Texas Bar Exam

My niece recently graduated from law school.  Since she got her undergraduate degree in Texas and since I'm an Ambassador of Texas, I was able to invite her to take the Texas Bar exam.  As a public service I now publish the exam for everyone.

Texas Bar Exam

Select the best answer:

1. Grandma Moses is driving her car at 75 mph on interstate 35. The car GPS gets in a fight with the GPS from her smart phone. The car GPS is telling her to turn right while the phone GPS is telling her to turn left. Grandma Moses splits the difference and goes straight into a utility pole ejecting her through the windshield. She survives but spends a year in the hospital incurring millions of dollars of medical bills. You should:

A. Sue both GPS makers

B. Look for other car owners similarly afflicted and file a class action lawsuit

C. Sue the GPS makers, the car maker and the utility pole maker

D. Help Grandma Moses file for bankruptcy because although large corporations may place a specific cost on death and injuries, the trial lawyers association is the spawn of Satan which only exists to help the devil file frivolous lawsuits.

2. Oil fracking is

A. A relatively new technology and long-term environmental effects are unknown at this time. We should keep a close eye on it.

B. Best regulated by large oil companies like BP

C. A fountain of cash, there's got to be some legal billing in there somewhere

D. A gift from Jesus

3. You go to lunch at the local Chipotle restaurant where you encounter a group of gun enthusiasts expressing their God given Texas rights to bear and display their guns. You should:

A. Explain to them that it is statistically unlikely they'll be mugged for a burrito

B. Explain the definition of "statistics"

C. Encourage them to run for state office as all Texas candidates must have a gun in their campaign photos

D. Congratulate them on their knowledge and defense of the Constitution and states' rights, then show them the AK-47 you keep in your briefcase

4. Texas has the legal right to secede from the United States.

A. True

B. False

C. Maybe, if you are speaking to a large crowd of freedom loving tea partiers

D. What's legal got to do with it? We've got enough guns to secede whenever we damn well please!

5. As laws against gay marriage get overturned all over the country, you are tasked with defending the Texas law before the Supreme Court. Your best argument is:

A. Legalizing gay marriage would result in people marrying livestock and inanimate objects

B. Would result in gay people becoming miserable husbands and wives

C. Would result in fewer shotgun weddings

D. There are no gay people in Texas

6. Recently, the Supreme Court ruled that prayers before town council meetings are legal. Let's say someone named, oh I don't know..., Abdullah gave a prayer before the Wichita Falls town council meeting. You should:

A. Listen carefully and ensure there are no direct religious quotes or mention of God other than something like "Master of the Universe"

B. Congratulate him by saying, "Nice godless speech, Haji."

C. Cover your ears and shout, "I love Jesus! I love Jesus!" so no one can hear him

D. Stone him

E. Trick question, although stoning him is a good answer, you might be accused of practicing sharia law. Shooting him would be easier and more practical.

7. Is it legal to put Chinese 5-spice in BBQ sauce?

A. Yes

B. No

C. Aw, hell no!

D. Yes, if you are a communist living in Austin

8. A shoplifter grabs a case of beer in a convenience store and sprints for the door. Under Texas law, the clerk should:

A. Let the crook go, lock the door and call the police

B. Chase the crook as far as the clerk can run

C. Shoot the crook and if the crook falls outside the door, drag the body back inside

D. Aim for the head, then stand over the body and say something like "No more Miller time's for you." or "There's no cold ones in hell."

9. Which of the following would make the best expert witness at a trial:

A. An arson expert named Bubba who declares "the fire had to be arson cos those flames moved faster than a centipede at a toe countin' contest"

B. A jailhouse snitch promised dropped charges for his/her testimony

C. An ex-deputy who uses his specially trained hounds in police lineups to identify the crook by smell

D. All of the above

10. The job of the Texas state attorney general is to:

A. Ultimately enforce the laws of the state

B. Defend the state against frivolous lawsuits

C. Wait in line to be governor

D. Sue O'bama 24 hours a day

11. Which of the following would result in the longest jail sentence?

A. Make a false statement on a Small Business Administration loan application

B. Borrowing $2 million from an out of state bank with a specific stock as collateral. Then taking that money to purchase the stock which you used as collateral.

C. Taking a mortgage from an out of state bank then adding a superior lien which is magically owned by your children. Declare the original loan in default and allow your children to foreclose on your property thereby nullifying the bank's lien.

