An Ipse Dixit Favor. Dodd for President! (NOT Chris Dodd). Check out Dodd’s 2/10/03 post for the details.

Unbelievable! I came across this site via The Presurfer. For a mere $100.00, this Swedish Company will prepare and provide a phony photo ID. The site refers to them as “Novelty ID’s,” and requires each of its customers to execute a copy of ridiculous “Terms and Conditions,” which the site refers to as a “Disclaimer.” I took a look at the “samples” (which are, according to the Company, intentionally blurred to prevent people from copying the samples directly from the site), and they appear to be driver’s licenses from each of the fifty states. I can tell you that the one for New Jersey appears to be an exact duplicate of a genuine New Jersey driver’s license. Check out the version for your particular state.

As for the legality of all this, the Swedish company states in its FAQ, “Yes, doing what we do is legal. What YOU do with your purchase defines legality. We don’t advise any actions with these ID cards. They are custom made novelty ids to be enjoyed for entertainment purposes! You are legally allowed to own a novelty id”

Can anyone tell me (with a straight face) what a “novelty ID” is, and why one would spend a hundred bucks to get one? Perhaps it is legal in Sweden to produce “novelty” (i.e. counterfeit) New Jersey driver’s licenses, but offering a counterfeit license as proof of identity violates New Jersey law, and it may well be (I will certainly check) that mere possession such a document violates New Jersey law. It goes without saying that setting up an operation like this in New Jersey would land these folks in the slammer.

Can it possibly escape the attention of these Swedish creeps that a photo driver’s license is the document most often proffered by people in order to be permitted to board an airplane? Need I say more?

North vs. South. Newmark’s Door posted on 2/6/03 an amazing photo of the Korean Peninsula at night. It speaks volumes.

MASTER SGT. JOHN “JACK” STEELE, ADJUNCT PROFESSOR OF LAW

(Continued from January 26, 2003)

Second Installment: Sergeant Steele Formally Introduces Himself to the Class

Steele passed his eyes over the class, not missing a person, as each student struggled to maintain his or her version of the position of attention. Sweat broke on the faces of some of the students, who could not believe what was happening. Barringer thought, This is supposed to be law school, not some kind of military academy. This is bullshit. Others were planning to make an immediate dash to the Dean’s office after class to report the actions of Steele and to try to get out of Steele’s class. They would soon learn that getting out of Steele’s class was not an option.

After Steele had “eyeballed” every student’s face, he removed his drill sergeant’s hat, placed it on the desk next to the lectern, and addressed the class.

“My name is John Steele. I am a Master Sergeant in the United States Army, and yes, I am also a lawyer. I chalk that up to a long assignment in Washington D.C., and my decision to spend time in Georgetown Law School rather than hanging around the NCO club drinking Budweiser.”

“I got a call from the Dean of this School, an old Army buddy of mine, who told me that for the last few years, graduates of this place have gotten piss-poor scores on the Torts portions of the bar exam. He asked if I could come here and whip your sorry asses into shape. I immediately accepted his offer, because, Ladies and Gentlemen, it is my job to whip sorry asses into shape. I’ve trained a couple thousand “raw-CROOTS” to do things that take a lot more grit than learning the law of Torts and learning to act and think like a Gott-damned lawyer.”

“You will not like me, and I don’t give a good Gott-damn about that. My mission is simple, and that is to teach you maggots Torts. And you may even learn something about acting and thinking like a Gott-damned lawyer. You should know that I have never failed to complete a mission, and I’m not about to fail now. Therefore, I will teach and you will listen, and all of you — even you, Barringer, will Gott-damn well learn. Have I made myself clear?”

Several students nodded their heads. Steele glared at the class and roared, “I asked you a question that calls for a yes or no answer. What the hell did I say about that just a few Gott-damned minutes ago? Let me ask you dumbshits again. HAVE I MADE MYSELF CLEAR?”

“Yes, Sergeant” about half the class responded at less-than conversational volume.

“You people had better learn to sound off when I ask you a Gott-damned question. Now, SOUND OFF!”

“YES, SERGEANT,” the class replied in unison.

