If Great Literature Was Written By Law Students
Song of the Gunner by Walt Whitman
1
I raise my hand, and sing myself,
And what I assume nobody should assume,
And all I read in Hornbooks will be shared with you.
I never loaf or smoke a bowl,
I preen and gloat at my ease observing ev’ry post-hoc fallacy.
Torts class, every atom of my life, form’d from this toil, this school.
Born here of lawyers born here from gunners the same, and their
parents the same,
I, now twenty-three years old, talking begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.
Meads and nap’d drools forsaken,
Non-latin phrases shunned for what they are: plebes’ language, verboten.
My ardor for precedents made, I wish to share at every hazard,
Thoughts unchecked without creative energy.
I Am Charlotte Simmons by Tom Wolfe
G. Edward Terwilliger began twisting Charlotte’s nipples as if they were radio dials, simultaneously palpating her soft palate with his tongue, alternately flexing and relaxing the tip with strokes in a ratio that matched the vote distribution in Heller. District of Columbia v. Heller 128 S. Ct. 2783 (2008). Flick flick flick went the tongue, but it was the delicate dance of his thumb and forefinger that occupied his cerveau, was his bailiwick. Suddenly, like a flash of fluorescent light, he remembered the 20th anniversary edition of Men’s Health that his roommate had slipped under the door earlier that afternoon as he was preparing to deliver a world-historical bowel movement into the toilet’s gaping white porcelain maw. Brown it was, inert with extinguished life, an ex post indictment of an entire day’s worth of time wasted at student org meetings.
There, on page 36 of his mind, a firm reminder to vary the deployment of one’s sexual arsenal with each new conquest. God forbid the rest of the females in Law Firms & Legal Careers catch on to his lack of imagination. Mutatis mutandis, Terwilliger retreated deep into his mind, reached deep into his quiver – oh god! And now she quivered in kind! It must be fate! – and, caressing the entire dimpled terrain of her areola, traversing back and forth between its murky surface and the milky white mammary tissue that spread out beyond it in invisible axial rings, looking very much like the surface of Venus on a summer solstice’s eve… – and he lovingly explored her breast with the élan of Marco Polo making his way to Asia, finally pressing triumphantly on her nipple and then waiting, mouth agape, for what that venerable periodical assured him would be Her Best Orgasm Ever.
Just then, like the Mighty Colorado at its confluence with the Green River, a wash of acetylcholine overwhelmed her synaptic cleft and she reared back like a horse frightened at full gallop. “Will you still love me tomorrow when your blood is no longer saturated with the eponymous Iced Tea from Long Island?.” she asked. “I’ll never keep you at arms length,” he whispered. “Your five-pointed highlighter is poking me,” she groaned. “I’m sorry,” he said, and removed his pants.
The Law Student’s Odyssey by Homer
LEEWS, speak to us now of those study techniques
that assure him a top 1/3 finish after managing
to suck his bank account Dry.
He came to see
some undergrads’ panties, maybe learn the common law.
While drunk at Rick’s his spirit suffered many torments.
And he fought to buy a Shark Bowl and take some co-eds home,
but though he wanted to, he could not get their digits—
They all replied and said they had no phones, the fools.
So he feasted on the burritos of Panchero,
God of Post-Bar Food—that’s how was snatched away his chance
of sleeping without distress. So now, son of Mass Produced Study Aids
tell us his fall from glory, starting anywhere you wish.