The licentious psychodramas of characters like Jeff Flake presents as a suite of bizarre emotional and mental disorders, so it’s all too *Horny on Main Orrin Hatch Voice* attractive to interpret their over-the-top Solomonic handwringing bullshit as unfortunately being sincere because they’re too high on their own supply to know any better. The Honorable Brett M. Kavanaugh’s favorite television program, The Twilight Zone, was never averse to storylines about characters whose method acting projects went awry, a circumstance that seems consistent with high elected officials acting like fucking lunatics in front of the press all the damn time. The obvious reason to get rid of them under this gloss is that they’ve spent too long too deep in the rabbit hole to know any better by now and are too severely warped to do any good.
These assholes probably do this on purpose. Occasionally one of them explicitly admits as much. It can’t be in their political and career interests to admit that they ply their exceptionally sleazy versions of their business because they welcome the money and the cash. They aren’t in it just for the lulz or the psychosexual gratification. There are plenty of other fora where they could be dysfunctional, disordered freaks for the love of the pathology without earning six-figure salaries supplemented by exceptionally generous fringe benefits and also being surrounded by suspiciously convenient and abundant opportunities to sell out for a fortune. There’s no shortage of private citizens who get into dysfunctional, maladaptive, psychosexually stimulative activities for free in whatever free time they can spare. The internet is majestic. These assholes in Congress are making bank at work under the worst-case scenario, and an impressive number of them are married to heiresses or other sugar-folk: Pelosi, DiFi, Jump Cord Straight Talk (twice) (Beebo was a better pilot), Long Face. An ordinary group of 535 American adults would not include multiple spouses of multimillionaires and at least one member who married into an A-List food processing fortune.
Every one of these cats is making what is for many Americans an unfathomably lavish compensation package for a high-stakes, high-profile job, so one would fucking hope that they would generally make an effort to act like responsible adults and not publicly make asses of themselves on a regular basis. One might equally hope for situations involving two out of three options, such as Mariska Hargitay, Dagmar Midcap, and clothes. Gee, Charney, I got a bad feeling about cotton prices round about now. Instead, we’ve got this sick positive feedback loop of A-List politicians acting like absolute dipshits because the media give them coverage for their dipshittery and normalize it and the sheer volume o their dipshittery and the resulting coverage driving its normalization. No one present has the Buckley-on-the-ramparts nerve to stand up and say, hey, maybe we should cut this shit out because this really isn’t a good look. Meanwhile a silent majority of ordinary Americans, the constituents of these assclowns, is disgusted to some greater or lesser degree, often disgusted enough not to vote.
One of the intractable cultural problems driving this debasement is the ubiquity and sheer concentration of PR dipshits who are uncomfortable taking the bus through seedy neighborhoods in their own hometowns and come to Washington to seek out and breathlessly chronicle every two-bit bourgeois provincial minstrel act that passes for local color on Capitol Hill. These sheltered hipster shitbirds are the proximal audience for every bogus regional cultural diversity scam Congress has to offer. They eat this shit up: intersectional Lonesome Dove/goody-two-shoes Mormon shtick, the SoCal sales manager tying one on at BJ’s before rear-ending a cement truck on the 405 and telling the responding Chippie to go fuck himself, John Wayne-ass autohagiography from a scion of the naval flag officer class and hell-on-horseback planter secesh whose paternal lineage was why he never got booted from Annapolis, honking nasal Outer Borough smarm, prim flat-affect Cornhusker rectitude lecturing from a former university president who brags about driving for Uber, flinty upcountry New England horseshit, histrionic bi-curious Tidewater gentry hollering about Jesus.
Jeff Flake has the Arizona thing going for himself, as did John McCain before him, who was totally from Arizona in the same way that Barack Obama was totally from Chicago. The Mocha Haole story alone is a bitch to unpack: da kine tried to pass himself off as the next Harold Washington while running Rahm Emanuel game, #TCOT took one look at him and was convinced that he was a sharia Mau-Mau fifth column socialist, and Mom was CIA, right? I dunno, but maybe this wouldn’t have happened if Jesse Jackson had won the 1988 primary and we hadn’t spent so much time looking at the picture of that puffed-up putz in the tank. Remember, Message I Care didn’t have the strongest opponent in the general. Heh. Boston Shorty wasn’t a questionable black guy; he was a white ethnic Masshole Dem-dork infamously associated with the black criminal furlough underclass.
