacrificing whatever shred of dignity any had.

What pathetic fucking bitches for them to fold.

Not everyone begged for mercy in between choked sobs. Not everyone submitted into a sujud prostration. Some lawyers were better positioned to flash the hashtag Resistance gang signs, solely because the had no government contracts to lose, or they already built their brand accordingly. Some would’ve said no despite those privileges, just because they’re a member of the Vertebrata subphylum.

Marc Elias is one of those lawyers. Trump deluded half the country into believing that he indeed looked fabulous in his new clothes and that I swear he really really won the 2020 election for reals! But for normal people, the litany of schizophrenic stolen election lawsuits served as nothing more than comedy fodder. Marc Elias has consistently been the loudest member of that laughter chorus. Be careful with that giggle bro, some important person’s feelings might get hurt!

Marc Elias, a profile in courage

Look, Elias is nobody’s vision of a maverick. Let’s be real here, he barely looks like a lawyer. He looks like the veteran actuary in the Topeka field office that everyone has been too creeped out by to promote anywhere else. I’m not throwing shade on him, he’s already bona fide demonstrably spectacular at his craft and one doesn’t need to look the part on top of that. My point is that even dweeby-looking dudes like Elias leverage infinitely more dogged machismo with just a modicum of defiance on their part.

For those who bowed down, think really hard on what exactly you have to lose by just whispering no. Mouthing out that syllable. That’s all it takes! You can even add a gratuitous fuck you as a post-script. Think really hard if your capitulation, your prostration, your Shahadah is worth outing yourself as a bitch on the world stage.

Third, hey! Wait a minute, I’m also a lawyer! What a burgeoning geysering tower of burbled up tribalism! I get it! I have a nominal kinship with everyone else with a bar card. Anyone with an esquire suffix. Never mind that it’s a cohort I avoid like the plague on social occasions, because I know their kind all too well. Yet my aversion to tribalism cannot erase the unavoidable bond we share. The isthmus of commonality we have among us. We advocate. We shout. We grandstand. We Shepardize citations. We pound the table. We are hopeless amateurs in Latin. We are adversarial. We can remain courteous. We have inviolable covenants with our clients. We can separate the principal from the actor, the advocacy from the advocate. We can shake hands after it’s all done, before we even know the verdict. We can be slimy pieces of shit, and yet we share membership in a guild that at least aspires to be in pursuit of a higher ideal. Sometimes, we breach through the surface and lightly grasp beyond our corporeal shackles.

My crimes for calling Dear Leader the dementia patient that he is have been relegated into tens of thousands of words, but never projected in court. Substack is not yet a court of record. Soon. So I personally have no reason to ever be in the cult leader’s crosshairs, not even for my own selfish aggrandizement. My attorney credentials remain mired defending guilty losers of stupid thoughtless crimes. Alas.

And now I have envy watching from the sidelines, for I wish to be squished. I wish for my moment in the sun, the exhale of relief from pushing the thumb back up into the sky. Go ahead and try, solely and for no other reasons than for me to look at the fetid crew of prior losers, those lucre-addicted dipshits. I wish to look at them in the eye and remind them: what makes me a man is my valorization and adherence to higher values. In contrast to a myopic worship over extra zeros in my bank account, adherence to honesty, integrity, principles, and confrontational courage that — at bare minimum — I should try and aspire towards.

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Don’t get me wrong though, I’m an unrepentant capitalist. I’m never embarrassed to sing the praises of material wealth, as it’s the vehicle from which all cherished ideals flow from. If you really need my creds, know that I always play CEO Nwabudike Morgan in Alpha Centauri.

Greatest Non-Ayn-Rand Ayn Rand protagonist of all time.

I’ve been on a hundred-and-ten-foot-long yacht before. It was really nice! I think? And yet I’ve forgotten all about the experience until just now. It’s ok in retrospect, as I recall the quiet bed of moss on the forested island the yacht took us too far more fondly. My aperture for appreciating the wonders of the natural world does not make me a hippie who scorns material possessions.

I have and adore a parade of shiny objects and plateaus waltzing through my domicile. I can savor the world’s greatest cheese, chowing down blocks at a time. I welcome with open arms frivolous purchases, assembled and manufactured through a hopelessly convoluted global supply chain. Such as the robotic pooper scooper Litter Robot, wherein I paid the equivalent yearly salary of 23 Venezuelans solely to save me the indignity of shoveling my stupid cat’s monumentous chunks of urine. I’m a spoiled little bitch, for sure! No apologies.

