Month: October 2018

Before the recent Kavanaugh-related unpleasantness – and the more recent Kavanaugh-related celebration (Oh Happy Day!), I had started writing a “best-of-September” column.  So now – even though it seems like news as old as the credible accusations that Ruth Bader Ginsburg sexually harassed a young and vulnerable Hammurabi – here is my list of the highs and lows of September.

1.Trump closed the PLO office in DC.  Good!  Of course, the usual suspects quickly pulled their kaffiyehs up over their head in horror… Wait.  A kaffiyeh is supposed to be worn on the head, isn’t it?  Well, you know what I mean.  The usual terrorist-enablers lost their Pelosi, and made the usual arguments.

Husam Zumlot (and if the Japanese are not currently working on a new electric car called the “Zumlot,” they are missing a prime marketing opportunity) called the closing “reckless.”  I mean, not as reckless as strapping bombs to dimwitted teenagers and sending them into pizza restaurants in Israel to murder the lunchtime crowd.  But sure.  Reckless.

Saeb Erekat (and I’m going to avoid the obvious “Erekat Stevens” joke, because he changed his name to Yusuf Islam, and there’s nothing funny about that) said that this is just more evidence that the Trump administration wants to “punish the Palestinian people.”  Yes.  Like when the PLO routinely fires missiles into Israel from the roofs of schools and hospitals, so that any return strikes will kill civilians.  That kind of punishment.

One of the best foreign policy decisions the Trump WH has made is to drop the offensive pretense of moral equivalence between Israel and the PLO.  We moved our embassy to Jerusalem and acknowledged that it is the capital of Israel, and we stopped a $251 million “aid payment” that was supposed to go to the Palestinian people but would have disappeared into the PLO bank accounts.

Plus, American hero John “the Nuclear Walrus” Bolton (hat tip to Dennis Miller) gave an amazing speech on the subject of the deeply corrupt International Criminal Court. “We will not cooperate with the ICC. We will provide no assistance to the ICC. And we certainly will not join the ICC.  We will let the ICC die on its own. After all, for all intents and purposes, the ICC is already dead to us.”

If John Kerry had even tried to pack that much moral clarity into a speech to the UN, the top of his elongated, horse-like head would have blown off.

And if that wasn’t great enough, Bolton completed his Michael Corleone impression by noting that the US would “take note” of any countries who cooperate with the ICC.

In other words, “You broke my heart, Fredo Erekat.  And now you’re dead to me.  Please put on this fishing cap, and one of my assistants will take you out on the Hudson River in a bass boat with an outboard motor on the back.  He’ll be sitting behind you.”

 

2. The best headline – and odds are, the only true one – to appear in the Washington Post in September was this: “Woman who wrote about how to murder your husband charged with murdering her husband.”

I don’t have any extensive commentary on this one, other than to point out Rule #1 in the How to Get Away with Crime handbook: Don’t write a how-to guide on committing a crime before you commit it.

That’s why you’ll never see my blog post entitled, “How to Travel from Florida to NYC and Punch Chuck Schumer in his Big, Fat, Lying Mouth.”  Because I’m too clever for that.

 

3. Chelsea Clinton gave a mid-September interview in which said that, “as a deeply religious person, [restricting abortion is] also un-Christian to me.”

I am normally loath to criticize Chelsea Clinton, because she had a horrible childhood at the hands of absolutely terrible parents. But she’s in her 30s now, and she’s lecturing us about how Christ would be super-pumped about infanticide.

She’s probably thinking about the passage where He says, “Suffer the little children to come unto me… so that I can end their lives and sell their body parts, and thereby afford to buy a Lamborghini.”

I never trust those modern translations.

You know what else I never trust?  Spiritual advice from a Clinton.

 

4. In other news, the transparently biased MSM kept it up with the transparent bias during September. I would quote some specific stories, but do I really need to?

Instead, try this experiment.  I’m going to list 3 headlines, and I guarantee that you will find at least one story on each of these themes on the biggest MSM websites within the next 24 hours:

1. Trump: Our experts debate whether he’s more like Hitler or Satan.
2. The unprecedented economic boom going on right now: Our experts debate whether there is nothing to report here, or whether Obama should get the credit.
3. Colin Kaepernick: Our experts debate whether he’s more like a cross between Dan Marino and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., or more like a cross between Joe Montana and Jesus, if Jesus had been a little better at reading zone defenses.