Waxing eloquent about the hackneyed downhome personal narratives that these fuckheads present for transcription is more comfortable for the Washington press corps than asking them relevant, topical, pointed questions about their actual fucking platforms and voting records. This is true for both sides, to whatever extent they’re credibly sides. Most of them don’t know John Dennis Diddly about local politics or socioeconomic demographics in Arizona, other than Sheriff Joe having it in for the Mexicans (until a year or so ago, I always assumed that he was a Chicano), so of course they eat up Jeff Flake’s quiet, pained post-polygamous Mormon home-on-the-range act. Accidentally killing a shed full of dogs by heat exposure would fit in better out in Colorado City, and I have no clue why that came to mind. Maybe the Senator has a son and a daughter-in-law who did that. It turns out, as fictionally or nonfictionally as the reader cares to infer, that it was an unforeseeable accident because the filter on the air conditioner got clogged to shit and shut the unit down. That’s some real Mountain West resourcefulness and self-reliance right there, the kind a fellow needs when he’s living in the Phoenix metroplex, far from all the HVAC parts suppliers and on-call technicians and cares in the world.
This raises questions. How on earth does a man who appears vaguely sensible by Congressional standards raise a child to do THAT? Where exactly did the acorn fall relative to the old Council Oak? The old man, Lord Anguish himself, has a regular annual trip to do survivalist shit in the South Pacific, talking to hermit crabs on the beach and all, and his kid AND his kid’s wife are too hapless to take a look at the AC unit before leaving a pack of dogs in a cage for their summer getaway. That must be what one does as a responsible citizen of Phoenix.
But then there are the comments Flake the Elder makes about how crucial illegal immigrants are, have always been, and always will be to his family’s ranching operation, and how much the Flakes respect them for their grit and work ethic, to the point that one of his best buddies as a teenager was a wetback, in the grand tradition of Detective Fuhrman’s Main 77th Street Police Niggers, and he did the good Huck Finn shit for them to ward off the Border Patrol.
Yeah, white boy, ain’t none of this about cultural exchange and understanding. It’s about the cheap, complaint labor. No, I do not believe I overstated my case above. I, for one, HAVE socialized and worked as a colleague with non-Asian minorities. I do not need some cheap whiny bitch with an understaffed ranch complaining about how Americans just don’t want to do the hard work needed to keep our agricultural economy running when I have personally done commercial farm work and operated a farm as a minority owner. And I’m pretty sure Cesar Chavez cared a fair bit less for the wets than I do.
Besides, who the hell does this Dudley Do Right asshole think he is, disrespecting his own citizen constituents by preening about their inferiority to the illegal immigrants his family hires to do farm chores? Who does this piece of shit think he is, as a sitting elected official no less, to publicly evaluate his fellow Americans based solely on their work performance, real or imagined, and brag of rejecting the substandard ones like seconds on a quality control line? This asshat’s rhetoric is at the level of my white trash-adjacent grandmother barking that the hillbilly dipshit everyone was mad at for trying to prank them with a story about how Joe Dirtbag was drunk and chasing a mulatto girl around the lake was her workman, and you dare not insult my workman. Anyone wondering how a verbally abusive, emotionally unstable loudmouth like Donald Trump could ever be more popular than this mewling, anodyne, passive-aggressive twerp should consider that the Donald approaches the voters he seeks to win over as fellow citizens. It’s a low bar, but the You’re Fired guy is somehow just about the only elected official in sight who regularly clears it.
For the sake of our own self-respect, this isn’t such a difficult script to flip. Is the gentleman from Arizona disappointed in our attendance, punctuality, and work ethic as Americans but quite pleased with that of his Mexicans? Shut up, fuckhead; we’re your constituents, and you do not dare insult your constituents. Maybe this is getting a bit Wow Much civix Such engaged Omg norman rockwell Very fatigue, but it’s worth a try now and then. Maybe Flake can take the backsass as the cue he needs to retire from public employment and return to the job-creating private sector his party so obsequiously fellates for its moral and functional superiority to government. I know, he’s already retiring, but why so late?
