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Volume 24, Number 2 (2000) LIGHT BANTER: THE FACULTY AT LUNCH JEREMY GILMAN The chicken salad on bun looked surprisingly edible and devoid of its usual blue tint. Professor Kamholtz pulled it out of the vending machine and complemented it with a bag of nacho chips and a can of Squirt. He found an empty table amidst the hordes of kibitzing law students, sat down, and started eating. “Mind if I join you?” It was Professor Borgor, a contracts and commercial law professor. He was holding a tray containing four slices of freshly microwaved pizza, a strawberry yogurt and a Yoo-Hoo. “Not at all, Ivan,” Kamholtz said, making room. “Be my guest.” “Thank you.” The two ate in silence. Kamholtz was a constitutional law professor who’d been teaching at the law school for thirty years. He was so absorbed in the heady intricacies of constitutional theory that it was difficult for him to communicate with anyone outside of his dusty realm. Borgor, an exile from private practice, was outside of his realm. “Gentleman.” It was Letitia Zoltos, new to the faculty and an academic jack-of-all-trades, with a special interest in First Amendment, gender studies, and media law. She was toting a bowl of soup and a plate of salad with a few pieces of Melba toast and a glass of water. Zoltos was the faculty wunderkind; she went straight from law school to a Supreme Court clerkship to the faculty, bypassing lavish law firm offers along the way, and would likely be tenured by age thirty. She looked like a cross between Janis Joplin and Sophia Loren. “Letitia,” Kamholtz said. “Letitia,” Borgor said. “So,” Zoltos said, settling into her seat, “what’s new and exciting?” Kamholtz ignored her and stared at a nacho chip. Borgor looked up with a mouthful of pizza and raised a finger while preparing to swallow. Then he swigged some Squirt. “Not much,” he said, wiping his mouth. “What about you?” “Oh, you know. A little of this, a little of that. Hey, any of you guys happen to see the Seventh Circuit’s new opinion in Rudolph v. School Board?” “Hello, all.” It was Raoul Phillpot, a tax law professor with a keen ear for debauchery. “Raoul.” “Raoul.” “Raoul.” Phillpot brought with him a meatball sub, a slice of pizza, a bowl of peas and carrots and two cans of Slice. “On a diet, Raoul?” “I’m trying, Letitia. I see you’re into rabbit food yourself.” “I knew you were coming so I left all the revolting food intact.” Borgor grinned. He’d already stained his shirt. “Anyhow,” Zoltos said, “I was just commenting on the Seventh Circuit’s new opinion in Rudolph v. School Board. Any of you scholars see it yet?” “Can’t say I have,” Borgor said. “I hope I never do,” Phillpot chimed in. Kamholtz still pondered his nacho chip. Undeterred, Professor Zoltos continued. “Oh, it’s a remarkable decision, really. In a two-to-one vote, the court held that a white color-blind lesbian elementary school crossing guard could not be fired by the school district in favor of a black color-blind lesbian elementary school crossing guard under a new race-based affirmative action program because doing so would violate the white crossing guard’s rights under the Americans With Disabilities Act and her federal civil rights under Title VII of the 1964 Act. Amazing.” Borgor dropped his pizza on his lap. “Damn,” he said, picking it up and eating it. “The cheese fell off.” “You want a bite of my meatball sub?” Phillpot asked. “Sure,” Borgor said, taking a massive one. “Anyone else?” Phillpot asked, displaying the mangled sub. “I’ll have one,” Kamholtz whispered. Zoltos declined to partake. “So what do you think?” she said, animated by what she deemed to be a landmark new decision. “Any comments from my esteemed colleagues?” Borgor belched. Kamholtz looked up, his sleeve stained crimson from meatball gravy, and shook his head no. “What do you mean, Gunther?” Zoltos asked, trying to decipher his headshake. “Do you side with the dissent?” “I do,” Kamholtz said. “Why?” “I’ll tell you why,” Borgor interrupted. “Because Gunther’s a fascist, that’s why.” “I thought he was a Nazi,” Phillpot said, aiming a pizza slice at his mouth. “He’s a Nazi fascist,” Borgor said. Phillpot nodded in assent. “You’re both wrong, gentlemen,” Kamholtz said, studying his can of Squirt. “I’m a postmodernist neo-libertarian on civil rights issues and a quasi-Platonic radical deconstructionist on monetary issues.” “You’re also a Dodgers fan, aren’t you?” “Yes, Borgor. I am.” “Well,” Borgor continued, “if you want my opinion, the Seventh Circuit’s majority opinion eviscerates autonomous school board self-governance in a misguided attempt to elevate archetypal