I fought the law

DISCLAIMER: If you are a lawyer, you might want to skip this week's entry on It's Been a Slice. I know how sensitive lawyers can get and I know how insulting I can get. In this post, I will knowingly make blanket statements and unfounded claims with little to no proof to back them up. If you are a lawyer, you won't find this particular post funny. (As for the rest of you, you may not find any of my posts funny, but I am addressing just the lawyers right now.) I am giving you fair warning to get out now.

I worked in the marketing department of a fairly large east coast law firm for nearly ten years. In that time, I grew to really, really hate lawyers. For the most part (uh-oh! here comes one of those blanket statements I was telling you about!), I found them to be arrogant, condescending know-it-alls who were convinced that just because they went to law school, they were capable of doing your job in addition to their own. They were experts on everything. They were a source of knowledge on just about any subject. On a personal level, I was often given unsolicited design advice and instruction from lawyers. 

It's complicated.

The firm that employed me was very aggressive when it came to marketing and the marketing department boasted over a dozen members. Nevertheless, lawyers constantly injected their own ideas, based purely on the fact that they went to law school. Once, I was designing an invitation for a conference in our Harrisburg office. The lawyer I was working with asked for the size of the invitation. In a telephone conversation, I told him it would be in postcard form, measuring eight and a half inches wide by five and a half inches high. He said he could not visualize it and requested a printed sample. I asked if there was a ruler available in his office. Again, he pressed for a printed, actual size sample. I told him it was the size of a regular piece of copy paper — one that is currently in a tray in the office Xerox machine — folded in half widthwise. He was not interested in any sort of exercise in origami. He demanded — demanded, I tell you! — a printed sample. I was convinced that, despite his years of college and law school education, this guy was either too important or too dumb to know how to operate a ruler.

One of my other jobs at the law firm was producing standard "support" ads for program booklets. These are very generic ads, usually offering "congratulations" or "best wishes" for someone being honored by a local organization. These ads were solicited to raise additional funds to either lessen the overall cost of an event or to contribute to a charitable entity. Because the law firm placed so many of these kinds of ads, the ordering process was streamlined to a few clicks on the firm's intranet. Every so often, an attorney - who was placing one of these ads - would request a full-color version. I would check the specifications from the organization to see if they allowed for color. If they did not, I would inform the attorney that the booklet in question would be in black & white. This, of course, would lead to an argument, because you cannot tell a lawyer that they can't have something they want. I would explain — again — that the booklet would be printed in just black ink. In some cases, I was ordered to submit a color ad and "see what they could do." Of course, "what they could do" was to tell me to resubmit a black and white ad.

Another time, I was having a heated discussion with a co-worker in her office. Perhaps our exchange got a little too loud and our voices carried out into the hallway. One of the firm's lawyers poked his head into her office. I expected him to tell us to keep our voices down, which would have been understandable. But, no... he actually began offering ways in which we could solve our little disagreement. My co-worker and I were so taken aback by the uninvited hubris this guy exhibited that we nearly forgot what were were arguing about.

Yet another of the firm's lawyers supplied a mailing list of contacts to whom he wanted a mass-mailing sent for an upcoming seminar that he would be hosting. He was very specific about the names included on the list and asked the woman in charge of mailing to pay close attention to the list — not to add any of the firm's other contact lists to his special list. The invitation was prepared, printed and mailed to his special list, as per his instructions. After a reasonable amount of waiting time, the seminar was canceled for lack of interest. The special list received not a single reply.

I was relieved of my position at the law firm just before Spring of 2018. I have had three jobs since then. But, my feelings toward lawyers have not waned. 

If you are a regular reader of this blog (besides me, I wonder why anyone would be a regular reader of this blog), you know I spend an inordinate amount of time watching television. I have taken notice of several commercials for local law firms — two in particular. The first features a local lawyer discussing his various case wins with a group of folks in a relaxed setting. Everyone is seated on a sectional sofa while the lawyer expounds on his winning record — delivered in a tone that's a strange combination of empathy and arrogance, with the "empathy" part sounding very insincere. The lawyer in the commercial reminds me of a lawyer I encountered almost ten years ago when an alleged UPS employee sued me (via my insurance company) over an alleged fall on my property. He is slimy and weasle-y and in a gazillion years I would never hire this guy to represent my interest in anything.

