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January 5, 2003 tight cannon "Word has it you're something of a loose cannon." I stare at the portly, gap-toothed dork who speaks these asinine words.  I am a lawyer; the dork is a corporate executive.  He has flown from Missouri to determine whether or not I am worthy of his Louisiana business.  He's smug in the assumption he has something I want.  He's wrong.  I  want nothing. "That's where 'the word' has its head up its ass, Bob.  I am a tight cannon, an extremely tight cannon.  If you can find a tighter cannon in Louisiana, fire it at me.  Speaking of artillery projectiles, have you ever tried to stop a cannonball with that gut of yours?" Bob looks ill. "I hear you're an alcoholic.  Is that true?  National United Federated Mutual Casualty Company doesn't need a drunk for a lawyer." "Well, Bob, judging from the enormous sack of shit they sent down here to interview me, I have to disagree.  Your company most assuredly needs an alcoholic lawyer.  But, alas, I am sober.  I cannot, in good conscience, represent you in this condition.  I can, however, bludgeon your melon-like head with this hefty ceremonial gavel." I brandish the gilded, solid steel gavel given to me by the local bar for promoting honesty in the practice of law.

©  2003 by the beastmaster