A new dating website, Til-Death-Do-Us-Part, is aimed at people with terminal illnesses. I can’t decide how I feel about this. It might offer a venue where people can be forthright about their health status and find open-minded companions. Or it might be a flocking ground for devotees, predators, and other unsavory characters. But there’s probably some kind of law of nature that requires every dating site has to have its proportionate share of jerks.

I’m still trying to get venture capital funding for a dating site aimed at early-model cyborgs like myself. I keep telling them there’s an untapped segment of the dating population who gets totally turned on by the sound of mechanical ventilation and the sight of extra body orifices. They keep saying “Prove it.” So the market research continues.

If you’re a junior attorney in a large law firm and you still have a job to go to tomorrow, consider yourself lucky. A flurry of pink slips went out today to associates in major firms around the country including Faegre & Benson, a Minneapolis firm that recruited several of my former classmates. My sympathies go out to any 2L or 3L who’s seeking employment. You might want to consider doing what a friend of mine did. After she practiced law for a few years, she decided that she wanted to study medicine. So she took the MCAT and got accepted into Stanford med school.

(I have some freakishly smart friends. Just thinking about it is giving me an inferiority complex)

But back to my original point. Sure, you’ll have to take on some additional debt, but you’ll get to wear a lab coat and ogle the naked bodies of strangers. That’s way more fun than writing a brief on eminent domain.

A reader sent me a link to an article describing an experimental wheelchair that includes a mind-controlled robotic arm. My reaction can be summed up as follows: totally frakkin’ awesome. If Stephen Hawking refuses to meet me at the International Space Station for our zero-gravity death match, perhaps he’ll agree to an alternative. I’m picturing each of us in one of these wheelchairs in the middle of an arena, beating each other into a bloody pulp with our robotic arms until one of us cries “uncle”. It will be the beginning of a whole new spectator sport that could potentially be worth billions of dollars: Ultimate Gimp Fighting. Better yet: Rock-‘Em-Sock-‘Em Cripples.

Somebody get me Vince McMahon on the phone. He’s going to want to get in on this at the ground level.

I’m imagining Senators Collins, Snowe, Nelson, and Specter meeting for Sunday brunch this morning, toasting each other with mimosas and basking in the glow of newly realized power. The cuts made to the Senate version of the stimulus bill don’t have any clearly articulated rationale behind them other than some tired nonsense about “trimming the pork”. Explain to me how $40 billion in aid to bankrupt states is pork. Explain to me how $20 billion in school construction won’t create jobs.

When the total dollar amount of the bill is still close to a trillion dollars, I have a hard time buying the argument that this centrist-brokered deal is really about fiscal responsibility. It’s about politicians choosing self-promotion over a stimulus bill that might actually pull the economy out of this death spiral.

And it is a death spiral. Take a look at this chart, which compares the current wave of job losses to job losses in recent recessions:

Gulp.

Come on, admit it. Ever since Obama took the oath of office, you’ve private wondered what the President of the United States and leader of the free world sounds like when he’s calling someone a sorry ass motherfucker.

Wonder no more. To be fair, the clips on this site are from the audiobook of Obama’s Dreams of my Father, but it’s fun to imagine him using similar language when addressing recalcitrant Republicans.