In another series of commercials for another Philadelphia law firm, the two principals are shown discussing important facts of a pending case (I assume) while strolling past prominent and recognizable sights in Philadelphia. There are scenes of them near the Liberty Bell and Independence Hall and City Hall. (I suppose they opted against showing them cavorting with Gritty and that's probably for the best.) Both gentlemen are dressed in tailored business suits. One of them, however, desperately needs a haircut. Up front, he has a receding hairline, but in the back....? It appears as though he leapt from his barber's chair to attend to an unexpected emergency and never returned to finish up his haircut appointment. Ever. And that appointment was months ago. I'll tell ya... if I decided to employ the services of this particular law firm and this guy and his "bushy bushy blond hair-do" walked into the office for our first consultation, I would immediately show myself to the door. There ain't a jury in the world who would take this alta kaker and his flowing locks seriously. Plus he reminds me of an old boss that I hated.

I actually have plenty more to say about lawyers, but I think I've made my point. Plus, I probably have lost a few readers.

So, sue me.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

stop right there, I gotta know right now

Ever since I unceremoniously lost my job in Philadelphia, I have worked in New Jersey. It is not unusual for people from Philadelphia (and its immediate surrounding area) to work in New Jersey. As a matter of fact, Philadelphians consider New Jersey to be a suburb of Philadelphia. 

My commute to work is about forty minutes and, understandably, I have to cross a toll bridge. Actually, I have my choice of two bridges that span the Delaware River. My preference is the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge, a nearly 100-year old drawbridge that, at any given moment, halts traffic to open up and allow passage of a ship. This operation can interrupt my morning and/or evening drive by up to a full hour. My alternative is the Betsy Ross Bridge, a more modern but less traveled truss structure built high enough that it doesn't need to open. Ships just scoot right under it and so far no ship has been too tall for passage. The Betsy Ross Bridge, however, is difficult to get to and out of my way. It also sports a toll of five dollars as opposed to the Tacony-Palmyra's EZ-Pass-discounted three bucks. Most mornings, I take the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge. I subscribe to a texting alert system that lets me know when the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge is scheduled to open. If I get that message before I leave for work, I change my route and head, reluctantly, towards the Betsy Ross Bridge. If I get that text en route, well.... then I'm fucked.

Once I cross one of those bridges, I navigate towards Route 130 and soon I find myself at work. Route 130 is an 83-mile stretch of busy Interstate thruway of which I only employ a small portion. One day, while driving along the route I drive every morning, I saw the flashing light of a local police vehicle in my rearview mirror. I obligingly slowed down and pulled to the curb to allow the officer to pass. But he didn't pass. He pulled right up behind me. Panicked, I steered my car into the parking lot of one of the many businesses on Route 130 and shut off the engine. The police car came in right behind me and parked. The officer stayed in his car for a few minutes before approaching my car. In those minutes, I tried to think of what I could have possibly done to warrant a traffic stop. I wasn't speeding. It's kind of hard to speed on Route 130 that early in the morning. As far as I knew my brake lights were in working order. The officer appeared beside my car and I lowered my window.

"Hello, officer.," I said

"Good morning," he replied and he asked for my driver's license and car registration. He walked around to the front of my car and leaned down a bit. Then he returned to my driver's side door. "You don't have a front license plate." he said.

"Yes," I explained, "They are not required in Pennsylvania, where I live." He nodded. I went on to say that I worked in nearby Pennsauken, New Jersey and I was on my way to my job.

The police officer squinted at me and said, in his best "Sergeant Joe Friday" voice, "I ran your license and there is a New Jersey plate with the same number that was reported stolen." I didn't know how to reply. Obviously my license plate — a blue, yellow and white plate with "PENNSYLVANIA" printed across the top — is not now, nor has it ever been a New Jersey license plate. It does not look like, nor could it be mistaken for a New Jersey license plate. I decided on the best response... and that response was "Oh."

The officer examined my driver's license and registration for a moment or two before handing them back to me. He said, "Okay. Have a good day, sir." He turned on his heels and walked back to his car. He got in, fired up the ignition and sped away, no doubt on his way to break up a murderous and desperate crime ring in the Greater Pennsauken area. I started my car once he was out of sight. As I continued on my drive to work, I played the whole incident over in my head. My explanation of the lack of a front license plate to an officer of the law in a neighboring state just stuck with me. That is until I re-thought about his nonsensical reason for stopping me in the first place. Look up there. There is a side-by-side comparison of the current Pennsylvania  and New Jersey license plates. Can you tell the difference? If you can, perhaps a career in New Jersey law enforcement is not right for you.

