Lawyers Funny Quotes

HOMICIDE, n. The slaying of one human being by another. There are four kinds of homicide: felonious, excusable, justifiable, and praiseworthy, but it makes no great difference to the person slain whether he fell by one kind or another -- the classification is for advantage of the lawyers.

You have the maturity of a 14-year-old boy!“ Kennedy hisses. "And you have the chest of one.

In the past, when gays were very flamboyant as drag queens or as leather queens or whatever, that just amused people. And most of the people that come and watch the gay Halloween parade, where all those excesses are on display, those are straight families, and they think it's funny. But what people don't think is so funny is when two middle-aged lawyers who are married to each other move in next door to you and your wife and they have adopted a Korean girl and they want to send her to school with your children and they want to socialize with you and share a drink over the backyard fence. That creeps people out, especially Christians. So, I don't think gay marriage is a conservative issue. I think it's a radical issue.

In third grade I thought I loved her - by sixth grade, I was sure of it

Lawyers were notorious for finding cases in the most unlikely places, especially ones with huge potential damagers awards.

We broke up in eighth grade when Tara-Mae Forrester offered to let me touch her boobs. And I did.

One of the most common and most dangerous misbeliefs is that it is impossible for someone to be stupid just because they are a doctor or a lawyer.

What did the lawyer say?” I couldn’t stop the little snicker that slipped out as I sat back up in the seat and laced my fingers behind my head. “Before or after I kissed her?” “Zeb!” My mom gave me a hard look and my sister just shook her head.

That's my school. I worked harder to get in than I did for anything else, ever. I went there because, coming out of it, I'd be able to be President. Or a lawyer. Rich, that's the point. Rich and successful. And look where it got me. One stupid year and here I am with not one, but two bracelets on my wrist, next to a shrink in a room adjacent to a hall where there's a guy named Human Being walking around. If I keep doing this for three more years, where will I be? I'll be a complete loser. And what If I keep on? What if I do okay, live with the depression, get into College, do College, go to Grad School, get the Job, get the Money, get Kids and a Wife and a Nice Car? What kind of crap will I be in then? I'll be completely crazy.

Two-thirds of all preachers, doctors and lawyers are hanging on to the coat tails of progress, shouting, whoa! while a good many of the rest are busy strewing banana peels along the line of march.

And here we go creating great men out of artisans who happened to have stumbled on a way to improve electrical apparatus or pedal through Sweden on a bicycle! And we solicit great men to write books promoting the cult of other great men! It's really very funny, and worth the price of admission! It will all end up with every village having his own great man - a lawyer, a novelist, and a polar explorer of immense stature! And the world will become wonderfully flat and simple and easy to master . . .

Am I suggesting that you must feel sorry for divorce lawyers and prepare to pay every penny of their fees? Of course not! You deserve justice, and the lawyer can be lured into delivering said justice at a seriously discounted price!

I always wanted a father. Any kind. A strict one, a funny one, one who bought me pink dresses, one who wished I was a boy. One who traveled, one who never got up out of his Morris chair. Doctor, lawyer, Indian chief. I wanted shaving cream in the sink and whistling on the stairs. I wanted pants hung by their cuffs from a dresser drawer. I wanted change jingling in a pocket and the sound of ice cracking in a cocktail glass at five thirty. I wanted to hear my mother laugh behind a closed door.

Q. What do lawyers wear to court? A. Lawsuits!

What do you want to do forever?' He shrugged. 'I used to want to be a lawyer.' 'Used to?' She nudged him. 'I think you could be great at that.' 'Hmm, not when the only GCSEs I got spell out the word DUUUDDEE.

It's rather like Happy Families, isn't it?Mrs Legal, the lawyer's wife, Miss Dose, the doctor's daughter, etc. ... So sweet and funny and old-world. You just can't think of anything nasty happening here, can you?