D. Urinating on the wall of the Alamo

12. You are representing a client at a high profile murder trial. Everyday you must meet the media who are trying to get you to spill confidential information. You should:

A. Just say, "No comment."

B. Answer what you can and explain there are some things that are confidential

C. Just repeat the question back to the asker

D. Just say, "Adios mofo."

13.  If you graduated from Texas Tech law school:

A.  You probably did well on the bar exam

B.  You probably learned a lot about energy law including oil and wind

C.  You probably learned a lot about water and mineral rights

D.  You are probably a rude, cheap-ass tipper

14. The longest serving governor in the history of the great republic of Texas is:

A. Stephen F. Austin

B. Sam Houston

C. George W. Bush

D. Rick Perry, and by gawd don't ever forget it!

How Not To Be a Contractor

I may have mentioned previously that when we bought our current house in the fall of 2012, walking through the front door was like stepping into Mr. Peabody's WAYBAC machine with the dial set to 1973. The front rooms had greenish yellow shag carpeting which amazingly looked a lot like Elvis' Jungle Room at Graceland circa 1976 (no, St. Pauli Girl would not allow me to recreate the jungle room). So for the past 18 months we have been slowly renovating and have learned the many idiosyncrasies of contractors, like how they work in their own time and space dimensions.

In February, we decided to finally tackle the kitchen, which would be our biggest and costliest renovation. We spent January getting estimates from plumbers, contractors, and electricians. It took all of January because most of them never returned our calls, the ones who did and made appointments rarely showed up, and of the final few, only two submitted an estimate. (Not to mention the tile guy "finalist" whose estimate looked good so we hired him, he said he'd start on Monday at 9:00, and we never heard from him again.) To summarize, we had to make six calls to get one estimate.

For the main project of knocking out a wall and reconfiguring a counter inot a breakfast bar, we finally settled on the bid of someone we'll call “Joe the Contractor.” Joe said it would take a week, maybe ten days. Did I mention that contractors live in their own time and space dimensions?

Day 1: Joe never showed up. He finally called and said he'd definitely be there the next day.

Day 2: Joe showed up with a helper. We were off to a good start.

Day 3: Joe's helper showed up by himself. Joe called later and explained the helper would remove the kitchen cabinets by himself. The helper successfully accomplished this task.

Day 4: Joe showed up and waited for his helper who never showed up. Joe complained to me, “I just don't know about these guys. They say they want to work and then disappear.” Hmmmm.

Day 5: Joe and another helper removed the wall and kitchen sink. The hard part was done! Or not.

Day 6: Joe started work on the new countertop which would extend out into the newly-opened space as a breakfast bar. He was very proud of his carpentry work and the new countertop looked nice, although the bar part seemed kind of small to me.

(It's important to note here that St. Pauli Girl designed the new kitchen layout and went over it detail by detail with Joe before he began. Had I been in charge, I would have said, “Well, we need a refrigerator, a microwave, and enough storage for the paper plates, cups, and sporks. That should do it.”)

When St. Pauli Girl came home that day she had a meltdown: the width of the new countertop/breakfast bar was a good 20 inches less than what she had specified. She called Joe and reminded him of the measurements they had gone over, stressing the "breakfast bar" part.

Day 7: Joe apologized, tore off the countertop and started a new one. He said, “I don't know, Dexter, maybe I should start writing stuff down.”

Day 8: While we were still waiting for the specially ordered laminate for the counter, Joe had an electrician friend come in to re-route some of the wiring from the old wall. Later that night, St. Pauli Girl noticed there was no electricity in the entire east side of the house.

Day 9: Saturday. The electrician pointed out he had disconnected the ceiling fan the previous day. I pointed out he had disconnected half of the house. “No, just the ceiling fan,” he insisted. I showed him the non-working half of the house. A few hours later, we had electricity again.

As much as we liked how hard Joe had been working, we really needed a break from him, so when he reported that he'd be back on Sunday, I said, “Oh no, take a break. Besides we'll be in church. And it's going to be a long service. Like all day.”

Day 10: The laminate for the countertop arrived. Joe carefully installed it, a beautiful faux marble. I couldn't wait for St. Pauli Girl to come home--she was going to love it!