Ever wonder why New Jersey is the butt of so many jokes? Wonder no more.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

give my regards to broad street

I have been driving for 44 years and I have never enjoyed a single minute of it. Admittedly, I am not a particularly good driver. I'm an average driver. I try to avoid driving when at all possible. I have driven to work as a necessity. For nearly ten years, I took the train to work and that was a pleasure. (Well, the public transportation in the Greater Philadelphia area leaves a lot to be desired, but it was a pleasure in that I didn't have to drive on a daily basis for a decade.) Currently, my commute to work is about 40 minutes and comes at a time when I am actually ahead of the common "rush hour" on my route. I also get to leave work everyday a half-hour before the crush of homecoming traffic.

When we go out — anywhere — Mrs. Pincus is behind the wheel. We have a great marriage in so many ways, one of them being her love of driving and my dislike of the same activity. I happily occupy the passenger seat* while Mrs. P navigates the car on short jaunts to the supermarket or long journeys to Florida — both of which we have tackled often, much to her delight.

Dead end.

Our adult son lives approximately 16 miles away in the congested bustle of South Philadelphia. Due to ongoing construction in our fair city (which I'm pretty sure began just after the last cobblestone was put into place outside of Independence Hall), our choices of routes to his house often change based on whim-driven road closures or the placement of poorly-parked dormant construction vehicles. The nearest entrance to I-76 (the quickest access to South Philly from our suburban home) has been closed since Benjamin Franklin flew a kite in a thunder storm. Our choices to enter the Schuylkill Expressway (I-76's name as it passes through the city) is a roundabout course through small neighborhoods whose streets are — SURPRISE! — also under construction. Our alternative is PA-611, which runs a block from our house and becomes Philadelphia's notorious Broad Street once it crosses the city limits. Beginning at Cheltenham Avenue, Broad Street substitutes for 14th Street for its entire 13-mile length until it morphs to join I-95 just behind Lincoln Financial Field. We have opted to drive Broad Street, purely out of convenience.

The cat in question.

A little while ago, my son went on vacation for a week and my wife and I were asked if we could feed his cat while he was gone. We happily obliged, having been cat owners for years, although our house has been "cat free" for almost twenty years. Our son's cat is a beautiful — if not a bit quirky — little guy whose eating regimen is as idiosyncratic as his personality. Because of health issues, he needs to be fed twice a day — early in the morning and later in the evening. During the week, Mrs. Pincus took the task solo is the morning and I would join her for the evening trip and both times on Saturday and Sunday. Feeding a cat for a friend or, in this case, family member is fine if you live around the corner, but when you live 45 minutes away, it can be.... um..... dicey. Especially if the route to said cat is Broad Street. Don't get me wrong! We enjoy taking care of the cat. He's sweet and playful... until he's not. It's pretty obvious when he's had enough (usually of me). When he takes a "claws out" swat at my hand, that usually signifies that it's time to go. 

Prepare to qualify!

Every evening, after we finished our dinner, Mrs. P and I ventured down to South Philadelphia to give our son's cat his dinner. I have driven down Broad Street for years, but it's only recently I noticed a pattern in the other drivers that I never noticed before. Perhaps from my perspective as a passenger I got to observe... or witness... things I never noticed before. It appears that drivers have taken a page from the current crop of concert-goers playback with the "I'm the only one in the world" attitude.

Once we crossed into the official realm of Broad Street in Philadelphia from the pastoral quiet of suburbia, all hell broke loose. Drivers straddled lanes with their cars, the painted white dashes exiting the dead center point between their rear wheels as though they were being dropped at regular intervals from a secret hatch under the trunk. Other drivers barreled out of curbside parking spaces with nary a glance at a rear-view mirror. Still other drivers just stopped — stopped! — in an active lane of traffic, click on their four-way hazard lights with the understanding that those illuminated flashers grant them full permission to stop wherever the heck they wish. Holding up a line of cars behind me? Hey! I got my flashers on, so its okay! There are those that stop their cars for no apparent reason. Some take an incredibly long time to make a turn, either at an intersection or to enter a driveway (like a gas station, shopping center or even their own at their house), leaving the rear portion of their car blocking the lane an not allowing any cars past until the turn is fully completed. Others change lanes from the far left to the far right with no indication of their proposed maneuver. If you don't want to get hit, your spider sense better be tingling. Then there are the texters. In Philadelphia, one does not need to use a "hands-free" device. Although "hands-free" is infinitely safer, Philadelphians still insist on having conversations by holding their phone two feet from their faces and screaming. As long as you're making a call, you might as well text while you're driving, too! There is no reason to adjust your habits just because you are operating of a two-ton death machine that requires your full attention. In addition, a recent phenomenon has entered the equation. Groups of young men driving unlicensed, off-road, non-street-legal vehicles (mini bikes, dirt bikes and ATVs) travel up and down Broad Street in packs numbering from two or three into the dozens. These guys prefer the late night hours to cruise the blacktop, often popping wheelies for most of their journey as well as blowing off traffic lights and other posted road regulations. (Their vehicles are not licensed, so why should they abide?) For reasons only known to them, the police turn a blind eye to this activity. Come to think of it, the police turn a blind eye to most law-violating activity I have seen on Broad Street. It has become like driving through a real-life video game. Prepare to qualify! Avoid the hazards and score points!