New Rule: Now that liberals have taken back the word "liberal," they also have to take back the word "elite." By now you've heard the constant right-wing attacks on the "elite media," and the "liberal elite." Who may or may not be part of the "Washington elite." A subset of the "East Coast elite." Which is overly influenced by the "Hollywood elite." So basically, unless you're a shit-kicker from Kansas, you're with the terrorists. If you played a drinking game where you did a shot every time Rush Limbaugh attacked someone for being "elite," you'd be almost as wasted as Rush Limbaugh. I don't get it: In other fields--outside of government--elite is a good thing, like an elite fighting force. Tiger Woods is an elite golfer. If I need brain surgery, I'd like an elite doctor. But in politics, elite is bad--the elite aren't down-to-earth and accessible like you and me and President Shit-for-Brains. Which is fine, except that whenever there's a Bush administration scandal, it always traces back to some incompetent political hack appointment, and you think to yourself, "Where are they getting these screwups from?" Well, now we know: from Pat Robertson. I'm not kidding. Take Monica Goodling, who before she resigned last week because she's smack in the middle of the U.S. attorneys scandal, was the third-ranking official in the Justice Department of the United States. She's thirty-three, and though she never even worked as a prosecutor, was tasked with overseeing the job performance of all ninety-three U.S. attorneys. How do you get to the top that fast? Harvard? Princeton? No, Goodling did her undergraduate work at Messiah College--you know, home of the "Fighting Christies"--and then went on to attend Pat Robertson's law school. Yes, Pat Robertson, the man who said the presence of gay people at Disney World would cause "earthquakes, tornadoes, and possibly a meteor," has a law school. And what kid wouldn't want to attend? It's three years, and you have to read only one book. U.S. News & World Report, which does the definitive ranking of colleges, lists Regent as a tier-four school, which is the lowest score it gives. It's not a hard school to get into. You have to renounce Satan and draw a pirate on a matchbook. This is for the people who couldn't get into the University of Phoenix. Now, would you care to guess how many graduates of this televangelist diploma mill work in the Bush administration? On hundred fifty. And you wonder why things are so messed up? We're talking about a top Justice Department official who went to a college founded by a TV host. Would you send your daughter to Maury Povich U? And if you did, would you expect her to get a job at the White House? In two hundred years, we've gone from "we the people" to "up with people." From the best and brightest to dumb and dumber. And where better to find people dumb enough to believe in George Bush than Pat Robertson's law school? The problem here in America isn't that the country is being run by elites. It's that it's being run by a bunch of hayseeds. And by the way, the lawyer Monica Goodling hired to keep her ass out of jail went to a real law school.

They were chosen for their perfect ignorance of these things. That is how the system works. In the end, the lawyers and judges happily step aside and hand the entire process over to a dozen complete amateurs. It would be funny if it were not so perverse.

First the AI came for the lawyers’ jobs, and I did nothing, because it was funny. Then the AI came for the journalists’ jobs, and I again was passive, because it was hilarious. Finally, the AI came for Human Resources’ jobs, and I actually did something—I laughed heartily.

I predict that I'll be breaking out the 'right to a trial defense’ again,” I said, trying to not act any weirder than I already was. “You don't think he'll be willing to plead guilty?” “Probably not. He firmly believes that claiming to be a complete idiot will get him off.” “You're very funny,” he said, leaning against the defense table right next to me again. “Mr. Pierce, in my line of work, one either laughs or cries and I would rather laugh.” Oh Jesus H. Christ! I sounded like a country western song.

Innocent? Is that supposed to be funny? An obese man... a disgusting man who could barely stand up; a man who if you saw him on the street, you'd point him out to your friends so that they could join you in mocking him; a man, who if you saw him while you were eating, you wouldn't be able to finish your meal. After him, I picked the lawyer and I know you both must have been secretly thanking me for that one. This is a man who dedicated his life to making money by lying with every breath that he could muster to keeping murderers and rapists on the streets! A woman... so ugly on the inside she couldn't bear to go on living if she couldn't be beautiful on the outside. A drug dealer, a drug dealing pederast, actually! And let's not forget the disease-spreading whore! Only in a world this shitty could you even try to say these were innocent people and keep a straight face. But that's the point. We see a deadly sin on every street corner, in every home, and we tolerate it. We tolerate it because it's common, it's trivial. We tolerate it morning, noon, and night. Well, not anymore. I'm setting the example.

At nights, he craved that list, sometimes more than he craved her; he could picture it in his mind, the funny up-and-down capitalizations she inserted into a single word, the mechanical pencil she always used, the yellow legal pads, left over from her years as a lawyer, on which she made her notes. Sometimes the letters solidified into words, and in the dream life he'd feel triumphant; ah, he'd think, of course! Of course that's what I need! Of course Ana would know! But in the mornings, he could never remember what those things were. In those moments he wished, perversely, that he had never met her, that it was surely worse to have had her for so brief a period than to never have had her at all.