“Outstanding,” said Steele. He paused for a moment, and then said, “SEATS!”

Some students slowly sat down, while looking to see what the other students were doing. Others followed suit in a rather haphazard fashion.

“People, I am not going to send you a Gott-damned engraved invitation to sit down. When I give the command ‘Seats’ I expect to hear the sound of every ass hitting the chair at the same time. You read me?”

“YES, SERGEANT,” the class replied.

“Much better. OK, Let’s try it again, shall we? Everyone on your feet! Attenn-HUTT.”

The students scrambled out of their chairs and, again, did their best to stand at attention.

Once they were all standing, Steele shouted, “SEATS!” There was one loud thump as everyone sat at the same time.

“Outstanding. You will now take everything off your desks, except for a notebook or a sheet of paper and a pen. If you don’t have a sheet of paper or a pen, grub one from your buddy. Pay attention, people. Here’s the Standard Operating Procedure for this class.”

“This class begins at zero-eight-thirty hours, and you WILL be here on time. If you want to sleep late, you better go back home to mama. You will stand at attention when I enter the room. You will sit ONLY when I give the proper command. YOU WILL ATTEND EVERY CLASS. If you miss a Gott-damned class, you damned well better show up with a picture of you in the hospital or standing next to the coffin of a family member.”

“YOU WILL BE PREPARED. I will say that again, people. YOU WILL BE PREPARED. That means that you will have read the assigned material and that you are prepared to discuss the cases. It does not mean that you’ve read Gilbert’s, or, God help you, that you read some canned briefs, and you think that you can bullshit your way through the class. Not here, people.”

“There will be only one person at a time speaking in this class, and that will be ME, unless and until you raise your hand and request permission to speak, and I grant you such permission. Otherwise, at all times, you WILL keep your pie-holes shut, and you will pay Gott-damned attention. Don’t even think about bullshitting with your buddy during class. If you don’t understand something, ask me, not your buddy. Chances are he’s even dumber’n you.”

“If I call upon you in class, you will stand at attention before you open your mouth, and you will not speak until I give you the command “At ease,” at which time, you will move your left foot away from your right foot until your feet are shoulder width apart, and you will clasp your hands behind your back.”

“You are authorized to have the following equipment on your desks during class: one spiral notebook, two ballpoint pens – blue ink only, and one case book. All other gear will be neatly stowed under your chairs.”

“There will be ABSOLUTELY no food or drinks of any kind permitted in my class – and that includes Gott-damned gum. Have breakfast with mama before you come here. This is not a Gott-damned movie theater or a mess hall.”

“Now, do any of you maggots have a question?”

No hands went up; the room was silent. You could actually hear the students breathing.

“Listen up, boys and girls, this is your chance to ask questions. If you don’t ask any questions, I will assume that you have heard and understood every instruction I just gave to you.”

A student in the center of the room slowly raised his hand. Steele, pointed at him, and said, “You, fifth row, center.”

The student, began to speak, “Do you…”

Before the student could say another word, Steele shouted, “What did I just say? Get your ass out of that chair before you even think about sounding off!”

The student hurriedly rose to his feet, and again began to speak, “Do you….”

Again, Steele bellowed, “Your ass may be out of the chair, but you are not standing at attention, and I did not yet give you permission to speak. I just went over that. I figure you gotta either have a hearing problem or you must be real friggin’ stupid.”

The student put his heels together, arranged his feet at a 45-degree angle, sucked in his gut, pushed out his chest, arranged his thumbs along the seams of his trousers, stared straight ahead and remained perfectly silent.

“Excellent,” remarked Steele. “At ease. What is your name?”

“Tom Merchant.”

“I think you mean ‘Tom Merchant, Sergeant’.”

“Yes, sorry. My name is Tom Merchant, Sergeant.”

“What’s your question, Merchant?”

While every other student quietly thanked God that it was not them being put through the wringer, Merchant, now noticably shaken, said, “Do you … have… a problem with laptops, Sergeant?”

Steele responded, “Yeah, sure. Sometimes I have a problem with them, and when I do, I get them fixed. Does that answer your question, Merchant?”

“Well, no, Sergeant. I meant do you have a problem if we bring laptops into class?”