notions of primal constitutionalism in a desperate effort to cling to the social engineering agenda of the Warren Court.” “What the hell did that mean?” Phillpot asked. “Damned if I know,” Borgor replied. “But it sounded erudite, didn’t it?” “It sounded like horseshit to me,” Phillpot said. “Exactly,” Borgor said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “But wait,” Zoltos said, nibbling some Melba toast. “Ivan’s right–” “I am?” Borgor asked. “Absolutely,” she continued. “Viewed from the vantage point of normative means-ends doctrinal constitutional formulations, à la Justices Warren and Brennan and Douglas and Marshall–” “The unholy alliance,” Phillpot said. “–I would agree with Ivan that the Seventh Circuit saw fit to abrogate purely local administrative decision-making in favor of a broader construct; one that suffuses equal protection constraints within a broader dialectic of discretionary governmental functions.” “Letitia,” Kamholtz said patiently, “I’m not sure I fully agree with the morphology of your predicate.” Borgor nudged Phillpot. “You hear that, Raoul?” he whispered. “He doesn’t agree with the morphology of her predicate.” “Can you blame him?” Phillpot whispered back. Zoltos pressed on. “Why, Gunther? Tell me why you disagree with the morphology of my predicate? I hope it’s not because it fails adequately to factor in those structural pluralistic meta-assertions that you deem so important when evaluating conflicting constitutional syllogisms. Is that it?” “In part, it is. But, it’s more than that.” “But what?” Zoltos demanded. “Why do you insist on devaluing the symbology of constitutional metaphors in an unremitting effort to arrive at a race-neutral interpretivistic approach to the Bill of Rights? It sounds like a reinvented logical positivism to me, Gunther.” “I must confess,” Phillpot said, “it sounds like a return to logical positivism to me, too.” “What the hell do you know about logical positivism, you asshole?” Kamholtz said. “You’re a tax professor.” “You’ve got to know about logical positivism to get a job on the faculty,” Phillpot said. “That and minimalism.” “I know minimalism,” Borgor asserted. “I would have guessed that,” Kamholtz said. “Anyhow,” Zoltos said, sipping her water, “the Seventh Circuit majority was very canny. In de-emphasizing the sexuo-political aspects of the case, it was able to focus on narrower, and hence more manageable constitutional issues like–” “Like whether the white color-blind lesbian elementary school crossing guard was better suited for the job than the black color-blind lesbian elementary school crossing guard?” Borgor asked. “Of course not, you numbskull,” Kamholtz said, flicking nacho crumbs off his shirt. “Issues like ‘who’s better suited for the job’ are not abstruse enough for constitutional analysis.” “Exactly,” Phillpot said. “Our job is to find the complex in the simple, the arcane in the obvious, the nonsensical in the sensible. Once people can understand what you’re saying, you might as well start looking for a faculty appointment at the nearest vocational school.” “Hey, I’m sorry,” Borgor said, embarrassed. “I was just making a comment.” “Yeah, you guys, leave him alone,” Zoltos said. “Besides, I recently read Ivan’s new article on the fallacy of contract formation in the Virginia Journal of Law, Business, Law & Business, and Business Law, and it was brilliant, I tell you, utterly brilliant. A real tour de force, Ivan.” “I must have missed it,” Kamholtz said dismissively. “What was the morphology of your predicate, Ivan?” Phillpot asked. “The morphology of my predicate was that the existence of agreement-vehicles commonly known as ‘contracts’ is a legal fiction, some would even say a proto-fiction, designed to create and propagate opportunity structures for the transaction of isolated goal-oriented achievement paradigms in symbiotically essential transfer arrangements.” Kamholtz nodded pensively. “Brilliant,” he said. “Absolutely flawless.” “If I understand you correctly,” Phillpot said, “contracts are–” “Bogus,” Borgor said. “They’re little more than transitory promises not to screw the people you’re dealing with. It’s like saying gesundheit after someone sneezes. Why don’t people say that after someone gets a paper cut? Or after someone throws up on his desk or yawns? Why do we mindlessly say gesundheit only after someone sneezes? And why do we say it at all? Why do we feel socially compelled to respond when someone sneezes? Think about it. A sneeze is merely an evanescent episode of seismic nasal violence often accompanied by a short, piercing scream and a gush of atomized spit. In its most common form, it occurs in