Congratulations. You made it. And in grand style. Only a little over half the country thinks you’re a lying alcoholic rageaholic rapist prick. The important thing is exactly half the Senate was willing to look the other way. The country that let O.J. walk for murder allowed you onto the highest court in the land for comparable reasons. High five, dude. I know you won’t be playing golf with O.J., but you may be watching porno movies with Clarence Thomas.
Admittedly I don’t know you. I never rode shotgun in one of your devil’s triangles and never stood guard duty while you pinned down a high school girl. But I feel I know you in the sense that we attended snooty Ivy League schools in the same era. We had a whole choir of Bart O’Kavanaughs at Princeton in the early to mid-80s. You would have fit right in.
I know how hard it was for you and for them. When you’re the golden boy—on the gridiron, in the classroom, in moot court—not getting laid is an indignity. Having almost everything in life is a far cry from having everything. How dare some little sophomore chick stand between you and destiny. Doesn’t she know you’ve always been on a nonstop train to glory? What’s a copped feel here and there when one day you will control millions of wombs?
So you took what you want when you wanted it. But first you used liquor, not to numb her pain but your own. And you got your buddy in on the act because no slobbering drunken Pillsbury Doughboy wannabe jock should have to face a 109-lb. girl alone. All that attention to detail—the closed door, the turned up music, the dimmed lights, the frolicking and laughter—just like you, was so unappreciated. They never got you. They never got it. This wasn’t an assault. This was a date. And you never even got a thank you.
They never understood the cross you bear. Not then and not now. Ridiculous, unlimited opportunity unfortunately came with a downside. Entry into the nation’s elite prep schools, universities, and law schools meant academic pressure. Accomplished parents meant parental pressure, heightened by being an only child unable to divide up arbitrary expectations among siblings. Being Catholic entailed unbearable guilt trips every time you choked the chicken. It was all too much. So naturally you drank to oblivion, destroyed property, puked your guts out into convertible sofas, and tore clothing from the terrified immobilized bodies of adolescent women. Jesus said it was okay.
Then one of those sex toys had the nerve to speak up 36 years after you discarded her like a plastic beer mug with the Coors logo. There you were regurgitating tired case histories from Constitutional Law 101 before a panel of right wing congressional hacks all ready to rubber stamp your appointment to the Supreme Court when one of these disposable Renate alumnae, looking all used up, crashes the party and is just a total buzzkill.
So you did what you had to do. Because there is really only one thing in this world. There is no Constitution. There are no rights. There are no rules of conduct. There is no self-effacement, no falling on the sword. There are no principles. There is no greater good. There is only one thing in this universe—what you want. You took it then and you took it now. Only a few probing questions were required to turn erudite law scholar Jekyll into nasty-ass, vindictive, barking, growling, pasty-faced, venom spewing, pit bull hissy fit throwing Hyde. You weren’t a hundred percent sure Jesus approved this time, but Donald Trump loved it.
No worries. Having reached the pinnacle of professional life through the broken screen in the back door to the kitchen and squeaking your way onto the team like Rudy Ruettiger running out onto the field for the last play of the season at Notre Dame, you can act legit no matter what’s going on beneath that robe. When Kagan and Sotomayor are so creeped out they won’t sit next to you at lunch you can tell them you wouldn’t even have wasted a lude on them back at DKE. But here’s the thing. Your 5 to 4 decisions will mean absolutely nothing to me. In fact, I look forward to whatever civil disobedience I can muster.
That may be difficult for me. I’ll never be pregnant. And it doesn’t look like a soon-to-be illegal gay marriage is anywhere in my future. I’m not a sitting U.S. President about to be indicted. But I’ll do what I can to disregard or flout whatever drivel you happen to generate from the bench. Because to me and millions of other Americans the room will always be dark, the music will always be loud, the door will always be locked, and you and your asshole friend will always be suffocating someone very close to me.