If only they knew what they were talking about. SCOTUS is the least understood governmental/juridical function fervently and vociferously argued and discussed by the least aware contingent of the least focused. As with diets, nutrition, science, politics, American history, Darwinian mechanics, the Bible, religion, particle physics and cosmology — Americans assume an unearned conversance with a subject matter they’ve never studied for a moment. They have a tenuous grasp of what this Constitution thing is and an almost puerile innocence that what isn’t fair is or should be somehow addressed through guarantee or prohibition, whatever fair means. Once the scrums are assigned both sides rail and howl anent RBG without any idea or notion of what she’s about, said, done, written, ruled, name it. But here’s the bottom line.
Crying on cue. With the procession of moirologists comes the concept of automourn, a cultural contrived collective hysteria whereby social media participants feign inconsolable grief over any remotely famous celebrity who dies, irrespective of how they die or their age at the time of death. The focus is on how the grieving’s sorrow outweighs others’. How their pain is the greatest. How their referenced and felt anguish outweighs everyone else’s and how they know best the degree of loss that the mourned represents. RBG you can bet is the subject of great lachrymation from a variety of mourners who confuse her with a Kate McKinnon character. You know, that judge lady who wears the lace doily collar. (You know it’s true.) Remember, I was a fan of RBG for many of her decisions. Not all. But that goes for all SCOTUS Justices. With the exception of the great and Brobdingnagian jurist Bushrod Washington.
Dragging out the usual tropes. The screaming and yelling and teeth gnashing and the contretemps and petty bickering, especially from the reality-bereft Bela Pelosi who’s quickly competing for the confused crown with the root cellar denizen Biden, handcuffed to a radiator who’s dragged before the masses after being hit with a nice Adderall booster. She’s threatening impeachment again. Nancy, please. We’ve heard it. Not again. The country hasn’t the stomach for it. Have some gourmet ice cream, get a wash and set and call it a day. Deal?
What America needs. I want a Justice who plays by the rules. Who, as is now the oft-cited norm, calls balls and strikes. That’s it. Who rules with a dispassionate and surgical focus on the Constitution. THE Constitution as written, as intended as designed. Not the mystical magical protean ever-evolving, ever-changing, ever-morphing, the perpetually transmogrifying, shapeshifting Constitution. Balderdash! Legislatures may change and reflect mores and attitudes. That’s fine. That’s expected. But the Constitution is another story. Yes, I’m echoing Nino Scalia’s originalism. You betcha, Sparky! It certainly can envisage and address new issues and challenges to conventional thinking but the basic precepts of the Constitution remain intact, based upon the original understanding of our drafters and forebears. That simple. That basic. It’s really not rocket science or political science.
Get used to it. And if it hasn’t hit you yet that everything post-Bork is a dumpster fire, cluster flock you must have been in a coma. All SCOTUS picks will enjoy this horror. (In fact, how Gorsuch slipped through I’ll never know.) And this goes for anyone irrespective of party affiliation. Politics loves blood and pain and destruction and collective agony. Ratings surge. Congressional stars are made. It’s a media bloodbath that will never cease. Never stop. And never change. So when POTUS nominates Amy Coney Barrett, hold on to your hats, buckaroos. It’s going to be bloodier and nastier than anything you’ve ever seen or could imagine.
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