Jacky this is you
(PROT), I have evidence that you spelled my name wrong on my "final" divorce documents. They are exceptionally well-written, extensively detailed, and undeniably support my formal former fianceeeeee (repeating, of course) claims of "false advertising"; shit, yeah, no argument there, not even the hard (both) way, however--
Your scrivener spelled my name worng. G-ddam you right to fucking Hell, you miserable rotten bastards. How am I gonna get a divorce if you don't spell my name right? Do you even know my name? NO YOU DON'T *slap* Cad!
*Your client walks out the door, taking all that sweety hotty blood vengeance fusion money money money with S/He/IT. You begin to feel a faint chill in the air. And you might be coming down with another stone cold reason to get another booster shot, it's got things that raise your resting core body temperature. You like things that rais--- eh, what's that? Oh, well, I'll be. It say right here that is true... on one of these pages that has the wrong goddam name on it. And with that Jackstar cancels both (2) YOUR GRANT and THE KNOX GRANT*
So there. pfft. Welcome to amateur divorce court hour. You know, I'd let Judge Wapner fuck me in the ass, sure, easy. But only if I were really guilty, like really guilty, and only if Judge Wap (we already have pet names for each other) is really, really, spicynaughty.
Can you run down to the water cooler in Gay Mafia Building Number Whatever, and find out? Shouldn't take you too long. Here, take these new sneakers with you, you'll get exercise better if you look cool. Speaking of which, stop picking your nose where I can see it, go do it in the bathroom hunched over the toilet LIKE YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO DO, AND DON'T FORGET TO RUB ONE OUT INTO THE TOILET, TOO.
Like, we're supposed to? Kk. That's not my name either.