 

5. The revealing internal Google video that somehow got leaked.  If you haven’t seen that video, please… um… Google it, I guess?  On second thought, I’m sure that you can’t get it by Googling it.  (Because Google is the opposite of transparent.)

It was an in-house video feed to the company’s employees, taped the morning after the Cankle-pocalypse of November 2016, when Hillary was prevented from beginning her Reign of Insufferability with what surely would have been the worst acceptance speech ever cackled.  (“Two score and a handful of years ago, CAW CAW, my reprehensible horndog husband assaulted his first campaign aide.  As I bullied that poor girl into silence CAW CAW CAW, I knew that she – and all of the dozens of bimbos whom I would have to slander in the future – CAW CAW – would not have suffered in vain, if by their destruction they would have paved my way – CAW – to the highest office in the land!”)

So all of these high-ranking Google people are on camera, commiserating in the most clueless way about how their world has fallen apart. The COO is some woman who can literally barely keep from weeping, and talks about how she and her friends were crying as the election returns came in.  Which gave me two thoughts:

First, does this mentally fragile woman realize that half of her customers disagree with her about politics, and therefore it might be a smarter business plan to at least try to hide your hatred of them?

Second, as I’ve reported in other columns, it seems like when the left doesn’t get its way, it resorts to one of two childish behavior patterns: throwing feces, or bawling like a baby.  Now that’s always good entertainment to view from a distance — or, if you happen to have a slicker, some hip-waders and a fecal-proof helmet and googles – in a live setting.

I’m considering buying one share of Google stock, just so I can attend the next shareholder meeting.  When the time comes for Q&A, I’m going to stand up and say, “Can you tell us what our company is doing to help President Trump in his attempt to Make America Great Again?”

And then I’ll step back, snap my Def-e-CAN’T Anti-fecal Goggles™ (now with “Fec-be-gone” Democrat-resistant lense coating ™) into place, and watch the festivities.

 

6.  On September 17^th, Michael Moore was inexplicably being interviewed at the release of his latest terrible agit-prop movie. (Spoiler alert: Conservatives are the bad guys, Michael Moore is the hero, and 8 people saw it. That kind of box office is not going to keep Mikey in comically over-sized turkey legs and industrial-sized barrels of gravy.) When asked what he’s thinking about 2020, he said, “I’m not thinking about 2020.  If we don’t fix this now, we may not get to 2020.”

If Michael Moore doesn’t make it to 2020, I think that’s going to have a lot more to do with furniture collapse, aspiration of a large chunk of ham while he’s sleeping, or the fact that his blood type is “pudding” than with machinations of the totalitarian Trump administration.

 

7. Finally, in the story that best exemplifies what’s wrong with kids these days, Serena Williams lost a tennis match to a smaller Japanese woman. And she stoically accepted her fate, and congratulated her opponent like a good sport, the end.

HA!  In fact she whined and moaned and broke her racket and broke the rules.  When the guy in the lifeguard chair docked her a point for that, she went more nuts.  She eventually lost a game because of her bad behavior.  I was never a fan of “bad boy” tennis players, but Serena made John McEnroe look like Pitt the Elder.

(Okay, I’m not even sure if Pitt the Elder was known for his calm demeanor.  But a buddy of mine bet me that I would not be able to work jokes mentioning ziggurats, fjord-billies and Pitt the Elder into consecutive columns.  So pay up, Darryll!)

But it wasn’t just that Serena threw a tantrum like a Democrat who was denied the chance to use the constitution as a diaper.  (I’m looking at you, Crazy Mazie.)  It’s the way she encapsulated every dysfunctional social trend as she threw that tantrum.

First, of course, was the bald-faced lying.  She was accused of getting signals from her coach, who was in the stands at her match.  So she yelled three times, “I didn’t get coaching.” (This was undercut later when her coach admitted that he had been giving her coaching.  Also by cameras, which showed him giving her coaching.)

When the umpire appeared unmoved, she took it up a notch, screaming, “You owe me an apology. I have never cheated in my life. I have a daughter and I stand for what is right for her and I’ve never cheated. You owe me an apology.”

Oh, so having a daughter automatically means that you never lie?  I guess that explains why Elizabeth Warren, once she gave birth to her twin daughters — Running Deer and Janet – did a 180 and immediately embraced her Episcopalian/Presbyterian roots.  #wemustneverstopmockingher

And what’s with demanding an apology?  Has that ever worked for anyone at their workplace?  Say the boss catches you slipping a 20 from the cash register into your pocket, or taking a pull off the bottle of whiskey that you keep in your desk drawer.

