I see you, Brett Kavanaugh

I see your furious face, full of righteous indignation, your rage threatening to burst forth and spill bile like a holidaymaker’s bowels after drinking the local tap water. You’re pure piss and vinegar, Brett Kavanaugh, spitting feathers more maniacally than Gary Busey plucking a peacock with his teeth. The hearing is a chance to finally clear your name, to shout the odds and plead your innocence, an opportunity to barrack the Democrats who’ve conspired to shelve your nomination. You never did the things they say you did and you’ve got a calendar to prove it, as well as a whole line of women willing to act as character witnesses. Never mind that men can be nice to seventy women and abuse one – what’s that got to do with anything?

What a partisan shit-show the whole process has turned out to be. The Democrats tactics have been decidedly underhanded, dragging into the limelight a reluctant woman who may well be the victim of a serious sexual assault and using her as a political football. Dr Ford has shown a lot of courage in exposing herself to the searing criticism of every political and media hack in the country and whatever the outcome, she ought to be commended for seeing it through. It’s hardly a surprise that the Dems sat on her allegations for as long as possible, given that the Republicans haven’t got a leg to stand on when complaining about delays. Merrick Garland had to buy his own black silk dressing gown, and now he cries when he bangs his squeaky rubber gavel on the side of the bath at night.

It’s an extremely tense collision of several complicated threads, with the MeToo movement crashing straight into an increasingly rancorous battle between the Democrats and Trump’s straight-up mockery of the Republican party. Lindsey Graham seemed to view the hearing as his own personal audition tape for Trump’s cabinet, channelling an evangelical preacher tweaking on meth as he railed against the conspiracy. The oldest, whitest men in the haunted plantation hid behind a female prosecutor to question Dr Ford, knowing full well just how poisonous it would look to shake their fists and shout at her cloud directly. Instead they acquiesced to her believability, treading a Schrodinger’s tightrope of avoiding the victim-blaming while retaining their right to ignore her testimony completely.

And then came you, Brett Kavanaugh, turning it straight up to 11 and storming out of the gate like a frat boy possessed. With all the finger-jabbing, snarling and deflection your testimony couldn’t have been more unlike your accuser’s. Armchair psychologists will be analysing both for years and the press have been running rampant with their half-formed analyses already. Once again, it should be a surprise to literally fucking no-one that a woman has to be quiet, broken-voiced and dignified to come across as believable, whilst a man can scream his anger at the injustice of it all from the rooftops and be applauded.

The truth of what happened may never be proven for either of you, which is in itself a tragedy repeated over and over when it comes to accusations of historical sexual abuse. Due process should be followed and you may well yet be proven completely innocent, Brett Kavanaugh. If so, you’d think a full FBI investigation would be something you’d welcome. We’re getting one now, because Jeff Flake got his balls handed to him in a lift and found a way to both toe the party line and just about scrape past that woman with his conscience intact.

It’s unlikely to be a tidy conclusion, and whatever the outcome Dr Ford will have her believers and you’ll have yours. The irony is that if anyone on the Republican side of the fence when voting you through next time has more remaining loyalty to country over party, then you should have derailed yourself with your testimony regardless. Putting aside the political manoeuvring, stall tactics and accusations of misconduct, you fell way short of the responsibilities of the office. Supreme Justices are supposed to be impartial, following the Constitution and interpreting the law. You pretty much declared yourself as the partisan pawn Trump’s critics have always labelled you as, screaming about conspiracy and the Clintons as if you had a USB stick full of Infowars podcasts jammed into your arsehole. You’d think all those keg stands in college would have left you a bit more level-headed, Brett Kavanaugh.

So yet again, it looks like all we’ll have left to rely on are the spineless enablers in the GOP. And we’ve all seen how brave and conscientious they’re capable of being under Trump.

I see you, Brett Kavanaugh, pleased as punch, your new robe fitting as perfectly as can be. I see your enormous smile as you wave for the cameras, a man vindicated, a Supreme Court Justice for the ages. I see the door close behind you as you turn your back on the journalists. I see you cross the room, your hand outstretched, waiting to grab the President’s hand and receive the needlessly crushing grip that lifted you up on to your new pedestal.

I see the hand raised to meet yours, and at the last second I see it dip. I see your eyes widen in shock as Trump presses a finger to your lips.

This is how it works in his America, Brett Kavanaugh. Lip service to the believability of the victims in public, nods of contrition, howls of outrage on their behalf. But behind closed doors?

In private nothing’s changed, and he’ll damn well grab you by the pussy if he wants to.

I see you, Brett Kavanaugh. I fucking see you.

I See You