units of two, although some people sneeze only once while others engage in more repetitive sneezing bouts sometimes numbering in the hundreds. Ordinarily, a sneeze is the nasal cavity’s preferred mecha-nism for expelling foreign irritants, such as dust, cat hair or cocaine. The question, then, is as follows: Of all the anatomic reactions our bodies are capable of generating, why is it that one–sneezing–that we feel compelled verbally to address? Why does that one rather unpleasant spasm of spitting and screaming beckon us to respond?” “I don’t know, Ivan,” Zoltos said. “Tell us.” Borgor paused. “What were we talking about again?” “Quite honestly, I forgot,” Phillpot said. “I think it had something to do with the Dodgers,” Borgor said. “No, I remember,” Zoltos said. “You were telling us about your recent article on the fallacy of contract formation–” ”Right, that’s what it was,” Borgor said. “But what did that have to do with sneezing?” “I don’t know,” Zoltos said. “You brought it up.” “Well, forget about it. Anyhow, yes, contracts are fallacious. They’re not worth the paper they’re written on.” “I hope you don’t tell that to your students,” Kamholtz said. “I don’t have to. They know it already.” “So what do you teach them in your commercial law classes?” Phillpot asked. “Well, yesterday, I taught them about the difference between buying a car and leasing it.” “I’m sure they’re damn glad they chose to go to law school,” Kamholtz said. “But let’s get back to your theory about the fallacy of contract formation,” Zoltos said. “If I hear what you’re saying, you’re arguing that contracts are fictitious little micro-pacts designed to shield us from the ravages of our own anarchistic inclinations. They’re benign lies. Well-meaning frauds. Absent the fictions we call contracts, we’d simply revert to our more atavistic, more anthropologically-genuine essences. We’d be–” “Barbarians,” Borgor said, finishing her thought. “Exactly,” Zoltos said. “Cavemen,” Borgor said. “And women,” Zoltos added. “Exactly,” Borgor said. “But wait,” Phillpot said, balancing a spoonful of peas and carrots. “Since contract formation is a necessary precondition to contract breach, and since the breaching of contracts is itself the source of most societal conflict, don’t you think that all of that conflict can be avoided if all contracts were simply abolished?” “That’s brilliant,” Zoltos said. “Indeed,” Kamholtz said. “You’re right, Raoul,” Borgor said. “I’m researching a new article for the Louisiana Journal of Law, Law, Business, Business, and Law Business on precisely that point. I view it as a logical extension of the premise advanced in my Virginia article. If all contracts are fallacious, and if their existence is the sine qua non of all breaches of contracts, then who the hell needs them in the first place? I truly believe that all contracts should be abolished retroactively, effective immediately, and I’ll be advocating that position quite vigorously in my upcoming Louisiana article.” “That’s an astonishing meta-argument, Ivan,” Kamholtz said. “Thank you, Gunther.” “Truly,” Zoltos said. “I appreciate it.” “I don’t know, Ivan,” Phillpot said. “It sounds to me like you’re still celebrating the repeal of Prohibition.” “I am.” “So what are you up to these days, Raoul?” Zoltos asked. “Oh, you know, same old same old.” “Come on, don’t give us that false modesty stuff,” Borgor said. “Tell us about your recent article. I hear it’s been making quite a wave in tax circles.” “Well, if you really want to know–” “Of course we do,” Zoltos said. “Okay, if you insist. I recently published a lead article in the NYU Journal of Tax, Business, Law, Policy, Social Welfare, Social Reform, Ice Cream Socials and Societal Warfare called ‘A Heuristic Approach to Accelerated Depreciation of Farm Equipment: Wither Capital Gains?’ So far, it’s gotten a pretty good reception.” “Good reception my ass,” Borgor said. “It’s taken the tax bar by storm. A friend of mine on the senior faculty at Penn called to tell me that tax academics across the country are wetting their pants over that article. He says that never before has such an insightful analysis been done as to the depreciability of threshers and combines. Good work, my friend.” “Sounds like a real solid meta-analysis, Raoul,” Kamholtz said, pondering another nacho chip. “I’m duly impressed.” He bit into the chip. “So,” Borgor continued, “anyone see Dean Gingin’s tie today? It looked like a pigeon barfed on it.” “Actually,” Kamholtz said, “one did.” “You’re kidding,” Zoltos said. “No, really. It was either a pigeon or one of those green sparrows. He was headed to the law school from the parking lot when