Did it ever occur to you that you could just say, “I was going to take this $20 bill home to check the serial numbers in case it’s a phony, and my sciatica is acting up, so I was using that bottle of Jack for medicinal purposes.  Now where’s my apology, Brian?”  (For this example, I’m assuming that your boss’ name is Brian.  Also, that he prefers not to be called by his first name.)

After some more back-and-forth, Little Miss Sunshine returned to her favorite theme:  “When are you going to give me my apology? You owe me an apology.  Say it, say you’re sorry. Then don’t talk to me, don’t talk to me. How dare you insinuate I was cheating? You stole a point from me. You’re a thief too.”

It’s “her apology,” don’t you get it?  He owes it to her.

When he then docked her a game penalty for verbally abusing him, she pulled the gender card: “Do you know how many men do things that are much worse than that? This is not fair.  There are a lot of men out here that have said a lot of things and because they are a man it doesn’t matter.”

Which would have made a lot more sense if it wasn’t 100% false.  And if by penalizing her, he had awarded the lost game to a male passerby, rather than giving it to Serena’s opponent.  Who, I have it on pretty good authority, is also a woman.

In the press conference afterward, Serena continued to prove that she is the most ironically named person since Nazi anti-semite Alfred Rosenberg.  (Seriously, he was a real guy.)   She said, “I’m here fighting for women’s rights and for women’s equality…. I just feel like the fact that I have to go through this is just an example for the next person … [who] wants to be a strong woman.”

Which gave me two thoughts:

1. Just because you have the shoulders of a starting outside linebacker at Texas A&M doesn’t mean that you’re a strong woman.
2. With that kind of delusional, narcissistic, victim mentality, she has got to be Hillary’s running mate in 2020. Their campaign slogan writes itself: “You Owe Us an Apology!”

Of course, the conservative slogan also writes itself:  “Trump/Pence vs. Clinton/Williams – Shock and Awe vs. Whine and CAW!”

 

Can you picture the joy around stately Simpson Manor today?  After several weeks of being furious and worried and depressed as a manifestly good man was demonized and smeared, I started to enjoy a trickle of good news this past week.

First, Creepy Porn Lawyer’s client turns out to be a singularly unconvincing loon selling a story that dozens and dozens of upper class girls were gang raped over a period of months by dozens of upper class boys in a suburb of DC, and no one ever reported it.  When she gave four names of people who supposedly witnessed this, one denied it, two couldn’t be reached, and one was dead.

It’s a cliché for a reason: when your best witness is a dead guy, pull the fire alarm and run out of the court room.

Next, Ramirez turns out to be a partisan hack selling a story that she was black out drunk at a party, and there were genitals, and she wasn’t sure whose they were until she spent six days talking to her leftist hack lawyer, who – when not chasing ambulances – also specializes in helping people “recover” decades-old genital-related memories.

By the way, I went to high school and college with a ton of girls, and I tragically got to see almost none of them naked.  But if there’s a way I can go to the offices of Soros & Alinsky Esq.  and “recover” some memories in which I was actually bombarded by parade floats filled with female nudity, I’m in.

In fact, if I could please “recover” a memory of when 1983 Nena went to my senior prom with me, and sang “99 Luft Balloons” before coming home to the luxurious apartment I never had and having her lusty Germanic way with me, I’d pay double.  Throw in that time I ravaged late 1970s Farrah Fawcett, and I will sign over my 401K.

Where was I?  Oh yeah: Ramirez’s story collapsed like a house of imaginary cards.

At the same time, Ford’s story grew weaker too.  All of the witnesses she named said they didn’t know what she was talking about.  Her story that she was terrified of flying was undermined by the fact that she has 500,000 frequent flier miles.  Also, for the last six years she has had a summer job as a wing-walker on an old biplane in a barnstormer act in Branson, Missouri.

Next up, the MSM was on the case, and dug up perhaps the most damning anti-Kavanaugh account yet.  It turns out that Brett Kavanaugh – when he wasn’t drugging high school girls and defending his pimping turf in vicious running gun battles with Bishop Don “Magic” Juan (Google him) – was also involved in a donnybrook in a bar near Yale.

That’s right.  He allegedly threw ice at a guy.  You may remember it from all of those “The Cube Heard Round the World” stories that dominated the headlines in 1985.

