This week's edition of Four Panels and the Truth will hopefully be the most shamelessly autobiographical offering for quite some time. Despite my generally unchecked megalomania I'm dedicated to making this strip about law school, not about me. That being said, however, I can't help but think that the four-part misadventure related herein is not in any way unique, since any law school is bound to be at least in part a refugee camp for the bright and directionless. I mean, you know, if you want to be a doctor, or a professor, or anybody else with a legitimate "D" in their degree, you need to start young. At least by junior year you need to have your act together, declare the right major, take the right classes, tea-bag the right professors, and clear a path toward academic righteousness. Not so for law school. All you need is a Bachelor's degree and four hours to kill and you're on your way to court.
So it was only natural that when Berkeley spat me out with a Physics degree taped to my back I floundered in a drunken haze for a few months before sending $60 checks all over the country in the hopes that somewhere, somehow, a kind-hearted admissions officer would find my life story of ne'er-do-wellity endearing. Next thing you know it's name tags, taquitos, and cheap beer in tiny plastic cups.
As for the Suisun City reference, this should be a lesson to all to register for the LSAT early, god damn it. I had to fill in my bubbles thirty five miles away from the convenient classrooms of UCB, at a test site that they practically had to build to accomodate overflow test-takers. On the plus side, Solano Valley Community College is just a pig scrotum's throw away from the Northern California Jelly Belly factory, which made the following thing happen:
[In the hallway after the LSAT.]
Me: Who will follow me to the Jelly Belly facory?
Some girl: Oh, it's no fun on the weekends. All the machines are off and there's nobody there.
This guy Mike: I'll go.
I still have my paper hat.