“Merchant, you can bring a laptop into the classroom. You can bring ten laptops into classroom if you want. I don’t give a shit. Now, does that answer your question?”

Pausing for a moment, Merchant answered, “Not exactly, Sergeant. I mean, is it OK with you if we take notes on a laptop during class?”

“Well, Merchant, here is your first Gott-damned lesson – and this goes for the rest of you dumbshits. If you wanted to know if you may take notes on a laptop, you should have asked me that. No, instead, you wasted my Gott-damned time and your buddies’ time asking me half-assed questions about whether I had a problem with laptops!”

“If you people want to be lawyers, you better learn Lesson One right away, and that is to think about what you say before you run your mouth. If you don’t you’ll piss off judges, screw up any chance of properly questioning a witness, and render your client broke from having to pay for the time you waste asking dumb-ass questions and otherwise spewing Gott-damned word salad.”

“Now, to answer the question that you finally got around to asking, I already told you what equipment was authorized to be on your desk during class, didn’t I, Merchant? Did I say anything about laptops?

“No, you didn’t mention them, Sergeant. I just thought that, since other professors let us…”

Steele interrupted again, “You just thought? Merchant, unlike you, I say what I Gott-damn mean, and, for the record, I don’t give a rat’s ass what other professors do. If I intended laptops to be authorized, I would have said so.”

Let’s do a little exercise, Merchant. It requires that you listen to me and that you think before you open your yap. I know that might be difficult for you, but let’s give it a try anyway. Here’s the question. Is it permissible for you to bring a laptop into this classroom?”

While all the other students stared down at their desks, Merchant was silent for a full ten seconds and finally said, “Yes, Sergeant, it would be permissible.”

“Outstanding, Merchant. And if you were to bring a laptop into this classroom, what should be done with it?”

“It should be stowed neatly under my chair, Sergeant.”

“Well, Merchant, it took you a while, but you finally got it. Any other questions, Merchant?”

“No, Sergeant.”

“Fine. Take your seat. Are there any other questions?”

No hands went up.

“Outstanding. For the next class, you will read pages 1 through 95 in your casebooks. Attenn-HUTT!”

Everyone immediately rose from their chairs and stood at what was actually becoming a reasonably acceptable position of attention.

“Outstanding,” said Steele. “I’ll see you people on Wednesday at zero-eight-thirty hours. DISMISSED!”

The students could not get out of the room fast enough. Once in the hall, some students talked animatedly, but most appeared to be in a bit of a daze.

Steele, placed his drill sergeant’s hat back on his head and thought, I think I’m going to like this.

(To be continued)

Oy! Coughing, hacking, sneezing, runny nose –. the whole package. I feel like ca ca. And, to top it all off, I spent a good deal of non-quality time this evening on the phone with the lames at citibank, who managed to screw up my American Bar Association Master Card Account. If it’s not fixed by tomorrow, the card is history, and the American Bar Association gets a letter advising it of citibank’s shoddy operation. So, rather than trying to write anything more difficult than this dumb rant, I’m going to read some of my favorite Blogs and then head for the couch with a cup of tea with honey, lemon and LOTS of dark rum.

There are a several memories swirling around in my head that do not warrant lengthy treatment, but I thought I would share them anyway.

“Where’s the Red Thing?” As I may have mentioned before, a fair number of guys in my basic training company in December 1968 were college graduates (graduate school deferments – except for medical school – went by the boards for the Class of ’68). I believe that most of the guys who were not college graduates had been drafted after high school graduation. We did, however, have a couple guys who were only seventeen and who did not finish high school. I believe that, at that age, their parents had to consent to their enlistment. It may sound silly, but the differences between the seventeen year olds and those of us who had finished college and reached the ripe old age of twenty-two were palpable.

One day, I found myself sitting at a table in the mess hall with one of the seventeen-year-olds (I’ll call him “Jones;” I do not remember his name). I knew that he had enlisted to be in the infantry, with an ultimate goal of attending jump school to be a paratrooper. As you know, that was not exactly my Army “career” plan (see, Remington Raider), but I digress. He was an exceedingly nice guy, who sometimes viewed us “older” (can you imagine?) guys as if we were his high school teachers, which, I suppose, is something we could have been, but for the draft.