This was the last straw for my wife, who is, as many of you know, of Norwegian descent.  Until then, she had been trying to keep an open mind.  But when she heard about the ice throwing allegations, she was triggered.

Because, as she explained to me in a tearful conversation, the Norwegian people have long been tormented by racial slurs from their less blonde, less attractive, shorter, swarthier neighbors.

Growing up, she had heard it all:  Tundra Monkeys.  Glacierbacks.  Frosties. Fjord-billies.  Svens.

But the most painful of all was the “I” word:  Ice-chuckers.

(By the way, don’t kid yourself: Lizzie Warren has heard those same, hateful words.  She might say that she’s been called “squaw” or “wigwam whacko,” but she’s got “fjord-billy” written all over her.) (#wemustneverstopmockingher)

So the anti-Kavanists lost my wife.

My spirits were rising as the FBI report came back the only way it possibly could, given that the alleged bad behavior happened at an undetermined location, in an unknown year, and with no corroboration. And also was totally made up.

Then Cocaine Mitch called for a cloture vote, and Lindsay Graham’s evil twin continued to dazzle us all.  When a bunch of entitled know-nothing college kids at a genteel event at the Atlantic started booing him, he snapped, “Oh, boo yourself.”

Which, for the old Lindsay Graham, would have been the equivalent of jumping to his feet, roaring, “DIE  COMMIE SCUM!” and spraying the crowd with small arms fire from a belt-fed weapon.

Also, when some embittered termagant harassing him in a hallway called out, “If he would take a polygraph this would all be over,” Lindsay came back with a professional-quality retort, which I am not making up.  He looked back over his shoulder without missing a beat, and said, “Why don’t we dunk him in water and see if he floats.”

Boom!

Finally Friday comes, and Susan Collins speaks on the Senate floor in that shaky, Kate-Hepburn-in-a-bumper-car way that has always driven me nuts, but is now just adorable.  After a 45-minute speech laying out the manifest reasons to be disgusted by the left’s smear campaign (reportedly written by her lead staffer, Harold Obvious), she supports Kavanaugh.

Twelve seconds later, Joe Manchin shoulder-rolls to the nearest microphone, gives a clavicle-snapping forearm shiver to the septuagenarian who was explaining that we should always believe all women, and grabs the mike, shouting, “Me too!  Me too!  I’m voting for Kavanaugh too!”

So I grab the front paws of a startled Cassie the Wonder Dog and dance her around my living room, singing, “Oh Happy Day,” but replacing the line, “When Jesus washed my sins away,” with, “When Lindsay cleared the goons away!”

To vicariously experience that with me, google “Ray Charles sings Oh Happy Day,” and watch the video.  It was just like that, except with a lot less dashikis, and one confused and excited Aussie shepherd.

So Saturday comes, and I DVR the usual half-dozen college football games, but also the coverage of the Kavanaugh vote and aftermath on all 6 networks.  I am going to slowly work my way through all of that video between now and Christmas, savoring every profanity-filled chant and misspelled sign and red-faced tantrum from the hordes of lefty louts who descended on Washington to celebrate “Political Impotence Fest ’18.”

In the meantime, I’ve got my snacks arranged around me in my recliner.  I’m having a foot-long schadenfreude sandwich with a side of Cheetos (because the Dems tried to cheat, get it?), and I’ll be washing it down with a flagon of Leftist Tears, vintage 2016.

With ice. Delicious, never-been-thrown ice.

That reminds me: Just-ice Kavanaugh.

Ha! Crank it up!    “Oh happy day…”

0-0-0

For more of Martin’s columns – which don’t all focus on the Kavanaugh hearings, I promise – go to Martinsimpsonwriting.com

 

Several weeks ago I wrote a column called “What I learned from the Kavanaugh Hearings.”  Little did I know that there would be a sequel…

“What I Learned from the Kavanaugh Show Trial”

First, never ask the rhetorical question, “How low can Democrat politicians go?”  Because… now the only things left are cannibalism and necrophilia.  I mean, as far as I know.  (On the other hand, is it possible that Michael Moore achieved that size without consuming at least one or two human beings?  Just to be on the safe side, can someone please do a head count/wellness check on all of his family and neighbors and co-workers?)

Second, if Donald Trump does not soon tag evil sexist Hawaii senator Mazie Hirono as “Crazy Mazie,” I’m going to be very disappointed in him.   She is now my least favorite senator – and with soulless crone Dianne Feinstein, Spartacus and the dueling Dicks (Durbin and Blumenthal) crawling the earth, that is really saying something.