this bird purportedly puked on his tie.” “Come on, Gunther,” Phillpot said. “That’s just an excuse he conjured up to justify his hideous taste in ties. The man has the fashion sense of a Visigoth.” “Raoul, please, you’re just jealous because the Dean was awarded that Moody Fellowship you’d been hoping for. Just take it like a man, Raoul. You’ll have your chance.” “You’re wrong, Gunther, that’s not it. I couldn’t care less about the Moody Fellowship. I’m simply saying that he has the savvy of an Aborigine and the personal hygiene of a Viking.” “You’re out of control,” Zoltos said. “That I am,” Phillpot agreed. “It’s true what they say about you tax guys,” Borgor said. “You’re all lunatics.” “You’re damn straight,” Phillpot said. “What about you, Gunther,” Phillpot asked. “What havoc have you been doing to the Bill of Rights lately?” “Oh, same as usual, I guess. I taught my advanced tutorial on ‘Man’s Inhumanity to Man’ this morning. This is the first year more than two students signed up for it, you know.” “Tutorial?” Phillpot said. “I thought it was a colloquium.” “At first it was, but then I recharacterized it as a symposium, because it seemed to me more in the nature of a symposium than a colloquium, but Dean Gingin interceded and told me he thought it wiser to present it as a seminar, to which I responded by suggesting that we couch it as a workshop, but the Dean didn’t like that so we selected tutorial as a compromise.” “Why didn’t you just call it a ‘course’?” “Come on, Raoul, I’m a senior faculty member.” “Of course, Gunther. How foolish of me. Anyhow, how’s your golf game?” “It’s improving. I’m down to a fifty-seven handicap. Yours?” “It’s getting there, but I’ve got a long way to go to get to where you are. You play golf, Letitia?” “No. It’s too bourgeoisie for my tastes. Besides, I’ve been spending most of my spare time representing an overweight Portuguese square dancer who was denied fishing rights in the Chesapeake Bay because he failed to disclose his heterosexuality on his application for a deer-hunting permit. It’s a pro bono case I’m handling at the request of the Normative Justice Society. Extremely interesting matter. We’re taking an a priori approach to the dialectical issues raised in the case and a speech-act, paradox-within-a-paradox, subjectivistic, neo-Hegelian, post-Humian, quasi-Spinozan binary approach to everything else. Otherwise we’d have to transmogrify on a truth-value basis and work out the tautology of the internal dichotomies, if you know what I mean.” “Of course.” “Mm-hmm.” “Indeed.” “Anybody want me to get some cheese corn?” Borgor asked. “And then,” Zoltos continued, “when that case is over, I’ll be doing a piece about it for one of the hottest new journals in legal circles, the Nebraska-New Jersey Journal of Law, Policy, Law, Policy, Law, Policy and Semantics. This could be my big break. I’m very excited.” “I can tell,” Phillpot said. “Most definitely,” Zoltos said. “Professor Morgan-Kramer-Smealman-Bolles from Yale just published a stunning thousand-page article in that journal called “Race, Gender, Sex, Age, Poverty, Disability, Religion, National Origin, Literacy, Politics, Crime, Punishment and Shoe Size: A Constitutional Analysis of Everything, Part I.’ For me to appear in the same journal as Professor Morgan-Kramer-Smealman-Bolles is an incredible honor.” “Indeed it is,” Kamholtz said, squinting. “Hey, listen, anybody know a second year student named Veener?” Borgor asked. “He’s a real wiener.” “Yeah, I know him,” Phillpot said. “He’s got the brains of an anchovy.” “I’ll say,” Kamholtz said. “He’s like, Duh. Iz dis a book? Who, me? I feel like telling him, ‘Hey! Snap out of it, you vegetable!” “You’re right,” Zoltos said. “I hear he’s just plain stupid. Just like that third year student Mishkevic. I call him Mush-Moush. Remember that cartoon character Mush-Moush? He was on right after Howdy Hound Dog. That’s what Mishkevic reminds me of. Mush-Moush. I got mush in my moush! What a pea-brain. He’s stupider than a retarded chicken.” “Yeah,” Borgor said. “Like, Hello? Hello? Am I conscious, or are you a dumb weenee?” “He is a dumb peanut-brain weenee,” Kamholtz said, slamming the table. “He’s like Magilla Gorilla after a lobotomy. A Willie Wonka weenee. That’s what he is. Help, I can’t get my shoe off my face! Anyone see my brain? I think I flushed it down the toilet!” “Yeah.” “You’re right.” “What an asshole.” “Definitely.” “Exactamundo.” “I’ve got to run,” Zoltos said, getting up to leave. “I’m late for my afternoon libel law seminar.” “I’m off, too,” Phillpot said. “Guess I’ll go as well,” Kamholtz said. “Later, troops,” Borgor said, munching a Ho Ho. |