And do not mistake my grandstanding for something it is not, as I speak from a position of tremendous privilege on multiple planes. Besides the unmistakable material bounty, I am abundantly fulfilled. A hot wife I can fuck every night, the stupidest fucking cat in the world who constantly makes me laugh, the songs I make up about him, the daily fulfillment of a life well lived and a meal well devoured, all upon the dais of a body well running (so far, much gratitude). I can quench my debilitating curiosity with the oeuvres of every author and thinker and philosopher that has ever lived. I can dance in booty shorts in my kitchen while I caramelize onions. I can slap my wife’s ass when she giggles by. I fundamentally adore life and do not flinch from drinking my fill. I wash myself in gratitude every day.

Which is what gives me the authority those dipshits lack. I know what I stand for. I know what I desire and devour in life.

There’s an AutoZone general manager right now barely cracking a six-figure income, arriving home to a bland palette of suburban luxury that would wring envy from the richest of all medieval emperors. Endless feasts of unspoiled food, garnished with delectable flora scoured from across the globe, all available on command and on demand. Troupes of dancers and musicians, all that have ever lived or existed or contemplated, available on command and on demand virtually, with a narrow selection available personally. Infinite bards of whatever language, recounting stories of whatever genre, available on command and on demand. Bidets, burbling with infinite crystal clear clean water, irrigating the shit out of your ass. On command. On demand.

The Romans that built up the foundation of our modern abundance shat in public rows, and wiped their ass with communal sponges stored in brown water buckets. Where is your fountain of gratitude? Next time you see a roll of toilet paper, I want you to passionately make out with it, and imagine a life without it. Press your lips upon the bleached pulped fibers and make a mwah sound as you jerk your head back. I want you to imagine a life having to share a poop sponge with the annoying neighbor who lives down the street from you. You know the one. Bitch, be humble.

This would’ve been you

We humans figured out a system that gave it to us really fucking good, for even the most mediocre among us. And you, a Big Law Big Shot partner with millions of dollars in firehose income, still feel empty? Your choices are yours to make but, really, how many yachts do you really need?

John Adams was a lawyer, and he lived in an un-insulated farmhouse. His daughter got breast cancer and had to suffer through a brutal home mastectomy. Without any anesthesia. Within the ashes of blistering material poverty, Adams nevertheless erupted as an accomplished orator. Taking quill from an actual bird’s ass, and applying ink to immaculate prose that would move and ripple across decades. He and his cohort sang the ideals of liberalism within a world’s ocean of default tyranny, and they fueled and lit an inferno of unprecedented liberty. You do not need kings when you have the American dollar. And life got so much fucking better after that.

Rare historical photograph of 02 and his son 06

The people who built this system were dirt poor farmers with creaky hips, rotted wooden teeth, and lead poisoning from powdered wigs. That putrid rabble wrote the fucking Declaration of Independence? Are you fucking kidding me? What the fuck is our excuse? Are we lacking just a few more stepsister porn videos, a few more quarter pounder with cheese and extra bacon, a few more Adderall-fueled Fortnite marathons, to allow us to finally erupt out of our potential? Really? Who are we kidding? We’re not just losers, but we lack every single one of the excuses the pathetic troupe of farmers known as the Founding Fathers enjoyed. What a pathetic sorry bunch we are. Why are people so fucking scared? Of what?

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Well, the Big Law cowards are the ones advertising their medically debilitating lack of spine. I do not claim myself aloft above any high-minded clouds. I am a fallible human who can — sometimes — act out of spite and pettiness. I am a sack of flesh, who shits, who sweats, who pustulates. I am anchored upon the humility of the earth. And yet, I am able to unhesitatingly hold my head up high in comparison to those losers, beaming with pride at accomplishing something that should — in an ideal world — earn me no praise.

By contrast, you Big Law prostates showcase your lights. Maybe it’s not my business to tell you which values to prioritize in your life (I believe in individual autonomy after all) but your constellations broadcast what you truly value more than anything else — the fixation of plugging up holes of a devoured ego with soaked wads of cash.

Just own up to it. Just admit that you’re a little bitch. Admit your insomnia. Admit your debilitating anxiety at losing a zero at the end. Admit your willingness to do whatever it takes to snatch it back. Most of all, stop pretending of being someone you are not.

You are a loser and lucre will grant you no salvation. As for me, I retain what really matters in life (besides my wife’s tight little ass): It’s knowing full well that I stood for something worthwhile.

Thank you for being my foil you pathetic pieces of fucking shit. Drown in your cowardice, because your avarice will not float you.