And aren’t you an lawyer?

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=4087106&forum_id=2#36884778)

2. Yes and I’m both insane and miserable. I’m a poaster, aren’t I?

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=4087106&forum_id=2#36884789)

This guy makes $10k a month rantiing about Liberalism in comic books. Seems like something poasting could prepare you for.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=4087106&forum_id=2#36884816)

I want you to picture two men in what we now call southern England in the thirteenth century, tilling the soil for the coming autumn planting at some remove from one another, tending to the land each thinks his own--that essential rooting of human instinct to take possession of the earth and make it something more than intended by mere Nature. They are cousins, raised in the same village, shared memories of family, work, play. But in lately year the relationship has soured, their shared upbringing cast aside in anger as each thinks the other is encroaching on what he's toiled with sweating brow to make his own.

That anger has nested in each man's heart, drawing them ever closer to the edge of violence and, with it, the risk of lives being blotted out, families riven, etc. The sun is drawing low, but the irregular heat of a strong summer lingers and with it the clouded haze brought by a mixture of warm wind and field dust. The hour is here: You see the silhouette of each man against the russet sky, raising their hoes, turning toward one another--rage overcoming reason, the time for villainy at hand.

But at that very moment, appearing over the horizon, is a judge of the nascent Court of Common Pleas, forged in the furnace of great mens' deeds that is Magna Carta, John's bended knee spreading out onto the land the sweetfruits of an early english democratic impulse. He looms over the scene, twelve feet tall to the inch, tendrils of smoke coming off his great cloak, the curved blade in his right hand, the thick chain of solid silver dragging from his left. And he booms: "Behold the Spirit of the Law. Be at peace, my brothers." Edmund and Geralt freeze mid-pace, dropping their implements to the ground, eyes afixed to the sight of Terror before them. He continues: "Transmute this impulse of violence to a baptism by Order. Bring your wringing hands and aged worries before me. Come to Westminster. Come to the new seat of the Law." Their pleas are filed the following day.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=4087106&forum_id=2#36885252)