Well, I don't want to score any more points. I just want to get where I'm going. Actually, I just want someone else to drive me to get me where I'm going.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

*One of my ex-sisters-in-law used to call it the "pussinger's seat" when the husband sat in it as the wife drove.

let's go trippin'

Oh what a fucking ordeal this turned out to be. (Wait a second. That sounds familiar. Didn't I just start a post like that? Are all subsequent blog posts gonna start like that? Well, only if they turn out to be a fucking ordeal... like this one.)

It began way back in 2009. That's right – this tale is six years in the making, However, I didn't become aware of it until a year later. But wait – I'm getting ahead of myself.

In 2010, I received a letter from an attorney informing me that this was my final warning. As far as I was concerned, it was also my first warning, as I had not received any previous correspondence from this particular lawyer. I quickly skimmed the letter and my attention was grabbed by such legal-jargon words as "negligence," "fault," and a few more fearsome-sounding Latin ones. Although the return address was in Philadelphia, I was not familiar with the particular law practice. The letter, upon closer scrutiny, recapped an incident that (allegedly) occurred on my property the previous winter. A seasonal employee of the United Parcel Service was (allegedly) attempting to make a delivery to my home. Because of the nature of my wife's business, she receives assorted sized packages of merchandise at our home on a regular basis. (Before you jump to a conclusion of an illegal operation, Mrs. P operates an eBay store and sells a variety of legitimate merchandise.) The UPS employee, who I'll call Miss Menteuse, was carrying a stack of boxes and (allegedly) tripped on my driveway. The letter went on to brandish the words "damages," "restitution" and several others that could all be punctuated by the greedy "cha-CHING" of a nuisance lawsuit.

I immediately called my insurance company. I explained about the letter to my agent's assistant*. She listened attentively, taking down details, asking a few questions including for a copy of the letter. I followed that call with one to my local police department. I asked if any reports of an accident had been filed about my address in the past year. Police records were checked and my answer was negative. So, I figured I'd just let my insurance company handle it. After all, that's what I pay insurance for, right?

So that was that. Wrong!

A little over a year later, I was contacted by mail by a new lawyer. This one was contracted by my insurance company to represent me. The letter explained that I would most likely have little or nothing to do regarding a pending lawsuit and that everything would be handled between my insurance company and their office. This letter was just informational. So, I filed it under a stack of papers on my nightstand and forgot about it.

Until I received the next letter, many, many months later. This one requested (demanded?) an appearance by my wife and me at a deposition. Mrs. P and I were to be questioned informally, but on the record, about the (alleged) incident. Furious, I arranged for a day off from work. My wife and I trekked out to a corporate campus in the western Philadelphia suburbs to "our" attorney's office. Here we got to meet the (allegedly) injured Miss Menteuse for the first time, nearly three years after her (alleged) "episode on our driveway. We also had the pleasure of meeting her legal representative – a shifty, slimy, hairy-knuckled shyster in an expensive-looking pin-striped suit. He looked like an extra in a B-movie Godfather rip-off and spoke like those slick ambulance-chasers you see on afternoon TV between The Price is Right and Judge Judy. A court reporter sat poised to document every word and the questions began. 

Miss Menteuse's attorney produced a wrinkled legal pad from his weather-beaten briefcase and kicked things off by calling me "Mr. Menteuse." 

I corrected him. "Pincus," I said.

"Huh?," he replied, as though he had never heard either name before. Realizing his error, he over-apologized and explained that, of course, his client's name was "Menteuse" and it was an honest mistake. 

