Cena's Little Helper
Mid-Card Championship Winner
As a lawyer with a huge academic interest in economics (a field I would have definitely gone into were I not such a fuckup in my years at university), I recently submitted a paper to a lower-level law and economics journal where one of my firm's consulting economists works as a referee. My paper was nastily rejected by this journal. The reviewer of my paper outed himself as the aforementioned economist by excessively citing his work in the rejection letter that was sent to me. This was his first mistake.
Last night at a New Year's Eve event hosted by my firm at a hotel, this economist outed himself to me as my paper's reviewer after one too many drinks. This was his second mistake.
About 30 minutes before the clock struck midnight, I found myself four stories above the hotel's atrium, staring down at a table where my reviewer sat. This was his third, final, and most grave mistake.
Looking down upon my reviewer's shiny, bald pate, the light's reflection swinging to and fro on his chrome dome as he laughed hysterically at an undoubtedly corny joke only enjoyed by privileged, middle-aged assholes, I couldn't help but notice my perfect setup. I could urinate on both his head and his plate of hors d'oeuvres while creating only minimal splashback on the other people seated at his table. Furthermore, I had drunk quite a bit, so my inhibition was lowered and I had a bladder full of 7-and-7s waiting for release.
With nary a soul around me, I realized that there was a 99.9% chance that I could actually get away with this. Like Hamlet, I knew what I had to do but I couldn't help feelings of the utmost hesitation. Did I urinate on my reviewer? That is the question, WZbros.
Last night at a New Year's Eve event hosted by my firm at a hotel, this economist outed himself to me as my paper's reviewer after one too many drinks. This was his second mistake.
About 30 minutes before the clock struck midnight, I found myself four stories above the hotel's atrium, staring down at a table where my reviewer sat. This was his third, final, and most grave mistake.
Looking down upon my reviewer's shiny, bald pate, the light's reflection swinging to and fro on his chrome dome as he laughed hysterically at an undoubtedly corny joke only enjoyed by privileged, middle-aged assholes, I couldn't help but notice my perfect setup. I could urinate on both his head and his plate of hors d'oeuvres while creating only minimal splashback on the other people seated at his table. Furthermore, I had drunk quite a bit, so my inhibition was lowered and I had a bladder full of 7-and-7s waiting for release.
With nary a soul around me, I realized that there was a 99.9% chance that I could actually get away with this. Like Hamlet, I knew what I had to do but I couldn't help feelings of the utmost hesitation. Did I urinate on my reviewer? That is the question, WZbros.
