I don't often take cases pro Bono. After all, since Sonny died, it hasn't been as much fun, seein' as Cher won't sing Half Breed anymore like she used ta.
But me bein' a boy from Tennessee, I figured it didn't matter much if'n I worked a case or two without benefit of overchargin' my clients for thinkin' about their case while out chasin' golf balls and killin' trees when I miss those 205-point bucks accidentally wanderin' around my pile of shucked corn inconvenientliated sittin' underneath a one-man treehouse I built in the woods behind my forest mansion.
So anyways, here I is. I ain't got the larnin' that them citified lawyers have, what with their fancy accounts that lets 'em search their Lexus for the nexus or the willynilly what-fers.
Instead, it's just me and my cousin Clem and my uncles Gordo and Maximilian.
They say this here case is a whopper.
It involves one of them womenfolks who don't have no shame sheddin' her clothes fer magazine charity work fer them men who wants for a woman of their own at home, which kinda...no, not kinda, it DOES make her famous.
I dun looked over the paperwork. The whytofore and the hereintheafter don't mean much to me.
All I sees is this: if'n you's a famous person, you's gonna attract attention, both that which you wanted and that which you wouldn't want if'n you was begging for attention.
Now, as I sees it, if'n you's famous, it don't matter what kinda fans you attract, whether they be just as famous or infamous as you is.
And if'n you's ever had your own fan club, you knows the kinda fan mail you gets. As Clem says, it's more often lewd, crude and social un'ceptable or more so than it is an invitation to potluck Wens'dy night prayer meetin' at the Creek River Holiness Praise Church.
And that's too bad 'cause I love that homefried chicken and lumpy mashed potatoes that Earline makes for them Sunday after church suppers.
So's if'n you's famous and you gets the fan mail - and these days, fan mail ain't just a fancy posted letter with one of them fer'n Par Avion stamps on it - why, it could be got outta one of them e-lectronic portable handheld typewriters Uncle Gordo's been ravin' about that he seen at the Radio Shack.
Well, anyhoot, it don't metter where them fans' love letters come from. And I reckon it don't matter none about the content, 'ceptin' if it's threatenin' yours or your loved ones' life.
If you's famous in any way, you just caint sue or blackmail through the press your fans for any monetarily summatiouslike settlement, no matter how famous your fans think they is, real or imagined or in their own minds.
It ain't kosher in the lawbooks, is what it is. In fact, dependin' on what you says in public about the matter or your rep-presentatives say on your behalf, you's might be liable for libel or slander. I caint never remember which one.
I reckon that's all I gots to say on the matter. It's gettin' light out and ain't no deer comin' be here this mornin' so's I better go back to the cabin, cleans off my warpaint face, take off my deer scented camo overhauls and get ready for some good old-fashioned smashmouth football.
Who knows, one of them boys might take the other boy's head off and make my fantasy football team worth sump'n this year.
That, or start me a lawsuit on behalf of them zebraheads who fear for their lives after ruinin' a perfect season for the home crowd - you oughta see the "fan" mail they get! If I could bottle up some of them hateful words them fans say to them zebrastripes, we might have enough energy to put a woman on Mars.
Or is that Venus? I caint never remember. But I'm sure my wife'll remind me if she's Venus and I'm Mars or the other way around. Without her reminderin' me, I'd be a plain, dumb ol' boy from the backwoods drivin' a 4x4 with chicken wire and duct tape holdin' the ATV in place.
See you'ns later. Happy fall, y'all!
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