Serving Papers
Probably the least favorite aspect of my job working at a law firm is serving papers.
There is a long drawn out story about how uncomfortable that was.
Maybe I'll post a voice post about it (some writer I am).
Irregardless (even), wouldn't it feel fantastic to be the civil servant who got to march up to the White House
and request to speak with Vice President Dick Cheney.
Reference.
After one and a half hours of strip searches and interrogations, you'd be brought before the man himself.
Stare him down just long enough for it to be uncomfortable.
Then without the slightest flinching say,
"Are you Vice President Dick Cheney?"
He would maybe squint at you with a confused expression,
shifting awkwardly in his leather chair.
As you reached into the inner pocket of your suit,
a look of panic might flicker in the deepest recesses of those oilwell eyes.
His right eye would start to twitch.
Maybe the guards missed something, maybe they're in on it,
maybe this is it, ol' Dickie Boy. The thought flashes in his mind.
You bring out some folded papers.
Only when you extend your arm across the desk
as if brandishing the metallic weight of a hand gun
do you sense the Secret Service agents react.
The air is invisibly tense with their held breaths.
With a big, bright smile on your face, you say:
"Mr. Cheney, you've been served."
There is a long drawn out story about how uncomfortable that was.
Maybe I'll post a voice post about it (some writer I am).
Irregardless (even), wouldn't it feel fantastic to be the civil servant who got to march up to the White House
and request to speak with Vice President Dick Cheney.
Reference.
After one and a half hours of strip searches and interrogations, you'd be brought before the man himself.
Stare him down just long enough for it to be uncomfortable.
Then without the slightest flinching say,
"Are you Vice President Dick Cheney?"
He would maybe squint at you with a confused expression,
shifting awkwardly in his leather chair.
As you reached into the inner pocket of your suit,
a look of panic might flicker in the deepest recesses of those oilwell eyes.
His right eye would start to twitch.
Maybe the guards missed something, maybe they're in on it,
maybe this is it, ol' Dickie Boy. The thought flashes in his mind.
You bring out some folded papers.
Only when you extend your arm across the desk
as if brandishing the metallic weight of a hand gun
do you sense the Secret Service agents react.
The air is invisibly tense with their held breaths.
With a big, bright smile on your face, you say:
"Mr. Cheney, you've been served."