Objection! Grounds.
“The problem with you Kiwi Farmers,” attentively typed the handsome and brilliant lawyer that had quit his stupid and shitty strip mall lawfirm that did nothing - all too similar to how most lawyers do nothing, such as an alleged “practicing” defense lawyer named Shawn - “is that you’re all fags and are not lawyers.”
A smile began to form at the edge of his thirsty lips. So thirsty. Thirsty for whiskey? No. The Whiskey Drinking Lawyer thirsted for no such earthly desires of whiskey distilled from the finest malt, grown at peak season during the best season for any global region during the last 30 years, aged in the finest of oak wood barrels (transferred every 8 years and finished with 3 years in cherry wood barrels and 3 years in smoked chestnut-accented Alaskan Alpine lined with oak) and distributed in absurdly rarified quantities that would make being struck by lightning seem like taking a piss.
The audience, the multitudes that hung upon every word, cheered on by quoting their favorite phrases, lots of “OMG” and “cheers, Nick!” and “you’re amazing” and praising how smart and witty and funny I am, even if I’m being weird. Speaking of praising my brain, my monotonous nanny began yo ah hahhhjkkmm that’s I hjsi hoop. brain kn her mourth Kauai. Jjaiaiooo ish ha si si Shaka aka aka a h