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Brett Kavanaugh’s Diary from 1982

From New York magazine, a satire by Eric Levitz

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May 5th

Woke early. Said morning prayers. Studied for the SATs for three hours, then spent the afternoon reading to the blind. In the evening, shot some baskets with my fellow adolescent males.

The competition was vigorous, but sportsmanlike. Afterwards, the boys debated which of the girls at National Cathedral was “the hottest.” I refused to engage in their sordid discussion. “Certainly, many of the young women at that school are physically attractive,” I told my schoolyard chums. “Still, I believe that the highest form of Eros is not the love of bodies, but rather the love of wisdom.”

“Ah, if you love wisdom so much, why don’t you marry the Constitution?” Mark asked.

Would that I could Mark — would that I could!

May 26th

Attended a movie outing, as scheduled. “Fast Times at Ridgemont High.” Two out of five stars: Mirthful in moments, but utterly unrealistic and unrelatable in its depiction of high-school life.

After the film, I came home and put the finishing touches on my final project for sculpture class — a photo-realistic mask of my own face. The verisimilitude is eerie in its perfection.

June 13th

Had lunch with my 65 close, female friends. We discussed the school year’s end, love, life, and volume two of Simone de Beauvoir’s The Second Sex. Told Moira that she doesn’t “owe” it to Jeff to go to second base — and if he keeps pressing the issue, she should look for a new suitor who respects her boundaries. Assured Stephanie that she was gorgeous, inside and out, and that Hollywood’s conception of feminine beauty was oppressively narrow. Encouraged Cassandra to ignore her father’s gender-normative hang-ups and try out for her public school’s wrestling team in the fall (glass ceilings are made to be broken!). Mostly though, I just listened.

On the way home back home, I stopped in at the hospital to donate some bone marrow.

June 20th

Went to church, as I do every Sunday. Reflected on my faith in Catholicism, and belief in the sanctity of all human life, from its very earliest stages (but not, necessarily, in an anti-choice sort of way).

Later, oversaw a meeting of the “Keg City Club” — a philanthropic organization which aims to deliver barrels of potable water to cities at risk of drought. As Treasurer, I reiterated my view that we had enough funds in our coffers to arrange for the provision of at least 100 kegs by the end of the fiscal year.

June 21st

My face has been stolen. For the past two weeks, my photo-realistic mask was hanging at G-Prep, as part of the year-end art show. But when I came by to pick it up this afternoon, the wall where it had been mounted lay bare. I’ve always considered myself a pro-law teen. But this wanton act of theft has redoubled my conviction that laws are very good.

July 4th

At the beach for the week with my family. Met three charming young surfers, all named Ralph. They offered to make me an honorary member of their eponymous “club.” I couldn’t refuse. Will spend all day tomorrow volunteering at a home for children orphaned by shark attacks.

July 24th

A little groggy today. Stayed up late last night reading jurisprudence. Have said it before and will say it again: Roe v. Wade is settled law.

July 27th

Attended a party at Mark’s house last night. Upon my arrival, was perturbed to find that there were no parental guardians in the home. When I went to place my modest contribution to the pot latch (a two-liter bottle of sarsaparilla) in the kitchen, was chagrined to see the center-island festooned with wine and spirits. I asked Mark if he were familiar with the drinking age in this part of the country, and/or, with the scientific literature on adolescent brain development (which demonstrates that alcoholic beverages can exacerbate the teenage mind’s predilection for rash decision-making). He said that it sounded like I could use a drink, and foisted a libation upon me. I took a sip but did not swallow, then stepped into the living room to call the police.

I saw him the moment I reentered the kitchen.

He was standing too close to a visibly inebriated sophomore. Ogling her — with my own eyes. Words cannot express the uncanny horror I felt then. “Return my visage at once, scoundrel!” I cried. The female sophomore turned to me, and then back to the thief, and then to me again. “I think I’ve had too much,” she stammered as my doppelgänger fled to the foyer. I chased him out the door and onto the benighted streets of Bethesda. He was quick — but, thanks to my years of focus on athletics, I was quicker. I took him down at the bottom of the driveway with a proper form tackle, then pinned him to the pavement by his wrists. His breath reeked of vodka. His eyes flared with malice. For a few moments I couldn’t speak, transfixed by the twisted mirror of his face.

