Rather than redacting, I’m listening to a Hippie temp tell me that we could win the war in Afghanistan by encouraging the farmers to grow pot, when the Tool walks into the room.
The Tool hovers over us.
“You sure you know to redact only personal information?”
“I thought we were redacting everything but the personal information,” I say.
A look of panic creeps across the Tool’s face.
“I’m just kidding. Relax. Breath.”
I’m pretty sure it’s the first time the Tool has heard a joke, and it doesn’t seem to be going well. He looks like that frozen 1L, the first guy to get called on who just completely lost it. The one who went mute. Or worse, the one who couldn’t stop babbling gibberish.
There’s one like him in every law firm. All of the other associates hate him, but because he’s so dense, so completely and utterly BigLaw, he doesn’t know that he is despised. The goofy tax lawyer who plays D&D in his spare time dreams about c*ck-punching him. The secretary who organizes birthday parties complete with homemade cookies wishes he’d drop dead. Even the partners worry that he’s a tool.
He is first-team All-Big Firm, and there is no room for humor on that squad.
The Tool turns on his heels and beats a hasty, if stubborn, retreat.
“I think he wants you to show him some respect,” the Hippie temp tells me, his voice sounding not unlike Tommy Chong’s, if Tommy Chong were from rural Mississippi.
“You’re probably right,” I say. “So, tell me more about this Afghanistan plan. What’s it called?”
“Bombs into buds, man.”
Temper(a)mental is written by a real legal temp. He has a license and a law degree. We checked. He’ll continue to post his “thoughts” in between doing “your work.”