Something called a HellBoy cuts off his horns. Of course, they grow back, which forces him to cut them off again. This must be somewhat more difficult for him than my weekly ritual of making my head look like a cue-ball, but that's not why I bring it up. I mention this little tidbit only because the conversation I just had with my wife about it is not the most nonsensical event of the today, and I think that's amazing.

The gentleman behind the counter at the local auto parts store, who after ringing up my purchase of a funnel, eight quarts of transmission fluid, a tub of degreaser and a grease-gun asked if I wanted a bag does not get the top prize either. I channeled my inner Mitch Hedberg and replied in the negative. "No, I juggle, but I can only juggle eight quarts, if I'm ever in here buying nine quarts, you go right ahead and bag them up."

That prize goes to an attorney, who shall remain nameless. His motion to dismiss floated across my desk and included a four-page-long legal argument which can best be described as a bowl of spaghetti -- you know it begins somewhere and ends somewhere, but it's not really possible to tell where. The best part was that it was all based on a single holding in a single case out of a district that is not ours. Better yet, the attorney misrepresented the holding. Actually reading the case very clearly shows that the court rules the opposite way of what the motion suggests. As best as I can tell, the attorney was expecting neither the prosecution nor the judge to actually look up the case cited in the memo. I am not exactly sure that a legal strategy that begins and ends with fingers crossed behind the back and a hope that "they don't notice" is a good one, but perhaps this is something that one understands better after he passes the bar and gains more real-world experience.