The nature of the sexism – and don’t tell me hating males is reverse sexism, because it’s just sexism – on display from the Democrat Senators was really stunning.  Hirono literally said that it’s the men who cause these kinds of problems, and they all should just shut up.  Gillebrand and others said that we should always and in all circumstances “believe the woman.”

What do you say to that?

Several things:  1. Try this out, “Always believe the man.”  Or “Always believe the white person.” Or “Always believe the older person.”  Or “Always believe the Lutheran.”

Sounds weird, doesn’t it?  Almost as if it is nothing but creepy, simplistic, completely unjustified blanket discrimination against one group in favor of another?  That’s because [cue Sam Kinison voice] IT IS!  THAT’S EXACTLY WHAT IT IS!  OH! OOOOHHHH!

2.I’D LIKE TO ASSIGN – oops. Sorry. [Discontinue Sam Kinison voice]

2.I’d like to assign some homework to the Democrat senators who have suggested that women must always be believed. First, read To Kill a Mockingbird. Then Google the following terms or people: Duke Lacrosse case, Juanita Broaddrick, Paula Jones, Kathleen Willey, Monica Lewinsky, Mattress Girl, Rolling Stone UVA fraternity rape hoax.  Some of those are women who you did not believe, because you are hypocritical creeps.  Others are women who turned out to be lying.

Because, you know, women are human, and humans sometimes lie.

3.I thought I’d never say this, but Lindsay “Graham-nesty” Graham is – at least for today — my hero. If you opened your windows and listened carefully during his righteous rant, you could hear the sounds of millions of frustrated, fair-minded Americans simultaneously cheering and sighing in relief.

The election of Trump has been attributed to many causes – not the least of which was because he was running against CAW CAW CAW – but one crucial factor was that he’s a fighter.  He’s a flawed fighter, and a fighter who often lands punches on his own jaw and upside his allies’ heads, and a fighter who has way too much access to a Twitter account.

But he’s a fighter.  And for a long time, conservatives have been frustrated by a series of basically good men — Bush, McCain, Romney, 75% of the Senate and House — who could not bring themselves to get down in the mud and counter-punch against leftists who have had no compunction about fighting below the belt.  (That’s not necessarily a Bill Clinton joke.) (But on the other hand… sure.)

So when Trump came out swinging haymakers in all directions, we winced, but we also cheered.

And Thursday, when GOP Senators were tiptoeing around, trying not to offend the delicate sensibilities of female voters who might be offended if they asked Ford pointed questions – you know, as if she were a grown, responsible adult, rather than a fragile porcelain mouse — we were groaning.  Mobs of protesting goons clogged the hallways and chanted idiotic slogans and chased GOP politicians out of restaurants, while we all stared at our big screens, screaming, “A taser, a taser!  My kingdom for a taser!”

Or maybe that was just me.

But then, from over the horizon, comes a most unlikely champion.  Gone was the milquetoast Lindsay who used to sit obediently at John McCain’s knee and look for common ground with the enemy troops besieging the city.

Mrs. Graham must have mixed in some HGH, testosterone and just a touch of meth with Lindsay’s Cheerios Thursday morning, because he came out swinging.  And we all cheered!

4.Ford’s testimony was a mixed bag, at best. If I can put aside my pro-Kavanaugh and anti-leftist bias, she wasn’t obviously crazy, and she did seem distressed and sympathetic.

But the problems with her story are obvious, and clearly preclude taking any kind of quasi-prosecutorial action based on them.

A. Her hippocampus talk was ridiculous, in context.  She used some scientific terms to give a gloss of empirical sophistication to parts of her testimony, explaining how the hippocampus encodes memory.

I’ll plead guilty to not being a brain expert.  In fact, I thought that “hippocampus” was a nickname given to the physical environs of Wellesley college when Hillary Clinton was a student there.  (Boom!)

But while I’m not a part of the hippocampus cognoscenti – best name for a prog rock band ever, by the way – it doesn’t pass the smell test to go on about how the strong emotional distress of the moment indelibly fixed a few details in her mind, while simultaneously not fixing virtually any others.  She doesn’t remember the day or month or year, or the specific house, or how she got there or got home.  But for the crucial minute or two, her 36-year-old memory is crystal clear?