“Who are you?” I finally said.

“Brett Kavanaugh,” he hissed.

“No, you’re not.”

“Say it all you want — when it matters most, no one will believe you,” he said, enigmatically, before dissolving into a fit of maniacal laughter.

Then came the sirens and the flash of headlights. In my moment of distraction, he bit my wrist. I fell to my side in pain as he wriggled up from under me and then disappeared into the darkness. I walked back to the house to thank the arriving officers for their timely response.

Minutes later, the authorities led Mark out the door in handcuffs. As they were putting him in the back of a squad car he turned to me and said, “I know you only did this for my own good. Thank you for always focusing on being a good friend to me.”

“You’re welcome,” I replied. “But I didn’t just do it for you, Mark – I also did it for the law.”

When I returned home, I lay awake, unable to get my doppelgänger’s face out of my head. “Was he right?” I asked myself. If he committed some vile act in my name, would anyone believe me?

But after hours of studying my ceiling fan, and reflecting on the wisdom of Christ and the founding fathers, I decided that my truth would be heard. In spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart.

Shortly thereafter, I descended into a beautiful dream; the Constitution was a woman, and I was giving her the most conscientious cunnilingus.

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Trump Has Failed The Marshmallow Test

 Donald J. Trump  @realDonaldTrump

I have no doubt that, if the attack on Dr. Ford was as bad as she says, charges would have been immediately filed with local Law Enforcement Authorities by either her or her loving parents. I ask that she bring those filings forward so that we can learn date, time, and place!

 

 Jonathan Chait  @jonathanchait

Trump has failed the Kavanaugh Marshmallow Test, though in his defense, he held out longer than anybody thought possible before lunging for the tweet button.

 

 Jonathan Swan @jonathanvswan

A White House official told me yesterday: “Hopefully he can keep it together until Monday. That’s only, like, another 48 hours right?”

 

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Karma’s a Bitch, Ain’t It Mitch?

From The Washington Post by Dana Milbank on sexual assault allegations against Supreme Court Nominee Brett Kavanaugh:

“And Senate Republican Leader Mitch McConnell (Ky.) was resolutely silent until late Monday, when the architect of the plan to deny President Barack Obama’s Supreme Court nominee, Merrick Garland, a hearing for 293 days went to the Senate floor and complained that Democrats didn’t follow “standard bipartisan process” by raising the allegations earlier.”

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And Now For Something Completely Different…

The Virtual Paintout is back after a long hiatus this year.

(Check out the link in my blog roll on the right of the page.)

Each month Bill Guffey, the wonderful artist who runs the whole shebang, picks a spot somewhere on the planet for artists of all stripes to convene and travel the streets via Google Street View and then submit their artwork of the spots they find interesting.

The choice this last month was the U.S. Virgin Islands.

My husband of 42 years passed away in June. He always encouraged me in my artwork and had been after me to get back into it, but his months long illness and radiation treatments took their toll on both of us and I just didn’t have the will to do that.

So when Bill started up his website again in August, I thought I’d give it a go. I didn’t have quite yet what it takes to do a full blown painting, so I found this rooster strutting his stuff in front of a house and did a quick sketch using color markers. And here it is.

I call this one “Funky chicken.”

funky chicken

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That’s Right. Blame the Dead Guy.

From CNN:

Republican Sen. James Inhofe told reporters Monday that Sen. John McCain was “partially to blame” for the controversy over the lowering of the White House flag.

Inhofe, a senior member of Senate Armed Services Committee, was highly complimentary of McCain but when asked about the flag flap he attributed it to the late senator’s public spat with President Donald Trump in recent years. He described both men as “strong willed people.”
“Well, you know, frankly, I think that John McCain is partially to blame for that because he is very outspoken. He disagreed with the President in certain areas and wasn’t too courteous about it,” Inhofe said.
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“And this snowball is warmer than Trump’s heart.”