Day 11: Time to install the new sink that had been waiting in the garage for weeks. Joe started on the cutout. After a few hours of diligence and lots of noise, I heard, “Damn!” followed by a pounding on the countertop. Joe came to my office and slammed open the door. “Dexter, you aren't going to believe this.”

He led me to the kitchen and showed the hole in the counter. “I read the sink specifications on the box and cut the hole accordingly. Maybe I should have taken the sink out and measured it.”

Yes, the hole was too big for the sink. Joe proceeded to tear off the second countertop, fresh laminate and all. We would have to order more, which meant more waiting.

The days had turned to weeks as we trudged through the project. Joe went off and worked on someone else's kitchen tasks while we continued washing dishes in the small bathroom sink. Joe hinted that he and another guy could tile the kitchen floor while we waited. Imagining what that comedy of errors might entail, we hired a third-generation tile-ist (whose five brothers also did tile/carpentry work) who showed up on time and finished the entire floor and a brick backsplash in two days.

After eleven days without a dishwasher or kitchen sink, the countertop installation was a success on the third try; the sink and the plumbing were easy after that. Later that day we let Joe know that he wouldn't be needed for the rest of the kitchen (Phases II and III). We called the tile guy to finish the rest, and he and his partner had it done in a day.

We have since scaled back our future renovation plans. If we can't do it ourselves, it's not going to happen.

My Repairman Can Beat Up Your Repairman

There are two things in the male culture that require full disclosure:

1. The price of a new car
2. The price of a car repair

The price of a new car is required to be transparent because everyone considers himself a superior haggler who will never get taken advantage of by a car salesperson. And the price of a car repair must be disclosed because everyone knows someone who can always do it cheaper.

Unfortunately I forgot about those caveats when we had the brakes fixed on our car a couple of months ago. I stopped at the local brewpub for a beer where I sat next to “Any Other Guy in the World” (who we will abbreviate as “Any” for our purposes here).

Female bartender: Can I help you?

Me: Give me the hoppiest IPA you have. And make it a 23 ouncer.

Any: Wow, tough day?

Me: Yeah, just got my car out of the repair shop.

Any: (to the bartender) Ma'am, put his beer on my tab.

Me: Thanks, mighty kind of you.

Any: I've been there. I'm sure you need a break after that. What did they get you for?

Me: Brakes. Front and back.

Any: Disks? Pads?

Me: Everything, plus some stuff I had never heard of.

Any: Wooh, that's tough. So what did they charge?

Me: A lot more than I had planned for.

Any: And what did you plan for?

Me: (after a long pause) A few hundred dollars.

Any: Mmm-hmm. (wincing) Now you didn't go to a …

Me: Dealer? Heck no. They'll rip you off. Charge you for the paper mats they put it in the car to avoid tracking in grease.

Any: Amen to that. (He raised his glass and I clinked mine with it.) So if you didn't go to the dealer then you probably got a fair deal. So what did it run you?

Me: ( I hesitated for a long time then finally realized I had to come clean) $800.

Any: Mercy! Were they solid gold brakes?

Me: Well it included a lifetime warranty.

Any: Sounds like 5 lifetime warranties to me, plus a pet Panda bear for the kids.

Bartender: That's not so bad. That's about what I paid when I had mine replaced.

Any: Well you're a woman.

Me: Yeah, you're supposed to get ripped off on car repairs. (pause) Hey, wait a minute, are you implying that I'm a woman?

Any: (shrugs, looks up at the ceiling, then sips his beer)

Me: I'm new to the area so I kind of had to guess on where to go. Back in Boston, I had a guy that could have done it for $500.

Any: Those are yankee prices. I got a guy out on County Road 400 would do it for $300 tops. And since he knows me, I get a friend discount of $150.

Me: That's nothing. My guy in Boston not only would give me the same friend discount, but he'd throw in a couple of Celtics courtside tickets.

Any: Basketball? My guy has a private suite at Cowboys Stadium which I get to use once a season as long as I get my oil changed by him.

Me: Ha! My guy pays me to change my oil.

Any: My guy drills then synthesizes his own oil and provides it free of charge. And it's a weight you can't find in any store. And he doesn't always ask to change my air filter.

(I finally realized we could declare it a draw at this point, plus he bought me a beer, so I decided to back off.)

Me: Your guy sounds impressive. How can he afford all that?

Any: He fixes a lot of women's cars.

