The 27 is Sworn in

The 27 recently attended his swearing in ceremony to practice law in one of his state's federal districts. Among other things, this means: (1) from time to time he receives emails that he does not understand, and (2) he gets to sign documents with his nice blue
pen.

Realizing the gravity of the moment, The 27 showed up early and parked in front of the majestic courthouse. He could not help but feel as a Middle-Age page, dismounting his mighty steed, about to climb the castle steps to be knighted and assume his rightful place among fellow learned noblemen. He placed three quarters in the parking meter, which on required two, but he was soon to be a lawyer and not worrying about mere cent-pieces was a luxury he could soon afford. Left hand in pocket, he began his solemn march up the courthouse's marble staircase, his right hand grasping a brand new, Kenneth Cole briefcase -- its black leather glistened in the sun. Inside the brand new, Kenneth Cole briefcase
-- a red pen, and a Crossianwich (sausage, egg and cheese).

The 27 was hungry.

This was the first day of the rest of his professional life. Visions of stirring opening statements, smoking guns, crying jurors, and judges awe-struck at the boy-wonder litigating in front of them filled his mind.

The truth warrior came to the courthouse's huge doors. He pulled. And pulled again. They were locked. No problem, he thought, obviously the right set of courthouse doors are never unlocked, probably some ritualistic custom established by Abe Lincoln, Gandhi, and other great lawyers whose fraternity he was about to join.

The left set of doors were locked as well. He pulled harder, as there were no more sets of doors. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he struggled with the mighty portal.

"Hey."

The 27 turned around. A gardener holding a weed-whacker lifted his goggles.

"Who is this peasant addressing me?" The 27 thought.

"Those doors are locked man."

"Oh."

"See the sign? Closed for renovations."

" ..." "I'm screwed, I was supposed to be sworn in today. I'm a lawyer."

He showed the gardener his briefcase.

"I'm a gardener." He showed The 27 his weed-whacker.

"Try the courthouse next door."

10 minutes later a sweaty and rattled 27 is sitting in the courtroom's galley, listening to a magistrate's speech about the responsibilities of a lawyer. Cockily, the 27 smirks, memorizing the faces of his fellow inductees, and swearing to slay each and every one of them in court one day.

The judge begins to call out names, one by one, to step forward and receive their certificates.

Judge: Kevin Smith.

Kevin Smith: Here. (Kevin Smith steps forward).

Judge: Sally Jones.

Sally Jones: Here. (Sally Jones steps forward).

Judge: Raja... Raja... Rajarish Bata... Batabupta??? Is that correct?

(Note: Shocking, we know, but The 27's real name is not "The 27". Rather it is an ethnic name matching his ethinc background.  However, due to the fact that The 27 does not want to get fired - or disbarred - we have substituted in a name of similar ethnicity, so as to avoid identification.) 

The 27: Yeah. (The 27 steps forward).

Judge: Yeah?

The 27: Yeah.

Judge: I guess "Yeah" means "Yes, your Honor" these days?

The 27: ... (Without retort, The 27 turns around, defeated, and heads back to his seat, contemplating what he will tell his bosses back at the law firm. He also remembers seeing an opening for a store manager at Target).

Judge: Don't be afraid, honey, you can still come forward.

The 27: Thanks.

Judge: Thanks?!?!

The 27: Thank you your honor.