Attorney Matt Mollica: Ohio's Human Draft Horse

The State of Ohio bestowed a law license upon Matthew Christopher Mollica in 1992 after he graduated from the University of Dayton School of Law. Little did Ohio know that it was not merely licensing an attorney. No sir.

It was unleashing a productivity experiment previously thought impossible outside Soviet tractor factories and caffeine-addicted ant colonies.

For purposes of this article, Matthew Christopher Mollica shall hereinafter be known as "The Slave."

Now before anyone becomes offended, relax.

I didn't invent the nickname.

The facts did.

According to reports, The Slave allegedly worked 92 hours during a 96-hour period.

Ninety-two.

Out of ninety-six.

Delmas, get your calculator.

No, not that one. The one with the big buttons.

Now then.

There are 24 hours in a day.

Four days equals 96 hours.

If The Slave worked 92 of those hours, that left exactly four hours for all other human activities.

Sleeping.

Eating.

Bathing.

Blinking.

Remaining conscious.

In other words, for four consecutive days, The Slave essentially treated sleep as an optional hobby.

Most attorneys bill by the hour.

The Slave appears to have attempted to bill by the minute.

While the rest of Ohio was foolishly wasting time attending birthday parties, watching football, and engaging in other irresponsible recreational activities, The Slave was apparently operating under the revolutionary theory that every minute not worked represented a personal failure.

At first, I was overcome with emotion.

I sat quietly staring at the wall.

A single tear formed in my eye.

Then I remembered I was drinking a Crank Yanker IPA and quickly regained control of myself.

Frankly, I cannot understand why Ohio authorities were upset.

Punish him?

For what?

Excessive productivity?

If anything, they should have immediately assembled a task force.

The first phone call should have gone to Harvard.

The second to Johns Hopkins.

The third to the Roslin Institute in Scotland.

The conversation should have gone something like this:

"Hello. We'd like to clone an attorney."

"A what?"

"An attorney."

"Why?"

"Because this one works four days straight without apparently requiring sleep."

"I see."

"No, you don't. That's why we're calling."

Ladies and gentlemen, this is where Dolly the Sheep enters the conversation.

And before you ask, yes, Delmas, I realize that no sentence in human history has ever ended well after the phrase, "This is where Dolly the Sheep enters the conversation."

Nonetheless, hear me out.

Suppose scientists successfully cloned The Slave.

Not once.

Not twice.

But hundreds of times.

Imagine the possibilities.

Need a public defender?

Matt.

Need three public defenders?

Three Matts.

Need seventeen public defenders, a prosecutor, two bailiffs, and a county commissioner?

Twenty-one Matts.

Need someone to argue both sides of a motion at the same hearing?

Two Matts.

Need someone to disagree with himself and then file an appeal against his own argument?

Three Matts and a legal pad.

The possibilities are endless.

Ohio currently employs hundreds of thousands of government workers.

Yet one has to wonder:

How many of them are actually operating at full Mollica capacity?

Let's be honest.

Most employees consider a forty-hour work week an accomplishment.

The Slave appears to consider a forty-hour work week a coffee break.

Many workers celebrate Fridays.

The Slave apparently doesn't recognize Fridays.

All days are simply "additional billing opportunities."

In fact, if scientists could produce enough Mollica clones, the state might never close another office.

DMV open at 3:00 a.m.?

Matt.

County auditor on Christmas morning?

Matt.

Building inspector during a tornado?

Matt.

Public defender conducting legal research while simultaneously driving, eating a sandwich, and preparing six motions?

Probably Matt.

And perhaps a clone of Matt assisting him.

The resulting taxpayer savings could be staggering.

Government payroll reduced.

Healthcare costs reduced.

Office space reduced.

Parking lots reduced.

Meanwhile, coffee consumption throughout Ohio would increase to levels visible from space.

Scientists at NASA would likely identify an unexplained dark cloud hovering over central Ohio.

After further analysis they would determine:

"Nope. That's just the Mollicas starting their morning coffee."

At some point Dolly the Sheep would deserve recognition too.

After all, if she contributed to the creation of an entire workforce of legally trained workaholics, she might become the first sheep ever nominated for Ohio Employee of the Month.

Perhaps even Employee of the Year.

Maybe Employee of the Century.

And if there were justice in this world, her statue would stand outside the Ohio Statehouse.

The plaque would read:

DOLLY THE SHEEP "She did her part."

Meanwhile, The Slave would continue doing what he does best.

Working.

Always working.

Forever working.

Historians would eventually discover that he had secretly billed several hours during his own retirement party.

In conclusion, Delmas, I strongly believe we should broaden our efforts beyond Ohio.

Every state should identify its most dedicated public defender and immediately initiate a Dolly-assisted cloning program.

Within ten years, America could possess an inexhaustible supply of attorneys capable of working twenty-three hours a day while viewing sleep with the same level of contempt normally reserved for parking tickets.

And if that doesn't qualify Matthew Christopher Mollica for a Guinness World Record, I honestly don't know what does.

Perhaps a new category should be created:

"Most Consecutive Hours Worked By A Man Apparently Trying To Personally Complete Every Legal Matter Since The Magna Carta."

Even then, I suspect The Slave would file an appeal demanding more hours be added to the day.

Because 24 simply isn't enough.