At least someone barged into that elevator and chewed him the fuck out while he moped there all hangdog. He should have gotten the same treatment years ago for disrespecting his own constituents and fellow citizens for being his socioeconomic inferiors, but now that he finally is getting that loving earful, I’m not one to complain that he’s catching it for being callous to the plight of those he is elected to represent and govern for sick psychosexual reasons.
There’s obviously something abnormal by the community standards of ordinary Americans on the ground out in the provinces about the way people like Jeff Flake wring their hands and suffer their dark nights of the soul and then, when push comes to shove, shrug about how it’s all futile because their offices are ineffectual against forces so much larger than themselves. In Flake we’ve got this whispering grandstander who decides, upon further reflection and consultation, announces that he is recommending additional investigation of the nominee prior to a floor vote of the full Senate and has decided to vote to advance the same nominee out of committee with this qualification regarding his unresolved concerns and the stance that he will not vote to confirm until the FBI tells him what’s good. It’s such a conundrum, being a mere US Senator and member of the Judiciary Committee and having such a hard time figuring out what to do about a Supreme Court nominee of questionable fitness for office. Kavanaugh is a federal judge, and Flake is just a potential swing vote on the Judiciary Committee.
Imagine taking this pathetic, sniveling Jeffry Agonistes act to normal voters and holding it up in the light as something honorable. A normal voter, being uncomfortable with a candidate and believing that there are better alternatives, would not have any trouble making a decision by NOT VOTING FOR THE CREEP. It’s so unremarkably, obviously straightforward that it’s inconceivable that anyone would have to spell it out for an adult of normal intelligence and judgment. Flake won’t even say that he thinks confirming Kavanaugh is better than not confirming him. He doesn’t even have the moral clarity or conviction to plead the lesser of two evils, something that ordinary voters do all the fucking time. He wielded one of the most powerful votes in the country, pissed away an opportunity to shitcan the nomination of an exceptionally controversial and shady judicial nominee, and is now publicly having a sad about how, gee whiz, Washington doesn’t work so great and is all broken-like.
This shameful behavior raises a broader question of why Washington has so many prominent elected officials who act like dungeon subs in public. Trump alone has humiliated and then subjugated not only Jeff Flake but also Marco Rubio, Ted Cruz, and Lindsey Graham. They’ll bitch and moan for a while about a political rival who called them sissies and an assassin’s son, but they won’t actually stand up to him from their positions as elected officials in a coequal branch of government.
And then there are the wives. Ashley Kavanaugh spent hours sitting in a committee hearing room, a stony ashen look on her face, while her husband threw an epic tantrum at his interviewers for all the world to see. What gives? She could have sat this fucking spectacle out to keep the home fires burning, as Phyllis Schlafly always instructed. Like, legit what the fuck?
Follow the damn money. Follow the money for every last one of these, rough sex or fair, each of them crass. Giggity, if you’re into that kind of thing, and if you are, get help. Hillary Clinton suffered through the public humiliation of the Lewinsky affair, to the point of literally standing by her man in his time of crisis, not because she was a high monogamist but because she was a social climber. That set of coattails was to be pried out of her cold dead Charlton Heston hands. All these embarrassing characters on Capitol Hill who act like Mr. Slave to Mr. Garrison’s Trump are in it to keep their own rice bowls intact and full. Please, clap.
Ashley Kavanaugh, well-bred and well-schooled lady that she is, knows that a woman cannot stay home and bake cookies for visiting reporters in the spirit of high Christian conservative domesticity if she’s working outside the home in a yes-show job, as a 911 dispatcher or train conductor or some shit. Thank goodness she baked that batch, though; otherwise, someone might have had to turn on daytime TV for directions to the Potomac Village Safeway.
A woman can, however, have it all as a mother and a careerist when she is employed, so to speak, as the town manager for Chevy Chase Section Five. This raises a new set of questions: for example, what the fuck is that? St. Louis County for fancy crackers? This lady is the chief administrative functionary for a ward that somehow got incorporated as an independent municipality, if Wikipedia isn’t totally fucked to hell, with a 2010 census population of 658. By that reckoning the Kavanaughs, counting their two children, make up just over one half of one percent of the municipal population. That population is not meaningfully growing. There’s no need to look up off-year population estimates or school enrollment or anything like that. This isn’t Rockville or Tysons Corner or Court House or Dupont Circle. This is More than Friendship Heights, and my sweet slow cracker child, More than Friendship Heights is not where the urban infill goes.