The meal that day came with a salad that contained olives. Jones looked down at his tray and, pointing to the olives, said, “What are those things?”

“They’re olives,” I said.

“No they’re not,” Jones replied.

“Sure they are, Jones. What do you think they are?”

“Be damned if I know, but they sure as hell ain’t olives.”

“Jones, fer Chrissake, they’re olives!”

“Well, where is the red thing?”

“The red thing?”

“Yeah, the red thing in olives.”

“Jones, you’re kidding me, right? You mean the pimento?”

“What’s a pimento?”

“It’s a little piece of red pepper that gets stuffed into olives after the pits are removed.” I began to laugh, and asked, “Jones, did you think the olives grew with the red things in them?”

I stopped laughing when I saw how utterly embarrassed he was. He stared down at the table, shook his head from side to side and in a voice barely above a whisper, said, “Jesus, Jim, I actually thought that they grew that way. Please don’t tell the guys about this.”

Upon seeing his expression, there could be only one answer. “Don’t worry about it, Jones. I won’t say a thing.”

He looked up, smiled, and said, “Thanks, I appreciate that.”

Then we both went about eating our salads, including the olives.

Facing Movements. A great deal of time is spent in basic training on “facing movements” (e.g. “right face,” “left face,” and “about face”). Having learned this in the Boy Scouts, I had a bit of a jump on many of the guys, but facing movements can easily be mastered with a little practice (although we did have one guy from northern Maine who never got it down).

One day, our drill sergeant proudly told us that he believed that he executed facing movements better than most soldiers. He attributed his self-proclaimed degree of skill to regularly practicing his facing movements at home, every time he went to the bathroom. I have often wondered if he had thought through sharing this little gem with us, because, at the time, the mental picture of this man left facing, right facing and about facing before and after peeing or brushing his teeth made me laugh.

It still makes me laugh.

“Police the Brass”. After a day’s shooting at the rifle range, we would all have to line up shoulder to shoulder and walk across the area to “police the brass.” In English, this means that we had to pick up empty shell casings and place them in our steel pots (the multi-functional outer portion of the helmet) to be collected, presumably for re-loading.

One day, after a long day of firing, we were given the customary “police the brass” order. By this time, it had become routine. As we were walking shoulder to shoulder and bending over to pick up spent casings, the guy to my right (a typical New York Italian wise-cracking guy that one always sees in World War II movies) said, “You know what? By the time we get to Vietnam, the f****** war will be over, and they’ll line us up across the Mekong Delta and march us north to police the goddamn brass.”

Back then, mental pictures of myself in Vietnam were not something I particularly enjoyed. This one, however, made me laugh hysterically.

In memory of of the crew of the Space Shuttle Columbia. Our thoughts are with their families, as the nation grieves.

Leave it to Beavers. Another Jersey Blogger (whom, as it turns out, I know personally, although only recently each of us learned of the other’s Blog) posted this priceless exchange of correspondence between the Michigan Department of Environmental Quality and a landowner. I checked, and the letters are genuine.

Fort Dix, Basic Training, December, 1968. The surly mess sergeant used a piece of chalk to write the word “MOP” on my back. “You’re a mop, ” he grunted.

About 45 minutes earlier (somewhere around 4:15 a.m.) I, along with about ten other unfortunates, had been awakened to be marched to the Fort Dix Reception Center Mess Hall for K.P. (Kitchen Police) duty. Not knowing what K.P. was about, one of the poor souls in my group asked the sergeant marching us to Mess Hall how long we would be there. The sergeant, himself not terribly happy to be walking a bunch of “knuckleheads” around in the freezing cold in the wee hours of the morning, said, “The sooner you finish, the sooner you can leave.”

There it was – The Great Lie – “The sooner you finish, the sooner you can leave.” I didn’t know it was a lie then, but it would not take much time for me to see the light.

