Legal Trouble: Call 1-800-JESUS-DEFENSE

This morning so far:

Jesus Lawyer

"Judge, this guy is a Dallas Cowboys fan. Hasn't he suffered enough?"
“Judge, this guy is a Dallas Cowboys fan. Hasn’t he suffered enough?”

Upon boarding the 4 Train at Nevins Street, I find myself on a car with a subway preacher. But not just any subway preacher. Not the angry old lady shouting at the top of her lungs with righteous fury. I HATE that woman. I don’t go shouting at you first thing in the morning that you’re going to die and then never feel anything, not even regret, so you better make the most of your life while you have it. So don’t go shouting at me that I’m going to burn in hell.  When she’s on the train, I will switch cars or dig out my headphones and listen to music — something like Jessie J, because I have it on good authority that subway preachers HATE Jessie J.

No, this guy was dressed for work. In construction. Hard hat and everything.

He was Jamaican. And when I walked onto the train, he was in the middle of a story about a guy going up before the judge for some crime. And the judge wants to throw the book at the criminal, but the judge has a relationship with the defense attorney, who puts in a good word and — well, I wasn’t clear if the guy got off or just had his sentence reduced. But either way, when you die, it apparently really pays to have Jesus as your defense attorney, especially when his Old Man is the judge.

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Foodies: Amoral, Sanctimonious Jerks Who Can’t Write

Hey, don’t “humanely” slaughter me and eat my entrails. I’m just relaying the message. And that message comes from the delightfully bitchy “Fed Up” by B.R. Myers in the March issue of The Atlantic. (Online it’s called “The Moral Crusade Against Foodies,” which gets more to the point, but isn’t nearly as much fun as my headline.)

Before I continue, let me say this much. In the past, I’ve found B.R. Myers to range from sanctimonious in his own right to flat out wrong. I’m sure if he ever bothered to read my book, he’d vomit on its pages and then set the thing on fire. But I’d still get a kick out of it. If you asked me to describe his style, I’d tell you to imagine taking my “Get Off My Lawn” persona, raising it in a cage in a room with no natural light, depriving it of love and human kindness, then feeding it a mix of steroids and estrogen. The result can be over the top, but it sure as hell is entertaining. (I say all this even with the sneaking suspicion he’s a vegetarian.)
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