We’ve come to a point with the new movie where reality gets to do a pass at the script and I am told things like “We can’t hit Barry with dozens of porcelain dolls. Those things are expensive.” and “The SAG requirements for endangering a child’s life are absurd and unaffordable.”
A man falls to the ground in a crowded restaurant. Frantic, one of his companions shouts, “He’s dying! There’s only one known cure. Does anyone know the fast bit from Blues Traveler’s “Hook”?”
Confidently I raise my hand. “Let’s do this.”
Play For Blood, Remember?
I ride up to Wyatt Earp on the worst night of his life and throw my red bandana in the dirt. Lighting crashes behind us. I shout to be heard over the din of thunder. “They’re pronouncing ‘Fieri’ with a ‘T!’ We got to have some law!”
“Food Network to the bone! Right, E?” he answers.
“Not anymore. Not after this night.”
He prayed like a lawyer. Or how he thought a lawyer might pray after a lifetime of courtroom dramas and reading the dust jackets of John Grisham novels. Muddy language was the problem, maybe. Maybe he had been imprecise or vague or ambiguous in the past and that’s why things had gone so very wrong so very often. So now he prayed with clauses and subsections and indexes and things.
Whereas: my prayers have made a motion to compel desired results, and whereas the Lord Almighty has been fully advised on the matter, now therefore it is hereby requested that the motion to compel a victory be heard and granted.
He stared into cold November Country. And November Country stared back coldly. And he prayed like a lawyer.