Sunday, February 9, 2014

The Litigation of Lawsuits, Lawyers, And Lingerie

I'm sick of lawyers.

Allow me to qualify that statement. I've had my fill of attorneys who prey on businesses which haven't demonstrably violated anyone's rights. This morning, while watching the news, I was assaulted by "if you've taken anti-psychotic medication and you're a man who has grown breasts, you may be entitled to cash compensation".

I have problems with that statement. First of all, a man who's both obese and who has used the drug in question can claim that the pharmaceutical manufacturer both carelessly and neglectfully forced him, indirectly, to make an extra stop at Penney's for Maidenform's finest on shopping day. Who's to say his lifestyle doesn't include regular consumption of a dozen glazed doughnuts while taking his meds? Maybe he would have been a perfect 38 DD even if he weren't psychotic.

Then there's the issue regarding the suit itself: the law office in question has, in all likelihood, determined the approximate maximum amount of money to sue the manufacturer without making it cost-effective for that manufacturer to dispute it in court. The drug company knows that Beatrice Blabbermouth -the bleach blonde on CNN- simply craves "news" like this. Free publicity isn't always the best. The drug maker, wisely, chooses simply to pay the greedy law firm.

That's right about the point at which I reach for my phone, overgrown child that I sometimes am, and revel in knowing that prank calls still live in 2014.

"Thank you for calling the law group of We're On The Next Flight To Costa Rica. Are you calling about breast issues associated with Nameless Anti-Psychotic medicine?" My initial instinct, of course, is to tell the answering service that I quite like my breasts, and can they suggest a high quality bra manufacturer? I don't, of course, though in that brief moment I almost feel like I'm a brat again. "Hi, my concern is what type of testing was conducted to establish the claim you've filed with the court against the drug company." Noting the confused reaction she replies with with compels me to explore this a little further: " In order to establish that a cause-and-effect relationship exists between consumption of the drug and breast growth, potentially confounding variables must -must- be identified and removed from the laboratory. Without doing so, your law firm's case could be swiftly dismantled. Has your case been forwarded to the Food And Drug Administration, or at least the Federal Trade Commission?"

This question has Molly hemming and hawing as she scrambles to find the direct number for Harvey M. Gusenfutz, Esquire. "I'm sure he can address any questions you have, sir" is swiftly met with a promise to call Molly back in the event that the respected pillar of the community can't be reached for comment. "I thank you for informing me that this call has been monitored and recorded", I say to a woman who's already sweating profusely over not being able to process the average minimum number of calls, per hour, in order to achieve the nine dollar monthly bonus offered by Gusenfutz And Friends. Sure enough, Harvey is out of the office, according to his "I'm out of the office" greeting on his voicemail, which makes me wonder if he's simply some pasty-faced sociopath with a law degree from Knoxville Night School And Tractor Repair. "Harvey! Long time, buddy!", I begin. Let's talk science, my man. Now, about this little suit thingy you've got going. When you collected the data between enlarged boobs and psychotropic meds, did you go to a statistician for correlational data? Was a two by three factorial experimental design employed by a real scientist? Or did ya just drylab the numbers? Haha, just kidding there, Harv. Nice touch using those telemarketers. What kind of package deal did Manpower give you, by the way?"

Mr. Gusenfutz, believe it or not, still hasn't returned my phone call. That's okay, though; it feels good knowing that I addressed one of these slimy slip-and-fall specialists with enough light of truth to make him scurry like Peyton Manning in the Super Bowl. I'm satisfied for the moment. As I surf though the channels in a valiant attempt to find a "That 70s Show" rerun, I don't see any more of those horrible commercials. There is a lull in the battle. I'm intact.

Good thing, too. If I weren't, I might have to call Harvey back and ask how much that medication costs. And, if I had to guess, I'd say I'd be ugly in a bra.