Everybody needs a lawyer sometime

By Dr. Larry S. Loophole, RV, HDD

Registered Voter, Honorary Doctor of Divinity

All Rights Reserved. Contact my friend, and fellow graduate of the Loma Linda College of Law, Charlie Wear, for further information or permissions, subpoenas, invitations to speak at children’s birthday parties, or to send snacks. P.O. Box 302, Needles, CA 92363 (yes, it’s a real place, not a witness-protection address).

How Can You Tell When a Lawyer Is Lying?

How can you tell when a lawyer is lying?

That’s insultingly easy.

He says, “Truthfully…”

Truthfully, I am not making that up—at least, not on purpose, and not in any way I’m willing to admit in writing.

Well, maybe I am. It depends on who’s asking and whether there’s a court reporter present.

That’s the problem with lawyers.

We have words for everything—truth, lies, half-truths, quarter-truths, and “I do not recall at this time, Senator.”

We have words for when we’re telling the truth, which we call “testimony,” “evidence,” or “a shocking clerical error.”

We have words for when we’re not telling the truth: “creative advocacy,” “spirited interpretation,” and “my client misspoke in good faith.”

And we have several hundred words for when we don’t want to answer the question, beginning with “objection” and ending with “my Wi‑Fi cut out on that last part, Your Honor.”

My personal favorite is:

“It depends.”

Ask a lawyer almost anything and you are likely to hear, with a wise squint and a billing timer quietly running in the background:

“It depends.”

Does my wife get half my stuff?

It depends—on the state, the prenup, and whether your “stuff” includes a vintage Beanie Baby collection you swore was an investment portfolio.

Can my boss fire me?

It depends—on your contract, your HR file, and whether you loudly announced “I’d like to speak to my union representative, my therapist, and my astrologer” during the last staff meeting.

Can I sue my neighbor because his dog pooped on my lawn?

It depends—on the local ordinances, the size of the dog, and whether you collected the, uh, Exhibit A in properly labeled evidence bags.

Can I put my house into a reverse Dipsy‑Doodle business trust and protect it from creditors?

It depends—mostly on whether you made up the phrase “reverse Dipsy‑Doodle” after three margaritas and a TikTok video about asset protection.

Can I eat the upside‑down pineapple cake?

Absolutely.

That last one doesn’t depend on anything, except maybe whether it’s still on fire from the broiler.

Unless Larry made it.

Then I would ask somebody else, or at least have your will notarized first.

My name is Larry S. Loophole, RV, HDD.

Registered Voter, Honorary Doctor of Divinity, and part‑time disaster in human form.

Not the kind of doctor who can save your life—just the kind who can ruin a dinner party with unsolicited legal analysis of the cheese platter.

If you are having a heart attack, don’t call me, unless you want prayer, a poorly timed joke, and a color‑coded chart of your potential medical copays.

Call somebody who knows what a heart is and did not learn anatomy from watching courtroom dramas.

“I went to law school and I have opinions.”

My friends sometimes call me Dr. Larry.

I encourage this, loudly, and sometimes correct people if they forget the “Doctor” part while I’m signing their napkins.

It makes me sound important, like a man who owns at least three briefcases and a fountain pen that actually writes.

It also makes people wonder whether I can write prescriptions, which I absolutely cannot—even though I once tried to prescribe “two weeks of rest and unlimited nachos” on firm letterhead.

I cannot.

Unless the prescription is for more entertaining AI bot advice, in which case I recommend one sarcastic comment every four hours as needed, with snacks.

And I should probably tell you something else before the ethics committee finds this page.

I am not currently practicing law.

There are several reasons for this.

Some of them are complicated, involving phrases like “jurisdictional ambiguity” and “please stop doing that, Mr. Loophole.”

Some of them are classified, sealed, redacted, and then further hidden behind a sticky note that says “Do Not Ask.”

Some of them are the subject of other blog posts, pending approval by my therapist, my parole officer, and my editor.

And some of them involve a cape.

Let’s just say that two women once complained that Larry looked terrible in his tights and cape, and that such an outfit “brought disrepute upon the profession and several innocent bystanders.”

The Bar Association took the complaint seriously, formed a committee, and entered my cape into evidence as Exhibit A: Fashion Atrocity.

I did not. I argued it was a bold branding choice and a tribute to due process.

That was my mistake, right after my decision to bedazzle the scales of justice on the back.

I represented myself, in full cape, for the entire hearing.

That was another mistake, ranking somewhere between “reply all” on a confidential email and “ask your ex for tax advice.”

And eventually I learned the oldest rule in the legal profession:

A lawyer who represents himself has a fool for a client.

I know.

I’ve heard that joke before, usually from judges trying not to laugh directly into the microphone.

I just didn’t understand that I was the punchline, the setup, and the blooper reel.

WHY THIS PIECE OF ENTERTAINMENT EXISTS

You probably don’t need a lawyer.

At least not today, not for reading this, and not unless you’re currently attempting a DIY will written in crayon.

That’s good news.

Because lawyers can be expensive.

Not all lawyers are expensive.

Some are extremely expensive, like “I bill by the minute and charge extra if you cry in my office” expensive.

Others are surprisingly affordable, especially the ones who are still looking up how to spell “tort” on their phones.

And some are free, especially when they are giving you advice you didn’t ask for in the grocery store, at weddings, or from the next stall in a public restroom.

I have been that guy, explaining hearsay in the frozen peas aisle.

But here’s what I’ve learned, usually the hard way and occasionally from a sternly worded letter:

You don’t always need a lawyer.

Sometimes you need a lawyer.

Sometimes you need an accountant, especially if your “system” involves shoeboxes, napkins, and a spreadsheet named “Please Don’t Audit Me.xlsx.”

Sometimes you need a doctor, preferably one whose medical license hasn’t expired and doesn’t list “pre-law” as a qualification.

Sometimes you need a plumber, especially when your DIY repair involves duct tape, optimism, and a YouTube video filmed in another country.

Sometimes you need a good friend—someone who will take your phone away before you text your ex or email your boss “in all honesty…”

And sometimes you need to sit down, take a deep breath, and admit:

“I screwed up.”

That last one is surprisingly difficult for people, especially those of us who once argued with a parking meter and lost.

We are trained to argue.

We are trained to find another side, a third angle, and a mysterious “precedent” from 1843 that somehow supports our position.

We are trained to examine the evidence, even when the evidence is just a blurry screenshot and your cousin saying, “Bro, I swear.”

We are trained to cross‑examine witnesses, including the dog, the neighbor, and occasionally ourselves in the bathroom mirror.

We are trained to find loopholes.

That’s how I got my name.

Larry S. Loophole.

I never met a loophole I didn’t like, adopt, overuse, and then attempt to monetize.

The trouble with loopholes is that sometimes they lead somewhere you didn’t expect, like the back door of a courthouse you’re not supposed to be in.

Like jail.

Or bankruptcy, where the judge sighs your name like it’s a recurring subscription they forgot to cancel.

Or divorce court, where everyone pretends this is about “irreconcilable differences” and not the 14-foot inflatable Christmas dragon you refused to take off the roof.

Or a meeting with the State Bar, where your cape is now “Exhibit A” and your life choices are “Exhibits B through Z.”

Or, in my case, all of the above, plus a strongly worded recommendation that I find a new hobby—like blogging as Dr. Larry S. Loophole and giving free, questionable AI‑powered life advice.