"I Am A Law School Girl (Snatch, Gunch, Clam, Whisker Biscuit — Pick Your Subject Synonym)..."

"This accounts for some 80% of the gunch at law school," claims a University of Florida law student who goes by the name of Benjamin Straight, before cutting and pasting a charming essay he's composed about a sort of tragic character that, depending upon your point of view, describes either the average "law school girl" or the inner monologue of the average late-onset misogynist, in all its sheeeeeer unbridled lunacy. Straight — I can't find him in the campus directory but, according to a Jezebel tipster, he's a second-year with a wife and kids, because there if there's anything we can learn from lawyers there's no justice in this world — has a fledgling blog over at the URL BigDaddyThunder and, it would seem, something resembling contempt for his fellow human beings, because he has also dedicated an essay to a short, balding, unshaven hair product-abusing Miami character he calls "Law School Guy."

While Straight's exact identity is still unclear — I'm hoping he turns out to be the same Benjamin Straight responsible for writing The Two-Finger Diet, because that guy looks like a studddd — I'm nominating him tentatively for the title of "Douche Du Jour." Because unlike the more exotic/pathetic brands exhibited by Paul Janka, John Fitzgerald Page, the Drunken Stepfather and such, there is something all too genuine and familiar in his misogyny. Note the special brand of contempt he seems to reserve for people (men and women) who work out and yet remain somewhat chubby in parts! Think he was rejected by a girl at the gym? Or does it take the military contractor to fuck a dude up this bad? Read and ponder, below.

From: Benjamin Straight
Date: Feb 6, 2008 9:03 AM
Subject: I am a law school girl
To:

This accounts for some 80% of the gunch at law school. Of course- if you are a chick and read this- you will say, "He's not talking about me...." Yeah, just like Lil' Jon ain't talking about you while you are in your slut outfit at the club dancing to 'skeet skeet skeet' at 2 in the morning.



I am a law school girl (snatch, gunch, clam, whisker biscuit- pick your subject synonym).



Let's get one thing straight up front- I am not here to learn. I am here to prove something.

As you pretend to listen to me so that you can fuck me, I will probably tell you that either my uncle molested me or that I was raped when I was 15. I also never knew my father. I was high school class president, president of my sorority, student body president of my undergrad, a 4.0 student in my psychology major, maxed the LSAT, but chose UF because it is the cheapest for the best education. I also earned the money to pay for the brand new BMW that I drive (even though I am only 22). I am under-valued, overly-perfect, and haven't bothered to audition for American Idol because it would be unfair to the rest of the competition. I have tried every diet, perfect to the direction, but still can't lose the extra 5 lbs. stuck on my ass. However, I will pretend that the weight doesn't exist by sticking out my tits and dressing fashionable.



I am here to prove my fashion sense. I watch Sex in the City, therefore I am. Miranda and Charlotte wear Prada and carry Fendi bags, so do I- but just don't tell anyone I got them as knockoffs from a Chinese seller on Ebay. Miranda is a big-city power attorney and so am I- just in rural northern Florida. I wear the big Paris Hilton sunglasses because I want to look important. In fact, I am Paris Hilton. I am even this important in class, on rainy days, and at 8 in the evening. There may be a barrage of paparazzi just around the corner and I have to be prepared for their snapshots.



I hate Britney Spears, but I carry my Starbucks around like her and check the gossip columns every class to see what she is doing now. I even have a pet rat dog that I carry in a purse and bring to school to show how Bohemian I truly am. There is something I love about becoming rich for being a sex symbol, and I secretly want old men to jerk off to my image at 3 in the morning. Speaking of being a sex symbol, respect me for my mind. I may have fake tits, lips, and cheeks, but you are never to look at any of my plastic snap-on parts or I will consider bringing a sexual harassment claim against you with Dean Inman. I wear just enough clothing to cover my fake tits and love to show them off, even when it is 32 degrees outside. They are my table centerpiece. Every day is a Thanksgiving Spread and my tits are the stuffed turkey. I also love showing my legs that are either too skinny from starving myself, too tan from being fake baked in January, or have enough cottage cheese on them to make salad bar complete- so that you can look at them when I walk up and down the stairs in my high heels.



I wear high heels because I have to announce my coming and going and warn the paparazzi and fat girls to move out of the way. I also wear them to lift my ass so I can be 'bootylicious' like Beyonce. High heels make me feel important. Fat girls can't wear high heels, so I wear them to let the blind students know that I am not fat and an important person.



I have a tit job and botox, but I am constantly outside by the bike racks smoking cigarettes. This is called self-improvement. I smoke so I don't get hungry. I then lose weight and my fake tits look bigger. Now I just need a face lift because the years of tobacco abuse have likened my face to an old catcher's mitt. I have my priorities straight, so don't question them.



In the end, I am only really here to catch a good dickin', or hot beef injection. You see, my biological destiny is to whelp out a few puppies and use them as excuses as to why I never made it in the legal world. The law world is a man's world, and I will continue to remind people in class discussions that women make 75 cents on the dollar that a man makes, even though the areas of law I am concentrated in (Family, Pro Bono) are the lowest paying. And I will leave the workforce to shit out a few kids, feel my calling as a mother, stay out of work for 5 years, and then expect to come back as if I had never left (especially after my husband is sick of not getting blow jobs and trades me in for a newer and less-broken model). I figure that any guy that throws me a dick here will at least be on the hook for child support and will make enough money, by default, to pay me a modest monthly salary for purposely skipping my birth control the night he spent 200 bucks on me at the bar and then took me home. But I got Cosmos out of it, and Miranda and Charlotte love their Cosmos while out on socialite scene of 13th Ave.



My favorite hobby is shopping and cars should stop for me when I run out into traffic, with my Ipod on, during rush hour. What would your vagina say if it could talk?

Oh, bonus fact! That last bit refers to a female law school student who had been killed by a car during her morning jog. Stay classy, Straight!