So, there I was – a “mop.” I looked around to see that other guys had also been “chalked.” There were two other “mops,” a couple “pots” and a few guys with “DRO” written on their backs. While I had a pretty good idea what the “mops” and “pots” would be doing, I learned only later that “DRO” meant “Dining Room Orderly.” A Dining Room Orderly, is Armyspeak for a combination, janitor, busboy, waiter, food line server, abuse taker, and all around slave. I was, however, a “mop.”

The Reception Center Mess hall was huge, and, unlike regular mess halls, which were open only at meal times, the Reception Center Mess hall, was open and ready to serve meals twenty-four hours per day. This was necessary in order to feed the waves of incoming enlistees and draftees that arrived at all hours of the day. It also served an equal number of guys processing through Fort Dix, either on their way out of the Army or on their way to another duty assignment. It was a big operation.

As a “mop,” I was not terribly surprised when the Mess Sergeant pointed me towards a mop and one of those buckets like janitors use, with the mop sqeeezy thing mounted on it. He pointed out a section of the ceramic tile floor that I was to mop. As I recall, it was quite a bit larger than most kitchen floors. I’m guessing that the square footage approximated the size of a half of a tennis court (for doubles play).

I filled my bucket and began mopping. In about a half hour, I had finished. Still believing at that point, The Great Lie, I leaned on my mop and thought, Hell, this wasn’t that bad. I can go back to the barracks and maybe even sleep for a half hour or so. Just then, one of the mess cooks saw me standing there and said, “Hey, KP. What the f*** do you think you’re doin’?”

I pointed down to my excellent work and said, “I’m finished.”

“You’re WHAT?” said the white-aproned cook through a couple missing front teeth.

Leaving no doubt about my pathetic naiveté, I answered, “The mess sergeant told me to mop this area, and I am finished.”

“Yeah, so what?” said the mess cook.

“Well, I’ve finished what I was told to do, and we were told that, once we finished, we could return to the barracks.”

“Are you out of your f****** mind? You’re finished when I say you’re finished.”

There it was – The Great Lie.

Embarrassed for having been so gullible, I asked the mess sergeant, “Well, the floor is mopped; what would you like me to do?”

“Mop it again!! Keep mopping the mother f***** until I tell you to stop.”

So, I mopped the same section of floor again…and again…and again…and again. As I swung the mop over the same tiles over and over again, my mind wandered back to the guys from my town who dropped out of high school, did drugs, had police records and, as such, were not considered fit to serve in the Army. I remembered how I saw them all hanging out in front of a local eatery the morning when those of us who were fit to serve in the Army hopped on the bus at the draft board for our ride to the Federal Building in Newark to be inducted. I wondered what they, the unfit, were doing at that very moment while I, the fit, was mopping and re-mopping, and re-mopping again the same patch of floor. This went on for about six hours.

After a short break for something to eat, I became a “pot.” I assumed, that the former “pot” became a “mop.” Job rotation – cool. After six hours of mopping the same piece of floor, I was ready to be a “pot.” I reasoned that being a “pot” might be better because I would not be washing the same already-clean pot over and over again, and, in addition, there was another “pot,” so I might get a chance to shoot the breeze with him to help pass the time. How hard could it be?

It was awful.

Stupidly, I thought that being a “pot” would be like washing dishes and pots at home. Wrong. The pots were large enough to cook a small person or large dog, and when they weren’t caked with sticky food, they were greasy as hell. Forget about dish detergent. We used yellow soap and steel wool. Not scouring pads like Brillo, but rather real, industrial-grade steel wool, some of which turned into steel splinters.

I began to chat with my fellow “pot.” I cannot remember what we were talking about, as we went about cleaning the shoulder-deep pots, but after a couple minutes, the Toothless Apron saw us talking and told us that we should “shut the f*** up” and concentrate on cleaning the pots. So much for camaraderie.

That went on for about another six or seven hours (with a short break – a very short break – for something to eat), when one of the other mess cooks looked at me, the other “pot,” and a nearby “mop” and shouted, “Any of you guys know how to roll dough?”

My dough rolling experience had been limited to a turn or two at the rolling pin to help my mother make a couple dozen Christmas cookies. I will never understand what ever possessed me to say, “I can roll dough.” I suppose I thought it would be better than continuing to be a “pot.” Maybe we all make stupid mistakes after six hours of mopping the same piece of floor and another six washing gloppy, greasy washtub-sized pots.