Caution! May cause
irreparable damage!

And that's pretty much how it went. This distracted, fourth-rate Clarence Darrow hammered me with elaborately-phrased scenarios that evoked both confusion and impatience from me, my wife and my attorney. He often prefaced a question with "Now, I'm not trying to trick you.," accompanied by a leering, toothy grin. Each time, it was quite obvious that he was trying to trick me. Eventually, Miss Menteuse recounted, to the best of her apparently-rehearsed recollection, the events of December 2009. She told how the boxes she was carrying were piled way past her eyes, blocking her line of vision. She explained that she, indeed, walked all the way up to my front porch and decided not to scale the two steps, instead opting to seek alternate access to my front door. She then walked backwards to the sidewalk, and admittedly, without checking the path in front of her, crossed my narrow driveway and fell. As she rubbed her (alleged) injured ankle, she looked around and surmised that she had caught the heel of her work boot in a small, uneven piece of paving – a small, time-eroded imperfection that had been in that condition for the twenty-five years I have owned my house. Then, Miss Menteuse launched into a sob story, touching on (alleged) unemployment, being a single parent (allegedly), (alleged) constant pain and the (alleged) impaired ability to function properly as a productive member of the human race. All delivered with the gut-wrenching emotion of Meryl Streep in Sophie's Choice. However, there was nothing wrong with her that an award of fifty thousand dollars wouldn't cure.

Several tedious hours later, we were dismissed from the proceedings. Our attorney confidently speculated that this whole matter would come to some kind of settlement before it would reach an actual court date. My wife, whose greatest concern was that we would be in jeopardy of losing our house, was assured that was an impossibility. This was more of a thorn in our insurance company's side. Relieved, we thanked him and headed home.

But it was far from over.

Another year has passed when we received a letter, once more, requesting our presence at a non-binding arbitration. I called our attorney for a translation of the "legalese" of the letter, of which his office was copied. He broke it down in layman's language. A panel of three impartial attorneys would hear both sides of the case and make a decision of either dismissal or a monetary award. The decision, however, could be appealed, in which case, another settlement could be attempted or it would go to trial. A case of this nature, according to our attorney's experience and speculation, would be dismissed by any sane judge.

We soon found ourselves in the sterile, corporate surroundings of municipal building in the county seat. Three gentlemen in dark suits introduced themselves as the arbitration committee and informed all parties that they were ready to proceed. The entire deposition was reenacted for the benefit of the committee, with Miss Menteuse's attorney, once again, showing off everything he learned from Perry Mason reruns. Miss Menteuse offered her testimony first, tinging her answers with sorrow. In addition to her belabored account of the (alleged) incident, she told an irrelevant anecdote about a family vacation to Niagara Falls that seemed to baffle all present. When it was my turn in the hot seat, I repeated my statements from a year ago nearly verbatim (it was the truth), as Mrs. P sat behind me with the most forlorn look on her face. And once again, we were dismissed.

Another year's passing brings us up to the present. It turns out that the three-person panel fell for Miss Menteuse's tale of woe and deemed me an uncaring slumlord who had neglected the upkeep of his property for twenty-five years until it fell into an unsafe state of disrepair. They felt that the sum of thirty-two thousand dollars would make everything all better. Miss Menteuse's attorney felt otherwise and filed an appeal one day after the committee's findings were tendered. It seems either he or his client were not satisfied with the amount of the reward. So, after many months, another arbitration was agreed upon. This one will (allegedly) be it – final! binding! winner take all!

Once again, we were to meet on neutral grounds – this time, an attorney's office in downtown Philadelphia. Mrs. P and I arrived at 8:30 in the morning – forty minutes early for our appointment – only to be informed that the schedule was changed and the session would take place in the afternoon. We left and I returned alone, after being told that Mrs. P would not need to be present. For the third or fourth time (I lost count), the story was told. The boxes, the neglect of my property, Miss Menteuse's carelessness, my disregard for human life, her pitiful, struggle-filled existence – all the drama and pathos for a brand new, singular audience. Miss Menteuse's weaselly little legal representative was blatantly disinterested. He never put down his cellphone, he shuffled through an unorganized stack of papers, he tripped over words and couldn't recall dates or events. He told everyone that over the course of the last year, Miss Menteuse had lost an adult daughter in a fire (it was irrelevant to the case and was only used as a sympathy ploy), then went on to compare her pain from the fall to that suffered by someone who had been in a fire. His closing statement rambled on and on, still trying to get me to admit that my driveway is a deathtrap. Finally, the proceedings ended and, after some deliberation, the solo arbitrator would give his decision withing the week.