What, then, might this village manager job pay? $10k? $30k plus bennies because it’s a unionized civil service gig under a woke af government? No. That gig pays $66,000 a year. That must be the market incentive it takes to attract and retain a qualified candidate to administer the most Tip O’Neill local level of government for several-odd hundred of the richest people in the country. It’s hard for a modern woman to balance her life, what with work, children’s enrichment, church, baking, and taking off an entire Thursday afternoon to be in the audience for her husband’s star appearance on Maury Povich Live.
Everything about this entire spectacle is an incredibly sleazy simulacrum of normal civic, professional, and family life. Examining just the Kavanaughs we find the wife of a publicly drunk and disorderly federal judge skimming an extra $66k from the town government as a crony of the ward bosses, taking time off from her no-show job at the village hall to act as an audience prop for her nutjub shouty boi of a husband and to bamboozle idiotic Beltway journalists with her Betty Crocker-ass June Cleaver home baking game. It takes a real dupe to sincerely, truly believe that any of this shit is relatable to ordinary workaday Americans of any moral substance. It’s bad. We have actually degenerated to the point of performative home baking by aristocratic wives as a category of national political news, and yet we, whoever the hell “we” are supposed to be, actually wonder why ordinary Americans are so often put off by politics.
There’s some real Stacy’s Mom potential with the Kavanaugh lady, and let’s face it, with a husband like hers, she’s fair game, but let’s also face this: bish be cray. Look at who she has married and not divorced. Look at Mrs. Kavanaugh herself, publicly embarrassed by her loose cannon of a husband and still coming back for seconds.
We’re in Wonderland now, and there’s no Blue Line back downtown. Mercy, Mr. Charles, there’ll be trouble ahead AND behind if we try to get ourselves off now, CHAHLEE! House of Cards isn’t salacious fiction; it’s current events. Orwell was right about the Party versus the proles. Marx, too. In cases like these, only the proles have little enough to lose that they’ll actually muster the spine to stand up for what little they have, usually their dignity. If Ashley Kavanaugh were a bartender and Brett her boyfriend-cum-shift lead (giggity), there’s a good chance that she’d smack the shit out of that mouthy little prick for publicly humiliating her with his antics. Like, how about you stop being a whiny little bitch about them not showing you any respect and show ME some fucking respect for a change. This sort of drama can be a medicine worse than the disease it’s dosed out to treat, not the stuff of a livable home or social environment, but our shouty boi Brett is the most blatant example of it to appear before Congress in decades, if ever, so there’s no reason it can’t be sauce for the gander. (Do you mean beer? I like beer.)
This dysfunction and moral rot goes deeper than just Ashley Kavanaugh’s Good Wife act. It’s more pervasive than just this one stiff-upper-lip Texas bougie social climber’s culturally appropriative perversion of Patty Blagojevich’s Chicago grace under Chicago fire. I hear the air’s a bit lighter and thinner out on the Front Range. Say, Rod, do you ski? The smoking hot Lake Cook Road Jewess who liked to dig her fingernails into my kneecaps and then spread them for some awful, inexplicable reason was better-adjusted than the Kavanaugh lady, or Lieutenant Tittytorque.
Counterpoint: Hey, maybe don’t do that again. All the same, that was loosely normal sociosexual give-and-take between two people who, look, we weren’t the goddamn Kavanaughs. As I was starting to say before–nah, don’t even try to reconstruct that accident scene–as I was starting to say, it’s scandalous and disgusting that anyone from a community that makes such a big deal about Eagle Forum norms of feminine domestic virtue would engage in, celebrate, or even tolerate Ashley Kavanaugh’s pathetic on-air Stepford Wife act for a husband who is actively making an utter travesty of masculine Christian headship right in front of her. It’s the most disgraceful thing imaginable this side of verbally abusing senators in their own chambers, as their testifying witness. I’d unhesitatingly tell any girl or young woman who asked me or mentioned her in passing that that woman is an atrocious role model for anyone, man, woman, or Middlesex. (I drive through just about every time I go back to campus.)