Wrenched Plans

On the coldest day of this past ferocious winter, I had to make a run to the store for necessary blizzard supplies (Doritos, toilet paper, wine, and beer). When I tried to start the car, it hesitated and thought about maybe just staying home before finally sneezing and coughing to life. Unfortunately, in the store parking lot, the battery couldn't even muster a hiccup. Luckily, it was a short walk home.

We went back and jump-started the car, brought it home, and I went to the auto parts store to purchase a new battery. The clerk asked if I was going to bring in the old battery the same day so he wouldn't have to charge the return fee. “Of course,” I said. I looked at his name tag. "See you in a few minutes, Ben.” I'd changed batteries before. Child's play.

Back at home, I pulled out my trusty pliers and popped the hood of the dead car. I tried to manuever the pliers around the nut holding the negative cable in place. No luck.

“Gotta have the right tool for the job,” I remembered, words of wisdom from a certain chainsaw-toting wise guru. I went to the garage and rounded up all the wrenches I could find. None of them fit. “No need to get angry yet,” I thought. “We could use a good set of wrenches.” I went to the hardware store and bought a set of standard wrenches. I then successfully used the 8 millimeter wrench to remove the cables from the battery.

“Almost done,” I thought, eyeing the cable-free battery. I pulled on the battery but it didn't budge. I realized there must be something underneath holding it in place. As I peered down with the flashlight, the 8 millimeter wrench slipped from my hand into the area behind the battery.

I got on my hands and knees and looked under the car where the wrench must have fallen. Nothing. I placed my hands on the side of the car and shook vigorously hoping to dislodge the wrench. Nothing. By this time, it was getting dark and much, much colder. “Focus on the task,” I told myself. I shook the memory of my wrench from my head. I looked at the battery again and finally saw the screw at the bottom holding it in place. Then I realized I had nothing to reach it with.

Not up for another trip to the hardware store and dismissing the disappointment Ben must be feeling by now, I decided to call it a day.

 Later that night I told my tale of mechanical woes to Eduardo, St. Pauli Girl's son. Within mere minutes, a friend of his with an extra-long screwdriver arrived and ten minutes after that the battery had been replaced. After thanking them I asked, “Did you happen to find a wrench in there?” Negatory.

The next day, before going to visit Ben, I took the car on a shakedown cruise to see if maybe the wrench would fall out, hoping it wouldn't land on a gear or piston and destroy the car. “I bet I could at least return the new battery if that happened,” I thought. I took the car out onto a country road, then I jolted the car over some pretty rough bumps at a dangerously high speed but never heard a clink or a clatter.

I wheeled into the auto parts parking lot, newly-loosened shocks and all, then waited. Finally, I saw Ben exit the back door to take out the trash. I dashed in, left the old battery on the deserted counter, and left.

I now had a working car but was afraid to drive it with the wrench on the loose somewhere under the hood. I decided to get an oil change. When they finished, the clerk handed me the bill.

“Say, you guys didn't happen to leave a wrench in there somewhere?” I asked nonchalantly.

“Nope. We account for all tools before closing the hood. Standard operating procedure.”

“Yeah, it would be pretty stupid to leave a wrench in there.”

“Yeah, really stupid,” he said.

After a few weeks, I forgot about the wrench. Then one day, St. Pauli Girl and I went out for a ride. She drove through an intersection with a deep swale. The car with all its loose shocks and ancient struts bounced violently, and we almost hit out heads on the ceiling.

“Sorry,” she said. “I didn't realize it was that deep. Or that our shocks were that bad.”

I suddenly thought of the lost wrench. “Woo hoo! If that didn't jar the wrench free, nothing ever will!"

Scenes from a Bar/Lobby

We recently had a quick weekend getaway a few hours from here. After checking into the hotel, we took the elevator to our floor where we were greeted by about 50 kids roaming the hallway. If you've ever tried a weekend getaway in the last 15 years, you've probably had a similar experience. Apparently, hotels have colluded with youth sports leagues to convince parents to spend money traveling to out of town football/basketball/hockey/kung fu/archery/chess/full contact crochet tournaments. And apparently, especially this weekend in particular, the front desk clerk is the babysitter.

Later that night, we came back from dinner to discover kids running around in football uniforms. This happened in late January when every league is done except for the NFL. But of course this is Texas. Anyhow, we went to our floor where kids were rolling their football helmets down the hallway in some sort of race. We decided to go to the hotel bar.

