Tales of the Parodyverse

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Lisa L. Waltz (via Visionary)
Mon Mar 07, 2005 at 06:01:43 pm EST
Subject
Me, Myself and I
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The following was written by Lisa as a bio for a law journal that was featuring a profile of her in her new position working to research and prepare rulings for a county judge. I enjoyed the demented spin on her life, and asked if I could share it with the board. Needless to say, she said "yes", provided I changed the names of the judges mentioned "or I'll get unwanted personal knowledge of criminal contempt proceedings."

So without further ado, here's Lisa... --Visionary




The name is Waltz.
Lisa Waltz.
Grew up in a burg called Oberlin. Stayed there for my educashun. Never got it.

But here’s my story: Once upon a time in a galaxy waaaay out there, I was an innocent Oberlin college student. Then I fell in with a bad crowd (i.e. the fun one), got drunk on liberal outrage, and, on a double-dog dare, signed up for something called an L.S.A.T. It was my first bad mistake, and I have continued to pay fer it; ya see, now I am an attorney. Have been one for nigh on ten years, ever since I matriculated from Case Western Reserve Law (Ok, geez, so they only gave me the diploma on condition that I finally obeys the frickin’ restraining order. Details).

So, how’d a mook like me get the ticket ta become a mouthpiece? Well, it’s on of dem der famous tragic stories, ya know, like outta Shakespoon, where everyone dies in a bloodbath ‘cepting the cute lil’ doggie. It went down like this: right after graduation, I tried to get drunk again… but this time I only succeeded in passing the wrong bar. That was when I gave up on living a productive, meaningful life and became just another hard-working shyster, one who liked her clients shaken, not stirred. In fact, I really liked the cute, photogenic ones to straddle a crosswalk and remain quietly under the wheels of an in-gear semi, but it was hard to make a living that way. Some folks are just plain lazy. They want the personal injury lawyer to do all the work.

So, anyways, after years of bumming around on my own, trying to be a contender, I end up working days at a joint called the “Justice Center.” It’s an OK gig. My new boss is a guy known in the streets as Tom “Da Judge” Jacobs. He’s not a bad guy… for a maliciously tall person with the power of life or death over people who displease him. Um… have I mentioned yet what a fantastically skilled golfer he is? Oh, and he has superb taste in ties. Not like that new guy, R. C. Glengary; Glengary don’t know jack about accessorizing.

Oh, one ‘nuther thing ya need ta know about me: when I’m not working in a coalmine for de man, my life is run by a five year-old Tyrant King (i.e. Christopher G. Waltz, whom I am told is my son… well, he can’t really be my kid… I mean, I’m way too young to be responsible for someone else’s personal hygiene and laundry! WHAT?! You lie! I am soooo not over forty…. *Sob*…. Yes, oh god, yes. I am old, so very, very old. And tired, so very, very tired. What? No, absolutely not!!! I don’t want to play Batman Meets the Flintstones for the 37th time tonight… *sigh* …

“Well, Robin, it seems as though that naughty Joker has sent us back in time.”

“Holy Heffalumps, Batman, did our ancestors really keep huge, surly lizards as pets? Gosh, how did they keep their animal skin carpets clean?….”).

Take me now, Lord.




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