I've been real active lately, following the case of Justin Kurtz, the college kid that got sued for almost a million dollars for setting up a Facebook page that expressed his disgust with a corrupt criminal enterprise called T & J Towing, run by some creep named Joe Bird.
This case is one of many recently, where companies get a jackass lawyer, like Richard Burnham, to abuse the legal process and violate federal law in the hopes of shutting down some web postings. Folks like me and Rob Delsman know all about this shit, and can attest to the nightmare that is some fuckstick lawyer like Richard Burnsman using our courts to make your life a living hell, merely for speaking truth to power.
Well, I have some intimate knowledge about Joe Bird and T & J (which probably stands for "Tongue" and "Jism").
You see, I was passing through Kalamazo, Michigan a while back, doing a short term contract gig. I was staying at the Super 8 off of Maple Hill, not far from the client site, which was at some BFC (Big Fucking Company). I had a rental car, a piece of shit Impala, that was I using for the week.
After a late night (I was working 12-16 hours a day, as is usual for a high-tech hobo like me), I logged off and headed back to the Super 8. I got to the first light, and the fuckin' Impala stalled. It had 8,000 miles on it and was dead in the water.
So I called the rental company, and they said they would send out a tow truck. I waited outside the car, and a few minutes later, this T & J wrecker shows up. Mind you, it was now almost 11 pm.
Out of the truck comes this fuckin' hillbilly, dressed in nothing but overalls (Dickies), dingy white socks, and Berkenstocks. No shirt, hairy back.
"Yuse da' one dat called?" he asked.
I answered in the affirmative and he got to work hooking up the Chevy to his truck.
"Ya' ain't from aroun' here, is ya'?" he asked while hoisting the car...
"Nope."
"Well, get in, I'sa gotta take the car to the lot."
"Can you drop me off at the Super 8 on Maple Hill?" I asked.
He just grunted, Slingblade like. We got in the cab. It stunk. Like feet and piss. I figured the lot was nearby and I'd be back at the motel, watching Pay-Per-View porn and sipping a cold Heineken in no time.
Slingbade looks at me says "My name's Bird. Joe Bird. Wus yours?"
"Uh, Rudy."
Slingblade slides open the ashtray. As he is doing 85, or more, on I-131, he pulls out one of the fatest joints I've ever seen. He fires it up.
"Wanna hit?" he asks.
"No thanks. And why don't you watch the fuckin' road, Jethro?" I ask him.
"No need to get sassy. And da' name's Bird. Joe Bird," he says. He turns up the radio, and no shit, I start hearing the Pet Shop Boys.
"You work out?" he asks.
"Just drive." I was getting a bit weirded out.
Slingbade took another hit off of the fat spleef with grease stained fingers. We were pulling up to the lot T & J towing, and I saw a big green shack.
"Here we is. Sure you don't wanna hit?" he asks. I reach for the door handle, and Joe Bird flips the locks.
"What the fuck?" I say.
I look over, and see Slingblade unzipping the fly of his Dickies overalls.
"Wanna watch me jack off?" he asks, as he wrapped his blackened fingers around one of the smallest cocks I had ever seen (counting locker rooms, Subic Bay whorehouses, and pornos).
I reached for a huge tire iron laying on the floorboard.
"Hell no, you dumb country fuck! Unlock the fucking door, Jethro, or I'll ram this fuckin' hunk of metal in your inbred face."
He shook his head like someone had slapped water in his face, and shoved his little dick back in his Dickies.
"Ya' don't have to get so sassy!"
I told him to fuck off, and walked the two miles back to the Super 8.
I hope Joe Bird of T & J Towing gets what he deserves.