Another Review of "One Millimeter Morning", Law Professor's (Secret) "Memoirs"

Selections of a Law Professor's (Secret) "Memoirs"

Recently, a post here "reviewed" (exposed) the "memoirs" (juvenile ramblings) of a "law professor" (non-practicing attorney) who "teaches" (pontificates in front of 22-year old student debtors, without so much as a lesson plan, a whole six hours a week).  I too wish to do this, because the sheer arrogance of it was begging to be held up to further ridicule in the form of parody. So I took another look at a "professor's" book.  This Professor of Flaw wrote something which he calls his "memoirs", though that is really a French word for what we might better call a "diary" (a child's journal of self-absorption). Let's not get hung up on the difference between an autobiography of someone not old enough to write one, or "memoirs" of someone who has not been accomplished or famous enough to write one, or a diary of someone who didn't actually keep a daily record of their life. I don't know what to call it; some guy wrote a bunch of stuff about his life, and thinks the world must know about it. I agree, though not for the same reason. Here are my favorite passages from the "memoir", "One Millimeter Morning", that I thought I would share with you. Remember, this guy is paid well to teach "future lawyers" who may "one day be on the highest court in the land":


I got fired from my first job; I refused to drop fries when there were already ones ready. I got fired from my second job when I forgot the office's address and couldn't find the building for the entire first week; I got hired for a third job, but I walked out when I couldn't find the bathrooms. A co-worker pointed to a door, but it only had the letter "M" on it, and that's not my initial, so I busted out of that joint too. Weirdos there, to work in a place with no bathrooms!

I love hookers. When I go to pick up my dry cleaning, I keep all the hookers they give me, so that I can help avoid wrinkles on my shirts. I bragged about the free hookers that I have hung well, but girls just giggle when I tell them that. Maybe saving money is funny to them?

I knew a girl (Biblically knew, that is) and she was married. One day, when committing adultery, I noticed she had a nice diamond ring on her left hand. She told me her husband bought it for her by engagement. I was very jealous. Why would her husband do that? He should have bought me a diamond ring. Jerk.

I'm clean. I don't do drugs. Though I admit that, on occasion, I may or may not snort, shoot, and smoke them. But I am not "doing" them or "using" them, so I am not technically (or legally) a "doer", or even a "user". Words matter in the law. My students need to learn this, just after they learn that I am "Professor" and not just "Mr."

Sure, I admit I made some mistakes as a first-year associate professor. I kept shooting up the usual smack between classes; but I swear, it had no effect on my teaching. I can "use" the socratic method just fine whether I am on opiates or not. The Rule against perpetuities doesn't mean we all can't have fun, right?

I care about my students; I always share the dope during office hours.

She asked me if I really lover her; but I moved my lips silent to say, "olive juice". She bought it. I am a master of lies and deception.

I was very good at hiding my emotional turmoil and, by all outside appearances, appearing perfectly normal. It was very easy for me to convince people that I was "ok" on the outside. I wonder, though, why I never got second dates or my phone calls returned. Suckers.

I knocked back a fifth of So-Co by virtue of the lectern having a compartment underneath, and that Pellegrino bottles are refillable. No visited me during office hours that week; perhaps my performance of Shelley's Case was persuasive enough that further discussions were unnecessary.

The dean is riding my a$$ again for that country-tamps I had with the landlord-tenant clinic adjunct "professor". "Professor" my a$$, he do anything but handle cases and clients. Not a single law review article, not ONE. Lame-o.

Just finished my fifth article, although the first one accepted for publication, entitled "Skinny Skadden: Anorexia Nervosa and Big Law weight-based discrimination". It's essentially the story of my life, so I am the subject-matter expert on this one. They had to accept my article, as I am essentially the only overweight man with anorexia in the entire world.

I heard Häagen-Dazs "Chocolate & Peanut Butter" has more calories than their "Chocolate Chocolate Chip", so I advise you to just go with "Chip", or even better, "Plain". That's how I keep my Fort Wayne body. No Kentucky-tummy for me. Breaking away, baby!

Kid in the second to last row was giving me skeptical eyes when I went into my "Blackacre is like a Backacher" routine. Idiot kids didn't laugh this year either. My material is golden though. Time for a 'tude adjustment for him when grades come out. Anonymous grading my a$$ . . .

I also did something else — for myself and own well-being. Since my passion was to someday become a attorney specializing in space law, I decided to send my resume to every country's space program I knew of: NASA, China's CNSA, and Russia's as well. Well, I got so many rejection letters that I felt galactically raped (I say this in a half-joking way). The best I got was an offer to be a mere passenger to study the effect of no-gravity on silly professors at unnecessary law schools in flooded, depressed markets.

Buy the original pile of low-class narcissism at Amazon ($39, Hardcover). [Link broken].