Now the bar of this hotel had what they call on HGTV, an open floor plan. In actuality, it was just a section of the lobby with some tables and chairs. In the morning, it's a breafast room, at night they open up a locked liquor cabinet behind the breakfast bar, and it's suddenly Moe's Tavern.

St. Pauli Girl sat at a table while I approached the bar where three women in their early 20's sat. One of them looked at me and said, “Hi, how's it going?” That caught me off guard because usually the next question coming from someone like that to me is, “and would you like to supersize that?” But then I recognized her as the front desk clerk who had checked me in earlier. I guessed she had just gotten off work and was having drinks with friends.

I got our drinks and went back to the table where St. Pauli Girl sat. Our adult bar time ended quickly as hordes of twelve year old football players ran screaming through the bar/lobby. We also noticed that there were no parents around. I could only guess that they had taken their coolers of beer to the hotel room and told the kids to go play in the bar.

A short time later, an older shaggy looking gentleman wandered through the bar and complained to the front desk clerk that the ATM she had recommended charged him three dollars. He then pulled out his cellphone and started yelling to someone who I'm guessing had to be named “Cooter.” He explained to Cooter that he was going honking tonking that night and that he had come to town to get a “kick-ass sound system installed in my truck. Now I'll be able to watch porn while I drive!”

I also noticed that the front desk clerk kept walking back and forth in front of us. Being college educated, I also realized this happened everytime the phone rang at the front desk. She was still working: checking people in, answering the phone and hanging out with friends in the bar! The genius hotel owner must have decided to only have telephones with cords so the clerk would never leave the front desk. He forgot about the part where $7.25 an hour, 20 year old front desk clerks just don't care.

We finally saw a parent come into the bar. We hoped she would round up all the kids and send them back to their rooms. No, she went to the bar and ordered coffee for all the kids. Then she went back to her room while the kids loaded sugar into their coffee. Our only hope at this point would have been a mass exorcism.

Then another kid dressed only in gym shorts came into the bar. I thought maybe he had come from the pool but I realized the hotel didn't have an indoor pool; he just thought that's the way to go out in public in January no less.

We decided not to have another drink. I said to St. Pauli Girl, “I didn't see a sign but I think the name of this bar is 'Pedophile's Dream.'”

Amazingly, we weren't kept awake all night by rowdy kids in the halls. But then again I guess that's because they were all down in the bar.

Can't Ignore the Train

At a recent family gathering back in Tennessee where most of my siblings still live, conversation naturally turned to our teenage years. I brought up one of my younger-brother experiences as a freshman at our Catholic high school, the same year one of my brothers was a senior and football star. It didn’t hurt that he also looked like a young Tom Selleck without the mustache and Higgins. Of course his adulation from girls rivaled that of a modern boy band. This led to my being popular as well, but for all the wrong reasons. That year, a few weeks before the annual Sadie Hawkins dance, girls began following me like a pack of wolves, begging me to ask my brother if he had a date for the dance, or quizzing me to see if I thought he might be interested in going with them.

My freshman friends were impressed. How had I become so magnetic overnight, and with older women to boot? But I eventually got annoyed with the attention, as I had now essentially become my brother's valet. One sophomore girl even tracked me down daily after school to hand me lengthy love notes to deliver to my brother. It wasn’t until years later that I realized how dumb I was (being a dumb freshman) not to take advantage of the situation. What a golden opportunity to invent the “test drive date”—whereby I could invite my brother’s admirer out for a preliminary spin before formally introducing them. Or I could have been more dastardly telling prospective admirers that they should present my brother (big Beatles fan) a gift of the Bee Gee's Sgt. Pepper Soundtrack. Then she could explain to him how it is far superior to the Beatles' version. And John Lennon is no Peter Frampton.
 

Not to be outdone, my dad then told the story of when he courted my mother while she was enrolled in a Catholic college, back in the ‘50s. He sent a telegram to the local radio station dedicating her favorite song to her. (As my dad talked, there was a long pause as we all struggled with the concept of sending telegrams to radio stations.) Anyway, the day after the song dedication, the Monsignor at the college pulled my mother out of class to lecture her about staying away from my dad. Anyone who would publicly display affection like that was “bad news,” the Monsignor warned her. Apparently, the Monsignor listened to that bawdy radio station every night just to catch these wayward dedications.
 