The mess cook led me to a table covered with flour and handed me a rolling “stick.” He said, I need you to roll dough for biscuits. Are you sure you can handle that?”

“Sure,” replied Mr. Stupid. It must have been the fatigue.

“O.K.,” the cook said. “I’ll get the dough.” He bent over into one those waist-deep pots and pulled out an armload of dough that was the size of a large beach ball and must have weighed 60 pounds. He waddled over to the flour-covered table and dropped the dough bomb on the table. He showed me how to rip off a wad of the stuff about the size of a half of a watermelon and roll it out with the stick until it was about an inch thick. Then he showed me how to use a old can to cut it into the dough circles that would become biscuits. He told me that when I was finished with the first dough bomb, there were several more in the mondo pot. Carrying and working the dough was like wrestling with the Michelin Man. Christmas cookies?? What the hell was I thinking??

A couple hours later, with a dough bomb or two still to go, the cook returned and raised hell because I had not yet finished. “You’re not finished yet? What the f*** is the matter with you?”

I bit my tongue and thought to myself, What the f*** is the matter with me? You miserable prick, I got about three hours of sleep last night. I have been mopping floors, cleaning pots, and rolling your bullshit dough for damned near sixteen hours. I feel like my feet are bleeding in these stupid boots; I’m physically and mentally exhausted beyond description, and I’m friggin’ tired of being hollered at by halfwits. Any more questions, Shit-for-brains? I said, “I’m sorry. I did the best I could.”

The cook said, “F*** it. Go see sergeant So and So over on the other side of the kitchen. He has a special job he needs to be done.” Sixteen hours, and now I get to do a “special job”? Great…Just friggin’ great.

When I got to the other side of the kitchen, I could not believe my eyes. There was sergeant So and So, along with two other KP’s (also into their seventeenth hour), standing in front of a pile of potatoes that had to be ten feet tall. I had never seen so many potatoes in one place. Potato Mountain.

Sergeant So and So explained, “The “f****** potato-peeling machine broke, and I need you guys to peel these.” Goddamned Potato Mountain.

He handed us each a butcher’s knife (yes, a butcher’s knife), and told us to get started. Each peeled potato was to be tossed into one of the mondo pots filled with water.

We sat next to Potato Mountain on overturned 5-gallon cans and began to “peel.” I actually tried to properly peel the first couple dozen, but it was impossible to effectively peel potatoes with a knife that could have been used to hack down shrubbery. So, after a while, each potato got four of five swipes with the knife, creating what amounted to potato cubes, with most of the potato going into the garbage. At that point, I didn’t much care. I honestly don’t think I had ever been so tired. It was a struggle to remain awake.

All I could think of was the Beetle Bailey comic strip, where, after screwing up one thing or another, Beetle would be shown in the final frame of the comic strip looking pitifully up at the mountain of potatoes he had to peel as punishment. OK, for the past 18 hours, I’ve been lied to and hollered at. I’ve been a “mop,” a “pot,” and “dough wrestler.” Now I’m Beetle friggin’ Bailey. Terrific…just friggin’ terrific.

After about two hours of “peeling,” the mountain was almost half gone. Sergeant So and So reappeared and told us we were “too gott-damned slow,” and that we had best hurry things up as it was almost time to cook the potatoes. As he walked away, he said over his shoulder, “Besides, the sooner you finish, the sooner you can leave.”

I laughed so hard I almost cried.

MASTER SGT. JOHN “JACK” STEELE, ADJUNCT PROFESSOR OF LAW

Introductory Remarks

Those of you who have been reading this Blog know that, for better of for worse, I have had first-hand experience with Army basic training and drill sergeants. However, many of you do not know that I also have had first-hand experience with law school and law school professors, having graduated from law school some 19 years ago. About a month or so ago, my cousin Jack, the guy we all can blame for suggesting I do a Blog, fondly referred to his law students as “raw-CROOTS” in the legal profession. That got me to imagining what it would be like to put the two worlds together – drill sergeants and law professors, basic training and law school.