Bob Cavallo remembers early on in the process, ‘We were at odds with each other. Our contract was up; five years had gone by since Purple Rain. We met at the Four Seasons with his lawyer and his accountant, me and Steve Fargnoli to discuss some kind of rapprochement because he had fired us. Basically he said, “I’ll work with you again but you’ve got to help me make this movie.” I read the treatment and said, “This could be an interesting thing,” and I said, “I’ll try to put you together with some young hip writers and maybe we can come up with a script quickly, ’cause this is pretty detailed.” And he went, “What are you talking about? That is the script.” It was thirty pages. And he said, “I’m going to shoot it, I know exactly how to do it.” So I said, “Maybe we could get this on Broadway for you. Would you be interested in that?” And he said, “No.” Now he was pissed that I didn’t think this was a good enough script, so we shook hands and that was the end of it. Then, about a year later, we were suing each other. But even when we sued each other, it was kinda funny. I said, “How could you not pay me?” He said, “How could you sue me?” He said, “You can’t have my children, those songs. You’re gonna give your involvement in those songs to your grandchildren?” And I said, “Yeah, I put ten years of my life into you, and you sucked all the air out of the room. I couldn’t really manage anybody else except for your friends.

We could hide,” she said. “They’d find us,” Harry told her. “Well, we could find a place—I don’t know, a cave or something—where we could hold them off with your gun.” “And hope that the FBI finds us before they go back to their car and get a grenade thrower out of the trunk?” Allie was silent for a moment, just pushing forward, using both hands to scramble up the ever-steepening hill. “So what exactly are our options?” “We keep moving." “That’s it?” Her anger wasn’t far from the surface, and it bubbled up again. “Do you screw up all your cases this way, or is there just something about me that brings out this incompetent side of you?” “I didn’t set this up,” he told her for the four thousandth time. “If I did, there would have been backup. Believe me.” “I’m done believing you. I believed you twice—and you know that old saying? ‘Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.’ I’m making up a third part to that saying. Fool me three times, just shoot me now.” Harry laughed. It was the wrong thing to do. “You think this is funny? We’re probably going to die, and you think this is funny?” She was furious. “You said I’d be safe here, and I trusted you. I did more than trust you, I slept with you, over and over again! Oh, God, the whole time you were probably laughing and—” “Allie, you gotta believe me—I didn’t set this up. George did. George knew about that letter I got from the lawyers. He probably figured out there were court records with Shaun and Em’s names and address on it. And this snafu stinks of Nicole Fenster, too. But I swear to you, I didn’t know. There’s no way in hell I would’ve set you up. And I didn’t mean to sleep with you. I mean, it wasn’t something I planned and . . .” Yeah, and that wasn’t exactly helping. Making it sound as if the lovemaking they’d shared had been some kind of an accident, like Whoops, golly, how’d my penis get in there?

I didn’t think we were being quiet, particularly. High heels may have looked dainty, but they didn’t sound that way on a tile floor. Maybe it was just that my dad was so absorbed in the convo on his cell phone. For whatever reason, when we emerged from the kitchen into the den, he started, and he stuffed the phone down by his side in the cushions. I was sorry I’d startled him, but it really was comical to see this big blond manly man jump three feet off the sofa when he saw two teenage girls. I mean, it would have been funny if it weren’t so sad. Dad was a ferocious lawyer in court. Out of court, he was one of those Big Man on Campus types who shook hands with everybody from the mayor to the alleged ax murderer. A lot like Sean, actually. There were only two things Dad was afraid of. First, he wigged out when anything in the house was misplaced. I won’t even go into all the arguments we’d had about my room being a mess. They’d ended when I told him it was my room, and if he didn’t stop bugging me about it, I would put kitchen utensils in the wrong drawers, maybe even hide some (cue horror movie music). No spoons for you! Second, he was easily startled, and very pissed off afterward. “Damn it, Lori!” he hollered. “It’s great to see you too, loving father. Lo, I have brought my friend Tammy to witness out domestic bliss. She’s on the tennis team with me.” Actually, I was on the tennis team with her. “Hello, Tammy. It’s nice to meet you,” Dad said without getting up or shaking her hand or anything else he would normally do. While the two of them recited a few more snippets of polite nonsense, I watched my dad. From the angle of his body, I could tell he was protecting that cell phone behind the cushions. I nodded toward the hiding place. “Hot date?” I was totally kidding. I didn’t expect him to say, “When?” So I said, “Ever.” And then I realized I’d brought up a subject that I didn’t want to bring up, especially not while I was busy being self-absorbed. I clapped my hands. “Okay, then! Tammy and I are going upstairs very loudly, and after a few minutes we will come back down, ringing a cowbell. Please continue with your top secret phone convo.” I turned and headed for the stairs. Tammy followed me. I thought Dad might order me back, send Tammy out, and give me one of those lectures about my attitude (who, me?). But obviously he was chatting with Pamela Anderson and couldn’t wait for me to leave the room. Behind us, I heard him say, “I’m so sorry. I’m still here. Lori came in. Oh, yeah? I’d like to see you try.” “He seems jumpy,” Tammy whispered on the stairs. “Always,” I said. “Do you have a lot of explosions around your house?” I glanced at my watch. “Not this early.