B. Specifically, not knowing the date is really unusual.  Most of us have had at least one or two traumatic or dramatically bad events – a miscarriage, being the victim of crime, the unexpected loss of a loved one, narrowly escaping death or serious injury — happen to us in our lives.  I think in most cases, it would be vanishingly rare for someone to not know at least the YEAR that happened, and most people would know the date.

Most cancer survivors can tell you the day they got their diagnosis, and virtually all of them can tell you the month and year.  Most Holocaust survivors can give you the date when the Gestapo showed up for them or their parents.  Juanita Broaddrick can tell you the exact day when Bill Clinton raped her, along with the time of day, the name of the hotel she was in, and which friend helped her put ice on her injured mouth afterwards.

And I know I’m not a woman, and I can’t fully understand what it’s like to be sexually attacked.  But my dad got his final cancer diagnosis in June of 2014, and I flew my old Cessna up to TN for his surgery in the first week of July.  (It was sunny in the morning, but pretty cloudy by the time I landed in mid-afternoon.)  And my wife and I found out that our daughter had a life-threatening condition and needed an emergency colostomy on October 18^th, 1997.  And I was having breakfast in the tv room of our old house when my mother-in-law called to tell me that someone had flown planes into the buildings on 9/11.

Also, it was January 23^rd of 2013 when I was traumatized by hearing, “At this point, CAW, CAW, what difference does it make?”  (I still shudder at the memory.)

And it was a rainy Saturday in October of 2012, when I was hiking along the northern end of the Appalachian Trail, only to be ambushed by a small band of terrifying Indians.  They all had warpaint on, but their leader stood out because she was extremely pale, with a sour expression and granny glasses.  I fled onto a nearby footbridge and pulled a pistol, threatened them that I would shoot.  Their leader, speaking in an obnoxious and somehow entitled New England accent, shook her withered fist at me and spat, “You didn’t build that bridge!  You can’t make me stop persisting!”

As she ran back into the woods, I heard one of the braves whispering to another, “You know she’s not one of us, right?”

True story.  And #wemustneverrstopmockingher

One other point re: Ford’s credibility that the MSM has somehow not discussed (Surprise, surprise.) was her claim (or her lawyers’ claim on her behalf) that because of the terrible trauma she suffered, she cannot fly. That was given as a reason to delay her testimony from Monday to Thursday – she would have to drive cross-country.

Then it turns out that she flies all the time, for work and for pleasure.  She apparently flew cross-country in the last month or two to take a polygraph.  In fact, she flew to DC to give her testimony.

Gee.  It’s almost like she lied just to delay the proceedings.  I mean, if women ever lied.  Which according to some leftist senators, they do not.

 

As I write this, Jeff Flake has apparently succeeded in postponing a final vote for yet another week, during which more incredible tales will undoubtedly come out of the woodwork to prolong the Kavanaugh family’s agony.

But no matter what happens, we have to learn from this.  Before any other Supreme Court vacancies, we have to establish a few common sense rules:

1.Anybody who has any allegations to make about any scandalous behavior that the nominee supposedly engaged in MUST report it to whomever the Senate designates for this purpose, as soon as a nominee is named. (Preferably before, if that person is discussed as being on a short list.) If an accuser waits until after regular Senate hearings start, he or she will be given the choice of being tarred and feather and ridden out of town on a rail, or being put in public stocks and having rotten vegetables thrown at him or her.  But last-minute accusations will NOT delay votes.

2.Any accusers have to know going in that they are going to face the same kind of scrutiny as any adult making a charge that could potentially destroy someone’s life. They are going to submit to questioning following a regular, consistent process that does not allow them to dictate the conditions under which they testify. They will be expected to produce any corroborating evidence possible – including documents, witnesses, etc. – ASAP.  And as has been the case in Western legal procedure since the Magna Carta, the burden of proof will be on the accuser, not the accused.

I also have Plan B suggestion.  The constitution says nothing about the advise and consent process requiring live interviewing, and it sure doesn’t need to be televised, so that a bunch of preening jackasses can grandstand and ask inflammatory questions.  If the Senate proves itself unable to conduct dignified televised hearings – and, Exhibit A: Bork; Exhibit B: Thomas; Exhibit C: Kavanaugh – we might consider going back to earlier practice, and having nominees submit written answers to the Senators’ questions, and then discussing and voting on those with no tv cameras present.

Now I am going to turn to college and pro football, to forget the leftist creeps who are trying to ruin my country.