The idea was banging around in my head for weeks, often causing me to chuckle to myself, something that has always served me well as a test of what others might find amusing. So, here it is – a work of pure fiction, but clearly inspired by having been a draftee in the sixties and a law student in the 80’s (I had a different career in between the Army and Law School, but that’s a story for another day).

I hope you enjoy reading it even half as much as I enjoyed letting my mind wander between the basic training and law school worlds and committing the strange proposition (or is it?) to the written word.

In parallel, I will continue to share some of the real Army stuff, which should be readily distinguishable from the story of Adjunct Law Professor John “Jack” Steele and his first-year legal raw-CROOTS.

First Installment: The Torts Class Meets Master Sergeant/Professor Steele

The first week of classes was just about over at the Blackacre University School of Law. By this time, the students had already met their professors for contracts, property, civil procedure and legal writing. They had the bloodshot eyes borne of trying to keep up with the murderous reading assignments each professor dished out without any regard for the volume of reading being assigned by the other professors.

Completing the reading had been difficult enough, because virtually none of it was a quick read. Quite the opposite; it was stilted, often barely intelligible, and sometimes it was downright opaque. Many of those sitting in the class were secretly hoping that they were not the only ones having trouble making sense of the material in their case books, and that they were not the only ones draining yellow highlighters at record speed, thinking it would all make more sense on the second pass.

Still, it was, after all, Friday, and there was only one more professor to meet. Despite their fatigue and jangled nerves, the 1L’s felt good about having survived the first week. They chatted about weekend plans and looked forward to the forty-eight hours of recovery time.

Some students were talking about Edward Carey, the professor who was scheduled to teach the torts class. They spoke of his reputation among the second and third year students as an easy professor who did not demand much from his students. The buzz was that he didn’t matter to him if his students attended his class, and he politely tolerated students who attended but who were unprepared. In fact, the word around the school was that all a student really had to do to pass Carney’s torts class was buy a Gilbert’s and check out Professor Carney’s prior exams – they hardly changed from year to year.

They figured this class to be a cakewalk.

Unfortunately for them, being students of the electronic age, they neglected to read the paper notice on the bulletin board posted in the hallway of the student lounge. It read:

“Professor Edward Carney has advised the Board of Trustees that, effective immediately, he will be retiring from his teaching position at Blackacre University School of Law. Professor Carney is looking forward to spending more time with his grandchildren. The Board of Trustees, the faculty and the students all wish Professor Carney a long and happy retirement. Professor Carney’s Torts 101 Class will be taught by John “Jack” Steele, MSG, Adjunct Professor of Law.”

The lecture hall, which seated approximately 100 students was just about full by 8:25 in anticipation of the class beginning somewhere around 8:30 a.m. The room had become increasingly noisy, as the students, who were now getting to know one another better, traded stories about the past week. Several students in the front two rows were arguing about what Pennoyer v. Neff really was all about. No one was concerned about the time, as Professor Carney was not a stickler for time. Hell, sometimes, he showed up ten minutes late.

They hadn’t read the bulletin board.

Precisely at 8:29 a.m. the door to the lecture hall opened. Some students glanced in that direction to see whether the professor had arrived. Those who glanced at the door suddenly stopped talking and stared at the man entering the lecture hall carrying the Torts casebook.

He looked to be about 6 feet three inches tall and weighed about 190 pounds. He was dressed in his “Class A” uniform, Army green with brass buttons, light tan shirt and black tie. His trousers were perfectly creased and meticulously bloused over his spit-shined jump boots.

On his left lapel, he wore a round brass badge on which were the crossed rifles, signifying him as an infantryman. On his right lapel was an identically shaped badge bearing the letters .”US.” Over his left pocket were four rows of multi-colored ribbons, and above the ribbons, partially hidden by his left lapel was the Combat Infantryman’s badge, a rectangular blue badge bearing a silver long rifle. The blue badge was over a silver oak wreath, the two ends of which met at a silver star, which signified that he had served as an infantryman in combat in two wars. He wore a different unit patch on each arm over the yellow stripes – three stripes up and three chevrons down, signifying the rank of Master Sergeant. Over his right pocket was a simple black nametag that read “Steele” in white letters. Most striking was the Army Drill Sergeant’s hat cocked frontward, with the leather strap around the back of his head.

