I had the weirdest dream the other night.

My wife and I were watching television and a news announcement broke in, cutting into the rerun of Friends. An attorney, with a sonorous look on his face, to match his sonorous voice, was giving a sonorous speech on some courtroom steps, before dozens of cameras, mikes, and johns, who were disguised as regular newspeople since it was still light outside, and their wives could account for their whereabouts. The strong odor of No-Doz could not be smelled through the television screen, but was doubtless in evidence, because the reporters were alert and conscious.

The attorney was forced to use an interpreter, because he was speaking in an archaic, self-contradictory language known as Attorney-Speak, which was developed solely for the purpose of confounding English teachers and confusing laypersons (defined as a person who passes out when confronting legal issues).

Ancient scrolls have been found that date this language to the Jurassic period, when the first attorney-mammals crawled out of the seas, and traded worthless trinkets and shells to the reptiles in exchange for the continent of Asia, selling it back to them in timeshares with disclaimers written so small the dinosaurs couldn't read them. There are still bad feelings about this massive land swindle, and dinosaurs still eat attorneys at every opportunity.

Sonorously, pompously, the attorney pontificated through his interpreter, a lesser attorney, who, being a recent law school graduate, still retained some ability to speak in common language...

"We are sad to ...," relayed the interpreter.

The attorney interrupted him, and spoke in his ear, like Dean's attorney during the Watergate trials.

"We are happy to..." the interpreter began again.

The attorney whispered in his ear again.

Or maybe he was just eating earwax. There was no real way to tell, but, as far as National Geographic can tell, attorneys do not feed on earwax, preferring instead thirty-percent contingency fees.

"Um, we are announcing that we are filing a class-action suit today, on behalf of Sadie Winfrey, and others like her," and here both the attorney and interpreter gestured towards a forlorn looking old lady standing beside them, almost lost in the shadow of the attorney's ego.

"...for one billion dollars..."

We gasped, transfixed by the melodrama unfolding before us.

"...against McDonald's restaurants..."

We gasped again.

"... for gross negligence and, dare I say it, criminal conduct."

The press erupted in excitement, screaming out their questions, and my wife dropped her Big Mac to the floor with a wet splat.

"Mr. Tort, Mr. Tort, can you tell us why you're suing McDonald's?" one voice penetrated through the mob noise.

The attorney swung his beak, uh, snout, uh, nose toward the questioner.

"Money," the interpreter said.

The attorney turned to his interpreter angrily, and briefly whispered a brief briefly, shielding their faces with his brief.

"Oh, uh..." the interpreter said, "..I, mean, uh..."

The attorney addressed the crowd, "Whereas, the party of the first party, hereinafter referred to as the antecedent, prior to the injurious infraction..."

All the donuts in Chicago contained less than the amount of glaze that slid over the eyes of the assembled crowd of reporters and on-lookers.

Fortunately, everybody was saved by the interpreter, who shouted over the attorney's droning voice, "Not money! This suit has nothing to do with money!"

The attorney stopped droning on, saddening some on-looking bees, and the interpreter continued, at a lower level, "Our suit is being filed on behalf of all of the citizens who have suffered the consequences of eating Big Macs."

"What, raised cholesterol levels?" one reporter quipped.

"Getting fat?"

"Allergies to sesame seeds?" another yelled.

"I know," another said, "Hatred of the song," he started singing, 'Two all beef paddies, special sauce.."

The entire crowd started singing along, including those who were too young to have been around when the song was driving the entire nation batty, "...lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions.."

Coming together into a rousing finale "...on a sesame seed buuunnnnnn!!!"

The interpreter simply looked at them, eyes glinting behind spectacles that were worn just for looks, since he'd had laser surgery the year before, paid from a bonus he'd gotten for creative over-billing. He waited until the hubbub died down.

Then he waited some more, since a few cameras were panning the crowd instead of focusing on him.

When he judged that he was once again the center of attention, he continued, "As you know, McDonalds named their cocoa, 'Hot Chocolate.' This implies that they are aware of the risks that an inattentive consumer might injure something by incidental contact with intemperate conditions."

"ZZZZZZZZZZZZ" the reporters chorused.

The interpreter looked sheepish, and bleated, "Uh, sorry. I meant, since they named it 'hot,' then it shows that they are aware of their duty to warn their consumers of possible hazards of using their products."

"Like the lady who spilled coffee on herself, and sued McDonalds, claiming that the coffee was hot," one reporter suggested.

"Exactly," the interpreter beamed, "Definitely a high point in the history of the law profession. Why the fees alone..."

"Don't you think she should have known that coffee is hot?" another reporter interrupted.

"Wha..?" the interpreter started.

"There's cold coffee, nowadays," another reporter said to the first reporter.

"Oh, yeah, I guess so."

The interpreter raised his voice, to draw attention back to him, "Exactly. And now there's a warning label on McDonalds coffee, warning the consumer that coffee is hot."

"Yeah, we feel all comfy, cozy and warm with relief," one reporter said sarcastically. Or maybe he really was all comfy, cozy and warm with relief.

"So what's the problem with Big Macs?" another reporter shouted out.

"We believe," said the interpreter, "that Big Macs should be called 'Sloppy, Warm Big Macs,' so people are warned that you could get stuff all over yourselves, causing great emotional distress and dry-cleaning bills."

There was a snuffle from the shadow caused by the attorney's ego, "Like Ms. Sadie Winfrey, here," the interpreter said, as the attorney put his arm around her and gazed warmly at her like a vampire picking out his next victim.

Sandy looked up from the screen, "Yeah, Big Macs are pretty messy."

"I've gotten that orange stuff all over my clothes," I agreed.

"Good thing we have the legal profession to look out after our interests," she observed sagely.

There was a moment of silence.

"You think we'll ever get anything out of the multi-billions they won against the cigarette companies?" she wondered.

"Nah."

Though I don't smoke, I lit up a cigarette, and took a chomp out of my Big Mac. Orange stuff squeezed out, and dribbled all over me, and I knew that my future would include great emotional distress and dry-cleaning bills.

I woke up screaming.