This whole thing sounds not so good for all the married ladies, all the married ladies; and yet, in spite of it all, patriarchy isn’t exactly what’s behind this clusterfuck. We can tell that it’s something deeper and even more pathetic when we hear of Christine Blasey Ford’s own father telling family friends that he’s uncomfortable taking a public stand on behalf of his own daughter for fear that doing so would jeopardize his position as a country club president. This is gossip, but unfortunately this situation needs gossip to force sunlight down into the filthy nooks and crannies. If I were aware of any gossip about these MontCo assholes that I found more credible than not, coming from any source and by any chain of custody that I deemed reasonably trustworthy, I would immediately publish it.
There is so much fucking sleaze surrounding this whole crew that they deserve to have the accusations thrown onto the public record and sorted out after the fact. As it happens, I have one or two degrees of separation from Blasey in Palo Alto and likely no more than two degrees, if even that, from Kavanaugh on the Beltway bullshit end. It’s a sign of how insular and secretive this crowd is that everything I’ve heard about it has come from public statements or reports. I keep a keen ear to the ground, but the first I heard of Kavanaugh being trouble in his personal life was when the assault allegations against him started emerging.
It’s striking, then, how many of the allegations check out and bolster one another. It’s beyond doubt that Kavanaugh did something really bad to Deborah Ramirez, probably exactly what she describes, and then tried to cover it up for years afterwards. The New Haven Police Department, which apparently took no special interest in Kavanaugh and his buddies one way or another, has an incident report on file documenting his interrogation as a suspect in a barroom brawl, a brawl that his drinking buddy Chad Ludington says he stared. Again and again people who socialized with him insist that he was memorable as a belligerent, sloppy, handsy, falling-down drunk, a sex pest, or both. Mark Judge, his best friend from high school, made a literary career for himself with stories of drunken sex pests, in addition to curating dozens of seedy damsel-in-distress videos on his personal YouTube channel.
The bottom line is that everyone defending these bad actors as upstanding citizens walks away degraded. Only a sociopath can squeeze anything good out of this clusterfuck. In any number of disputes between private citizens acting like the parties to this horseshit, there’d be no shortage of sworn conservatives (pretty sic) who would preach that Ralph Blasey should have gone to Brett Kavanaugh’s front door with a shotgun and a shovel, announced that he was there as a warning, and declared that he’d be using what he’d brought if ever there was a next time. Instead they’re all caping for this sexually violent creep and calling Christine Blasey Ford a crazy lying slut. When push comes to shove, the only thing these creepy shits bring to the yard is reptilian reaction. It’s rare even for people who are uncomfortable with the likes of Brett Kavanaugh and the social dynamics enabling them to blow the whistle. In Kavanaugh’s case, it took a Supreme Court nomination and corroboration of his pattern of bad behavior to convince people with knowledge of his background to come forward.
In a healthy society, Special K would have been ratted out in a New York minute decades ago. Instead, he still has a major party gunning for his confirmation to the Supreme Court, and he’s still got his good wife showing up for him in public in a stoic effort to make him, of all people, look good. It’s unspeakably gross to watch these assholes hold themselves up as paragons of Christian family values. They’re all living a lie on national TV. It’s really too bad that Kajieme Powell wasn’t around grab AshKav’s cookies by the handful and throw them on the fucking ground. *Commanding Sam Dotson voice* Hey now, five-second rule; Chief doesn’t go home hungry.
It’s insulting to have anyone even insinuating that these overpaid Machiavellian scumbags deserve our admiration for doing all that carpooling and baking and coaching and just trying to balance work and family and shit like ordinary Americans. They expect us to actually think that these are normal Americans just trying to do normal American stuff. As that ranch country bumper sticker says, behind every successful rancher is a wife working in town. Is that what Ashley Kavanaugh is supposed to be? I always thought that referred to women who worked for Les Schwab or JeldWen or the county, where there’s work that actually has to be done, not some no-show neighborhood improvement district bullshit that makes the broad arc of Chicago municipal government history look clean and lean.
These fuckers can’t even do day-drinking right. On a parallel timeline, Brett might be having a more or less responsible three-martini lunch followed by a good roll on the photocopier with his secretary; Ashley, for her part, might be getting tore up on Sutter Home Chardonnay and eaten out by a pool boy. We’ve already established that sexual conservatism is not what drives this crew, not in any sense that leaves anything worthwhile conserved. Instead they both came up to the fucking Hill for their Afternoon Disgrace. Do we need to rehash yet again how that went?
