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