It was a cold Tuesday morning, and Scrambled Moniker No. 3 had reached his limit. He was done with the law—done with the endless depositions, the ceaseless billing, the soul-crushing emails from partners with nothing better to do than remind him of his diminishing hours. "Enough," he muttered to himself, clutching a fifth of bourbon with one hand and gripping his briefcase with the other. "Today’s the day I check out."

And so, with a grim determination known only to men who’ve billed more than 3,000 hours in a year, Scrambled Moniker No. 3 made his way to the hardware store, eyeing a brand-new woodchipper with the same intensity as a Biglaw associate eyes the clock on a Friday night.

“Ah, the Vermeer BC1000XL,” the salesman said with a grin. “Best on the market. Won’t leave even a twig intact!”

“Perfect,” replied Scrambled Moniker No. 3, slipping the man a crisp hundred-dollar bill without another word. He didn't need the warranty; he wasn’t expecting to be around long enough to use it.

Act 1: The Failed Attempt

The woodchipper sat in the middle of the clearing like some cruel, yellow god, its blades gleaming under the weak morning sun. Scrambled Moniker No. 3 took a deep breath, tossed his leather briefcase onto the chipper’s conveyor belt—symbolically discarding the burden of a lifetime in the law—then carefully positioned his legs on the entry chute. "It all ends here," he whispered.

But as he turned the ignition key, the machine sputtered and coughed. The roar that followed was less the sound of mechanical fury and more the defeated groan of a senior associate staring down a week of 100-hour billables.

He felt a sudden jolt, and before he knew it, the woodchipper lurched forward, grabbing his legs with a violent hunger. But then... nothing.

There was a grinding sound, and the woodchipper sputtered to a halt. Scrambled Moniker No. 3 looked down and saw his shins and knees had been shredded into a grotesque pulp, while the rest of him remained conspicuously intact. He felt a sharp pain shoot up his legs, but worse than that, he felt the cold sting of betrayal.

“You piece of sht!*” he shouted at the machine, which now sat silent, smoking slightly, as if embarrassed by its own failure. He tried to reach for the ignition again, but his body wasn’t cooperating; he was stuck, caught in a mechanical limbo—half a man, but very much alive.

Act 2: Back to the Office

The next few days were a blur of painkillers, ambulance rides, and more paperwork than he had ever imagined. The law firm partners, smelling opportunity like sharks scenting blood in the water, sent flowers with little notes: “Wishing you a quick recovery! Please review the enclosed draft agreement for comments by Monday.”

By the time he returned to his desk—now equipped with a special ergonomic chair that supported his mangled legs—he had already received 112 emails. One of them was from the head of the litigation department, Clever Username, who had heard about the woodchipper incident.

“Have you considered suing over the defect?” the email read. “Could be a lucrative case. Also, see below for a conflict check and a client memo to review.”

He sighed. This was not how he imagined his exit from the law. But the idea of suing for the defective woodchipper seemed strangely poetic, a way to both leave his mark and claw back some dignity from his foiled attempt at departure.

Act 3: The Case Becomes a Sprawling Mess

And so began Scrambled Moniker No. 3's journey back into the law, not as a defendant against his own sanity, but as the plaintiff in a product liability suit against the woodchipper manufacturer. His mornings, once planned for peaceful eternal slumber, were now filled with conference calls and depositions about torque specifications, blade maintenance, and the acceptable range of RPMs.

The case took on a life of its own, spiraling into a sprawling, Kafkaesque nightmare that seemed to pull in every hapless lawyer within a hundred-mile radius. The defendant’s legal team—a cadre of shark-eyed corporate lawyers with nothing left to lose—filed motion after motion, appealing everything from the jurisdiction to the very definition of “defective.”

Soon, Scrambled Moniker No. 3 found himself drowning in discovery requests, billable hours, and motions to compel. “You wanted this,” his colleagues would remind him, chuckling as they walked past his desk piled high with pleadings and documents, some stained with coffee, others with tears.

Act 4: The Horror Sets In

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. The case dragged on, the firm billing more hours than even the most deranged of senior partners could have dreamed. Scrambled Moniker No. 3 had bags under his eyes the size of small countries. He found himself reminiscing about the simple agony of those 2:00 a.m. calls with Emotionally + Physically Abusive Ex-Husband (💃🏾💃🏾💃🏾) and the sadistic joy of crafting “compromise” emails to RSF that made his eyes bleed.

But now, instead of escaping into oblivion, he was trapped in this existential purgatory of his own making. His only solace was a thread on the bort where the poasters debated which method of self-destruction he should try next—most votes went to the suggestion by Young and Fresh Bboooooooooom: “Ljl, get hit by a self-driving Tesla and sue Musk’s flaming ass.”

Yet, no matter how many hours he billed, or how many useless briefs he drafted, there was no escaping the irony: he was back where he started, fighting against a machine, except this time, the machine was the law itself.

Act 5: The Grim Acceptance

The woodchipper lawsuit finally settled two years later for an undisclosed amount. By then, Scrambled Moniker No. 3 was a broken man. He looked down at his legs—or what was left of them—and wondered if he should just get a new woodchipper, maybe an industrial model this time, one that wouldn’t fail him so spectacularly.

But deep down, he knew the truth: the woodchipper hadn’t betrayed him. No, the betrayal was that of a man who thought he could escape the law, only to find himself shackled to it more firmly than ever.

He wheeled himself to his computer, logged into AutoAdmit, and typed:

“ITT: Ask me anything about defective woodchippers and how they ruin your life.”

Within minutes, the replies poured in, a mix of condolences, insults, and requests for legal advice.

He sighed, taking a sip from his mug that read, “World’s Okayest Lawyer,” and prepared himself for another 100-hour week. Because some things, he realized, are just meant to be.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5593236&forum_id=2/#48078433)