I received an email from my attorney. It was a summation that read like the recap of a long round of Deal or No Deal:

In today’s mail I received the arbitrator’s written opinion. He found the plaintiff 49% negligent and you 51% negligent for this incident. He determined that her damages were worth $26,000. However. based upon the reduction for her 49% the net award to the plaintiff is $13,260.

She and her lawyer essentially fucked her out of thirteen thousand bucks.

So, after six grueling years of paperwork and (alleged) doctor visits and depositions and arbitration, Miss Menteuse will end up with (after her slime ball attorney takes his cut) approximately $8000. I hope she's happy. Now that this is all over, I know I am. 

Allegedly.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

*In over thirty years, I think I actually met my insurance agent only once.

everybody's got something to hide except for me and my monkey

"Oh, for chrissakes!"

It's official. We, as a society, have failed. We have tried to rise up and better ourselves as productive members of civilization, contributing to the continuing evolution of our species and our planet. But, it turns out, we are just a bunch of self-righteous morons who can't distinguish our collective asses from any number of holes in the ground.

This week, a friend showed me an article about something called The Nonhuman Rights Project, a campaign led by an animal rights group. They have filed a writ of habeas corpus (that there's lawyer talk for a petition to release a prisoner or captive, based on lack of evidence) essentially demanding that chimpanzees held in zoos be recognized with "personhood." You heard me, Dr. Zaius — personhood. The wish for chimpanzees to be granted rights usually reserved for beings who can hold a job, operate heavy machinery, cure diseases and wear pants for reasons other than "it looks cute when you're riding a unicycle." We have a winner, ladies and gentlemen. Good night and drive safely.

Steven Wise:
"Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle."

The suit has been reported in such respected news outlets as TIME, The New York Times and CNN (okay, maybe CNN shouldn't be listed under the "respected" category). The basic story centers around Tommy, a 26-year-old chimpanzee who lives in a cage in trailer park. Tommy has his own television for company. May I reiterate that Tommy is a chimpanzee. He most likely has thrown his own shit at something that annoyed him during a point in his life. May I also reiterate that a chimpanzee is not a person. I'm not a lawyer or a zoologist, but I can tell you that with some amount of confidence. However one ironically-named Steven Wise will tell you differently.

Mr. Wise is the founder of The Nonhuman Rights Project and the initiator of the legal debate. He is a legal scholar who teaches animal rights law at Harvard Law School, Vermont Law School, John Marshall Law School, Lewis & Clark Law School, and Tufts University School of Veterinary Medicine. I just lost respect for the prestige of Harvard. The Yale Law Journal called him "one of the pistons of the animal rights." Oh, for fuck's sake — not Yale, too!

Look, I don't want to come off as a cold-hearted animal-hater. (In reality, I'm a cold-hearted human hater, but that's another blog post.) I get choked up when Sarah McLachlan shows me pictures of sad-eyed doggies and abused kittens in-between acts of cable TV reruns, her voice cracking in gut-wrenching helplessness. I had cats growing up. My wife and I had cats for many years. I smiled when my son recently sent us a video of a cat relentlessly licking his beard for a little under a minute. I also know that, when there were cats living in my house, there was a box of shit in my house, too. I have seen animals at the zoo and I have seen people at the zoo and — for the most part — I can tell the difference.

I wonder... while the "personhood for chimpanzees" issue is being hotly debated, are the residents of the Primate House at the zoo listening intently, their large ears cocked towards the radios, anticipating a positive verdict? If results are found in their favor, will they erupt in jubilation, much like members of the LGBT community when the deliberation over same-sex marriage is at hand? I doubt those scenarios will remotely mirror each other, since the LGBT populace includes intelligent, educated individuals (human individuals) and the Primate House is made up of a bunch of monkeys who scratch their assholes while they eat.

Personhood, Mr. Wise? Why don't you ask Charla Nash how she feels about "personhood for chimpanzees?" Of course, Ms. Nash won't be able to see you while you question her because her eyes were savagely ripped out in an unprovoked attack by her friend's chimpanzee, along with both of her hands and most of her face.

Don't waste the time of the already-overburdened courts, Mr. Wise. And don't you dare insult the concept of "personhood."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com