A man named Dennis Newton was on trial for armed robbery in Oklahoma City, when he decided to fire his lawyer. While Newton was defending himself in court, the woman who was working as a clerk at the convenience store that he supposedly robbed, was put on the stand.   When the woman identified Newton as the robber, Newton quickly jumped up and screamed at the woman, calling her a liar. He then screamed out "I shoulda blown your f***ing head off." Newton soon realized what he said, and quickly followed the comment with "....If I'da been the one that was there." ...Not that it mattered at that point, the jury was already convinced of his guilt.

Here’s the deal.” She sat on the bed next to me and grabbed my hand, cradling it in her own. Let me repeat that. Sienna Diaz—movie star, hilarious comedian, and all-round extraordinary human being—sat on the bed next to me and grabbed my hand. And it was not an hallucination. Life is so weird. “I am obsessed with your lemon custardcakes,” she confessed on a rush. “Obsessed. But your bakery hasn’t been carrying them for over a week.” “Oh, sorry about that.” She shook her head quickly. “Don’t apologize. Here’s the deal: if and when you’re feeling up to it, I want to pay you—handsomely—to keep me well stocked in lemon custard cakes for the next six months. And maybe for the rest of my life. And my children’s lives.” I cracked a smile because the woman was funny. “You don’t have to pay me. I’ll be happy to do it for you.” She shook her head. “No. No, no, no. I’m paying you. You’re being put on retainer. I’ll have my lawyer draw up a contract. We’re making this official, because I need those cakes, and I want to be able to hold you accountable in a court of law if you don’t deliver.

It's kind of funny to me listening to people who claim to have these great records of winning a hundred and some odd straight felony cases without a loss and that kind of stuff that you hear of all the time. I'm here to tell you, if you let me pick out which hundred cases I get to try, I'll win a hundred of them in a row, too. Case selection is everything in creating records like that. My philosophy was, I tried them all. If I made a determination that the evidence was sufficient to justify the prosecution, then I would try the case, and certainly whenever you do that, you're going to lose a certain percentage of them.

It's kind of funny to me listening to people who claim to have these great records of winning a hundred and some odd straight felony cases without a loss and that kind of stuff that you hear all the time. I'm here to tell you, if you let me pick out which hundred cases I get to try, I'll win a hundred of them in a row, too. Case selection is everything in creating records like that. My philosophy was, I tried them all. If I made a determination that the evidence was sufficient to justify the prosecution, then I would try the case, and certainly whenever you do that, you're going to lose a certain percentage of them.

Lawyer?” Cade paused in his pizza path of destruction to gulp some soda. “Who needs a lawyer?” Tegan and Vic stared at him until the realization dawned. “I need a lawyer?” “I’m really glad you agree with that,” Tegan said smoothly.

Cash, as always, is the poor man’s credit. It would actually have been more expensive to go with the cheaper lawyer, as that bill would be paid in crisp, green benjamins, rather than equity funny money.

