I’m a busy man. Got two caution signs to remind me to slow down sometimes. Got a vibrating megaphone. Clocks. Radiation. Four goats. Got half a tank of simple columnar epithelial tissue. 60% through my day. Half a tank of gas. And it’s only 10:50.
One time, I had a dream that I was making peanut butter chocolate chip cookies, and most of them were the regular measurements in cups and stuff. But at the end of the recipe, instead of saying “2.5 cups of chocolate chips” it said “627 chocolate chips.”
So when I woke up, I made some peanut butter chocolate chip cookies. And instead of measuring out chocolate chips, I counted them (and suffered a lot of odd looks from my family for it).
Well, it turns out that 627 chocolate chips is the amount that the recipe called for (2.5 cups). Not only that, but 627 was the exact amount of chocolate chips that we had left in the house.
I’m at an Italian restaurant now. They’re a local chain and my dad did good work for the founder. I told them my name and I got a private booth with a bottle of Sicilian wine “complements of the family”.
I was met by the owner and I said I was graduating law school soon. He patted me on the back and said “we might have some work for you”
What is this
You’re about to become a consigliere for The Godfather.
These words are going to be typed out by a court reporter some day.
Hardly. This isn’t the 50s
Duhnuhnuh MOB LAWYER!
I agree with Rynn! You are being groomed to serve The Family.
They gave me a basket of cheesy bread without promoting and I don’t even have to breathe and the servers ask if I’m happy.
Let me reiterate. My dad is a doctor. He treated the wife of the founder and she responded very well. He’s a doctor. Nothing more.
A mob doctor. He fixes up gunshot wounds
He’s a Neurologist!
Gunshot wounds to the nerves
Looks like this post is gonna be evidence for a future legal case
Kortzite 