The volume of conversation diminished with each step Steele took across the front of the lecture hall. By the time he reached the center of the room, very few people continued to speak. He turned towards the class and placed the casebook on the lectern. Now, everyone had stopped talking.

“Attennnn-HUTT!” he bellowed, as he stood erect in front of the class, feet spread shoulder width apart, with his hands on his hips.

The class collectively fidgeted, as they looked at one another in fear and amazement.

Virtually every one of them was thinking, What the hell ….?

Steele did not move a muscle, and after a half-minute passed (which seemed like an eternity to the students), he roared again, “Attennn-HUTT!” Confused looks and more fidgeting spread across the audience. Most students looked down at the desk; others looked around the room. No one wanted to make eye contact with what they perceived to be the madman in front of the class.

Another long, silent minute went by, and Steele said for the third time, “Attennn-HUTT!” When no one moved, he said, in a voice hardened by combat and years of calling cadence, “I thought I made my self clear. I’ll stand here every gott-damned day just like this until Christmas until you maggots figure out what to do.”

Seth Tompkins, a frail kid with wire-rimmed glasses in the front row, after a false start or two, slowly got out of his chair and stood up. He quickly looked back to see if anyone else was standing. They were not.

Steele looked at Tompkins and said, “Well, at least there is one man in this gott-damned class who is not dumber’n shit.”

Chairs scraped against the floor, as the students, one after another, rose to their feet.

“Well, that’s a little better. From now on, when I enter this room, I expect you all to get off your asses and on your feet, and I expect you to be standing at ATTENTION. That means that you WILL stand perfectly erect. Your eyes WILL remain straight ahead. You WILL pull your chin back; your chest WILL be out, and your gut WILL be sucked in. Your hands WILL be held to your sides, with your thumbs held along the seam of your trousers. Your heels WILL be together, and your feet WILL be at a forty-five degree angle. Are there any questions?”

No one spoke.

“Well gott-dammit, DO IT!!!”

The students shuffled around trying to do what they were just told to do, but it all came so fast. What did he say about thumbs? As they each readjusted his or her posture, Steele walked across the front of the lecture hall and then up the stairs, glaring at the students and shouting, “Chest out! Suck the gut in! Watch those thumbs!”

Tod Barringer, a student in the back row, audibly laughed and whispered something to the woman to his left.

Steele stopped talking and looked at Barringer, who was wearing a tee shirt that read “Phish – a Backyard Tradition.” Steele walked up the stairs, never taking his eyes off Barringer. When he reached the back row, where Barringer was standing, he put his face two inches from Barringer’s and said, “What’s your name, young man?”

Barringer, a smirk still on his face said, “Tod Barringer.”

“Well let me ask you something, Tod Barringer. Did I say something funny?”

Barringer did not speak, but shook his head from side to side.

“Gott-dammit, answer me! I asked you a question. DID I SAY SOMETHING FUNNY?”

“No. No you didn’t.”

“Well then, why were you laughing? Are you some kind of gott-damned idiot? Idiots and lunatics laugh at nothing. Maybe you’re a gott-damned lunatic, Barringer. Maybe all that beer you drank and grass you smoked at Phish concerts ruined whatever little brain you started out with. I wont tolerate idiots or lunatics in my class. You read me, Barringer?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t you ever call me ‘sir.’ Officers are called ‘sir.’ You see these stripes on my arm? That means I’m an enlisted man. I work for a gott-damned living. This goes for all of you dumbshits. When I ask you a question that calls for a yes or no answer, the proper reply is ‘Yes Sergeant’ or “No, Sergeant. You think you can handle that Barringer, being a lunatic and all?”

“Yes sir…..I mean Sergeant.”

Steele strode back down the stairs in the lecture hall and resumed his position behind the lectern. The students all stood in various approximations of the position of “attention,” every one of them wondering if this was some kind of bizarre joke.

He damned sure had gotten their attention.

Next Installment – Master Sergeant/Professor Steele makes some introductory remarks.