Why don’t we consider moving in together? While we head for this event?” She gulped. “What?” she asked weakly. “Let’s clear the debt, get Kid Crawford out of the picture, I’ll take on your upkeep rather than Vanni and Paul shouldering your food and board, and we’ll evolve into…” He cleared his throat. “We don’t have to explain anything. People will just say, ‘Dr. Michaels likes that nice pregnant girl.’ We’ll share a house. I’ll be your roommate. You’ll have your own room. But there will be late nights you’re worried about some belly pain or later, night crying from the babies. You don’t want to do that to Vanni and Paul and—” “I was just going to go home to Seattle. To my mom and dad’s.” “They have room for me?” he asked, lifting his fork and arching that brow. “Oh, for God’s sake,” she said, slamming down her fork. “You can’t mean to say you plan to just follow me and demand to live with the babies!” “Well, no,” he said. “That would be obsessive. But Jesus, Ab, I don’t want to miss out on anything. Do you know how much babies change from two to six weeks? It just kills me to think you’d take them that far away from me. I mean, they are—” “I know,” she said, frustrated. “Yours.” “Yeah, sweetheart. And they’re also yours. And I swear to God, I will never try to take them away from you. That would be cruel.” He had just aimed an arrow at her sense of justice. The shock of realization must have shown on her face, but he took another bite, had another drink of his beer, smiled. “Live together?” “Here’s how it’ll go if you stay with Vanni and Paul. Toward the end, when you’re sleepless, you’ll be up at night. You’ll be tired during the day, but there will be a toddler around, making noise and crying. And you’ll have all those late pregnancy complaints, worries. Then you’ll have a small guest room stuffed to the ceiling with paraphernalia. Then babies—and grandmothers as additional guests? Newborns, sometimes, cry for hours. They could have Vanni and Paul up all night, walking the floor with you. Nah, that wouldn’t be good. And besides, it’s not Paul’s job to help, it’s mine.” “Where do you suggest we live? Here?” “Here isn’t bad,” he said with a shrug. “But Mel and Jack offered us their cabin. It’s a nice cabin—two bedrooms and a loft, ten minutes from town. Ideally, we should hurry and look around for a place that can accommodate a man, a woman, two newborns, two grandmothers and… We don’t have to make room for the lawyers, do we?” “Very funny,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “Abby, we have things to work out every single day. We have to buy cribs, car seats, swings, layette items, lots of stuff—it’s going to take more than one trip to the mall. We have to let the families know there will be babies coming—it’s only fair. We should have dinner together every day, just so we can communicate, catch up. If there’s anything you need or anything you’re worried about, I want to be close so I can help. If you think I’m going to molest you while you’re huge with my babies—” “You know, I’m getting sick of that word, huge.

Well.” She looked up, as if reading off a mental list. “Not insane. Not a Republican. Not a lawyer. At least as tall as I am. And, preferred but not required: funny.

I can see why so many lawyers throw themselves into the river. With all of this fabric weighing them down they’ll sink straight to the bottom.” Alysia sent me an unimpressed look. “I’m a lawyer, you know?” “Then you probably know a few jokes at your own expense.

No, really. Are you a lawyer? Can I sue somebody in jail?" "You can. It wouldn't be worth much." "Right. So are you listening? I can't sue my boyfriend, I gotta sue my landlord." "Because your boyfriend threw you out the window?" "Because there weren't any screens on the window.

Within eighteen months, we had numerous cooperating witnesses—and not just lower level associates. Soldiers and captains turned. Even Carmine Sessa, the family’s consigliere, cooperated. One prominent mob defense lawyer wisecracked to me that there was so much flipping going on, the Colombo family was now being referred to among defense attorneys as the House of Pancakes.

Don’t judge a book by its cover because the criminal justice system is already overcrowded as it is.

When the defense attorney finished her opening statement, which included a lot of body movement due to the fact that the bar exam that she passed only included limbo references

Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t say anything about this to anyone other than your lawyer. (By the end of the day, I had hired three lawyers: One to deal with the criminal case and a divorce lawyer. And a third lawyer for John.) Don’t answer any questions. It’s going to be difficult, but you have to resist the urge to talk to anyone. The irony of these words would’ve been funny if it wasn’t so devastating. Not talking to anyone was a tall order for someone who has made a living encouraging others (and myself) to be more vulnerable, connected, and present in all relationships. Someone whose life’s work, and true passion, lies in talking with others about things that matter. And now, at the very moment I needed to connect with people, I was told I couldn’t talk to anyone. I’ve never felt so alone, so shattered, and so scared for the future.