Chronicling this horror show gives us an idea of what we’re facing. What it doesn’t tell us is what in heaven, on earth, or under the earth we can possibly do about it. The Kavanaughs and their kind do not rule their societies in ways that are hospitable for the rest of us. We may soon end up in weird, uncharted territory if we Enjoy Coke and have that liquored-up raging sex pest constitutionally invalidating the entire New Deal from the bench. Come on; we know that Special K doesn’t have to go to Aspen to shred that powdery white shit. These are not good times for governmental legitimacy. We’ve got a caucus of Congressional thralls chomping at the bit to install a judicial thrall on the highest bench in the land, and the characters bankrolling all of these servants in comfort, so that they don’t have to work for a living or hone their loafaday Kato Kaelin game, include dipshits who cheat Indian nations out of oil royalties with crooked scales and think that a bit of nuclear blast radiation does the body good.
If ordinary Americans start thinking that this ruling class is making their country politically uninhabitable, and not just whining about it but acting on it, our national politics have the potential to destabilize other countries. We are not being good neighbors to Canada or Mexico at the moment. Portugal, the Republic of Ireland, Germany, the Netherlands, and maybe some other Schengen countries would be wise to keep an eye on this horseshit and ready themselves for our immigrants. Australia and New Zealand are sheltered by distance but not by language. Oops. The geography and demography at play here do not look good. This shit, whatever it actually is, is going down in the most populous country in North America and the developed world.
The Kavanaugh donnybrook is just the tip of the iceberg, a mere glimpse of the huge disaster lurking under the surface of this sick nation. It may end up being a triggering event for systemic destabilization, or it may not. Even if all ruffled feathers get smoothed after this confirmation fight, there will be no shortage of other destabilizing events ready to go live without notice.
Most Americans, quite sensibly, will want to stay, to refuse to leave it because they love it. Where the hell does this political corruption and dysfunction leave us as private citizens? Beats me, I’m afraid. Dropping out and walking away internally is easier said than done, just like emigration. No matter how badly Rod Dreher beclowns himself by stanning for politically expedient shitheads like Brett Kavanaugh, he has a point well taken in the Benedict Option. Again, though, just as with emigration or any other drastic response, the devil is in the details. My guess is that effective responses to this shit show will come down to half-measures like homeschooling and low-key, habitual consumer boycotts of companies that are caught doing business with bad actors. Small-scale farm homesteading, hunter-gatherer shit, Vermont-ass craft work, and even squatting on disused property may be worthwhile. I don’t expect anyone to be satisfied with this list; I’m not satisfied with it. The problem is that the overclass sticks its tentacles in fucking everywhere, and the only way to get away from it (*Repetitive Rodriguez Voice* You can’t) is to flee to the far margins.
The Kavanaugh crowd is asking for it, though. These worse-than-useless parasites never stop to think about the possibility that they, themselves, are the takers Ayn Rand fantasized about banishing from society, to starve and freeze to death by their own pitiful wits. If the White House and Congress didn’t elevate obedient mediocrities to positions of power and village governments didn’t give their spouses no-show jobs, Brett Kavanaugh would be doing wills and trusts. That’s assuming some sobriety and punctuality and not screaming bloody murder around the office. If you’re Mark Judge, you get fired for doing that. Maybe that’s why the guy keeps nursing his mug of bitter. There’s no reason a meritocracy wouldn’t have Brett and Ashley Kavanaugh living on public assistance in a housing project. They’ve got one in Miami called the Pork-n-Beans. This is why I watch television. They’ve also got a greenbelt in Louisville, and Detective Mickey Cohn on the case to diss a fellow’s work ethic: “I solve these cases for a living. You drink beer for a living.”
Give the smelly fucker a bath and bring him before Congress; all he did was murder a dude, and he’ll be more polite to the Judiciary Committee than Judge Kavanaugh was. Indeed, many of us like beer. I like beer. You probably like beer. You’re on your damn own to do due diligence on microbrewery business practices and be an ethical consumer and shit, in case any of that matters in a time when so few of us are drunk and coked-up enough for the federal bench.