My parents are still married 55 years later, in spite of the Monsignor.

As the stories, laughter, and maybe a few drinks passed, the greyness of the drizzly November evening faded for a few moments, and I came to realize a few things.

These are some of the stories we choose to remember from a time when we thought life was normal (if there is such a thing), back when we never thought it might double-cross us.

These are some of the stories we cling to when we take a kick to the gut so hard we can’t catch our breath and think we may never get back up.

These are some of the stories that remind us that there was once a time when days seemed to last for years, instead of years flashing by like a day.

These are some of the stories we cherish as we move forward and try to remember and believe that every short day lived is indeed a celebration.

Great Moments in Customer Service

(Sorry about the delayed posting for those of you that saw: "Placeholder".)

Today we present another episode of Great Moments in Customer Service.

A few weeks ago, after getting home late on a Friday night, St. Pauli Girl and I decided to order Chinese food for delivery. We called our favorite establishment

(which also has good Chinese mustard ).  Thirty minutes later our food arrived, although we had already realized they never asked for our credit card number on the phone. So St. Pauli Girl presented the credit card to the deliveryman who, not surprisingly, told her he couldn't process credit cards.

“No problem,” St. Pauli Girl said, “I'll just call the restaurant back. Wait here.”

A few moments later the man on the phone told her, “We cannot process your credit card right now.”

“But we always use a credit card when we order. We're good, loyal customers.”

“No, we cannot do that right now.”

“Oka-a-ay. How about I give the driver a check?”

“We don't take checks.”

“But we don't have any cash,” St. Pauli Girl reasoned.

“No checks. Cash only.”

We handed the food back to the driver who apologized and left, all the while wondering why they didn't tell us "cash only" when we called.

In short, the driver lost out on a tip, the restaurant had to throw out perfectly good food, and they lost a loyal customer forever . . . all because they wouldn't bend a no-checks policy even under unusual circumstances. (A broken card reader? Cancelled bank account? We'll never know.)

Not to be outdone, an "upscale taco shop" we visited for the first time last weekend made us question the sanity of yet another restaurant management team. After ordering at the counter, the cashier handed us our “chips and salsa” receipt which we were instructed to take to the food window a few steps away.

We stood on the right side of the window in front of the four people working on the other side. No one even looked up. Then we saw the sign on the left side of the window which said “Pick up food here.” So we moved over to the left side of the window and waggled our receipt in the air . . . where the four workers continued to ignore us.

St. Pauli Girl held the receipt up to the window. The four workers continued to plate food and talk among themselves, still refusing to acknowledge our existence. Lucky for them I had a beer in my hand or I would have been forced to take some kind of action.

I glanced through the window and saw a huge metal container with a couple bushels of chips just waiting to be scooped into a basket. I'm sure the salsa was nearby. It would probably take about five seconds to load up a basket of chips and a cup of salsa.

“Do you think we're supposed to walk back there and get it ourselves?” I asked.

St. Pauli Girl pulled on the locked door next to the window. “Guess not,” she said.

“I've already decided I'm never coming back here. Even before we get our food,” I said.

Finally, one of the worker bees grabbed the receipt from St. Pauli Girl's hand, looked at it, then wordlessly set it on the counter. He continued doing other things. When we had just about reached the breaking point, he glanced up, spent about five seconds filling a basket with chips, grabbed a cup of salsa, and set them on the window counter. He still didn't say anything. Without asking, we grabbed the chips and ran.

Later, our number for our tacos were called and I went back to the window to get our food.

“Both of those trays are yours,” said the guy behind the window.

“What? You mean you guys actually speak?” I said, grabbing the trays.

I brought the food back to our table, and St. Pauli Girl realized she forgot to ask for sour cream. Easily remedied, you would think, and you would be wrong. She had to wait in the main line behind a crowd of people to order a side of sour cream. After paying, the cashier gave her a receipt, which then had to be presented at the food window. This all came with the now-familiar ticket-waving and getting-ignored ritual.

Meanwhile I finished my tacos and tried to imagine the business plan pitch for this establishment: “We're going to make really big tacos with interesting toppings but then we'll make it very big city, upscale by providing the kind of service you can expect in a prison cafeteria... except worse.”