And then there are people – and these don’t unsettle but enrage me – who think comedy is trivial. They believe that serious, intelligent people should focus on worthy, momentous things and that jokes, levity, piss-taking, subverting and satirising are the pastimes of the second-rate. Words cannot express how second-rate I consider such people. In my experience the properly intelligent, whether they’re astrophysicists, politicians, poets, lawyers, entrepreneurs, comedians, taxi drivers, plumbers or doctors, however serious or trivial their career aims, all adore jokes. And they have that in common with a lot of idiots. For as long as I can remember, I have always thought that being funny is the cleverest thing you can do, that taking the piss out of something – parodying it, puncturing it – is at least as clever as making that thing in the first place. This view, which, I’m happy to say, will be most offensive to the people I want most to offend, was probably formed watching my cold grandfather, with all his financial acumen and preference for fish over humans, cry with laughter at a van being repeatedly driven into a swimming pool.

You are Nicholas Ivanek-Williams. But I’m guessing you don't use the whole name when on stage, yeah?” “That's right.” “Because you wouldn’t sound like a comedian, yeah?” “I suppose.” “Because you'd sound like an eastern European lawyer?” “What’s wrong with being eastern European?” He looked around theatrically as if playing to some invisible audience. “Nothing,” he said innocently, “I was just saying that’s what you’d sound like in the milliseconds between your name being called out by the compere and the audience making their mind up about you. Interesting that you didn’t ask what’s wrong with being a lawyer though, isn’t it? You just focused on the other part.” “I don’t like lawyers.” “Nobody likes lawyers, Nick. Even lawyers don’t like lawyers, that’s why they’re always trying to put each other off by wearing those silly wigs.

Why, though I am a lawyer Master Copperfield” He replied with a dry grin. “I mean, just at present, what I say.

I’m a farmer. We’re being held prisoner in this ridiculous fortress by a wizard who wears minstrel robes to scare his followers, and my best friend in the world is a war criminal whose double-talk is so ludicrous that the world’s best lawyer would still call it a bit much, and I’m a farmer.

You can’t kick him out for being gay,” the one called Craig persisted. He was hard for Adrian to see, as he seemed a bit shorter than the other brothers and was in the back. “It’s against our charter, not to mention university policy.” “Plus,” Adrian called out, feeling he should contribute in some useful way, “he’s not gay.” All eyes turned to him, including Beck’s, which twinkled with humor. Adrian could really fall for a guy with those wicked blue eyes. “No, really. He’s probably bi. Maybe pan. God. Get your terminology straight.” A laugh erupted in the hallway. “Schooled by the gay guy. Burn.” “We don’t know he’s gay,” said another voice. “Maybe he’s bi or whatever that other one was.” “He’s gay,” Adrian called out. “I’m a lot less fluid than Beck. If it matters.” He gave the brothers a big thumbs up. Beck bit his lip and looked like he wanted to burst out laughing. “Anyway,” continued Craig, “if we kick him out, he can sue us. His dad’s a lawyer, remember?” “Yeah,” Beck agreed. “I don’t see any of that going well for you. Stop being homophobic dickbags, guys.” “I wasn’t being homophobic,” said one brother. “Don’t look at me.” “Then why the fuck are you with the dickbag posse?” asked Beck with a frown. “Dude. You woke me up and I didn’t get in until way late last night. Not cool. Keep it down, okay?” “Oh. Yeah. My bad. Our bad. We’ll definitely work on that.” “Sweet,” the not-homophobic brother said. He held up his fist for Beck to bump, which he did. “I’m going back to bed,” he announced, then fucked off.

What kind of suit did the tailor sew for his lawyer? A lawsuit.

Husband:  I want divorce. My wife hasn't spoken to me in six months. Lawyer: Think about it once again. Wives like that  are hard to  get!

It's kind of funny to me listening to [prosecutors] who claim to have these great records of winning a hundred and some odd straight felony cases without a loss and that kind of stuff that you hear of all the time. I'm here to tell you, if you let me pick out which hundred cases I get to try, I'll win a hundred of them in a row too. Case selection is everything in creating records like that. My philosophy was, I tried them all. If I made a determination that the evidence was sufficient to justify the prosecution, then I would try the case, and certainly whenever you do that, you're going to lose a certain percentage of them.

Skip, that’s one of about forty things on my list. It isn’t funny anymore. You’re fucking up on a regular basis. You miss deadlines, you libel people, you invent ludicrous facts and put them in the paper. I’ve got a lawyer downstairs who does nothing but fight off litigation against your column. We’ve had to print seven retractions in the last four months—that’s a new record, by the way. No other managing editor in the history of this newspaper can make that claim.