Frankly My Dear...

             Like plantation masters of yore, The Honorable Brett Kavanaugh is a self-made man, one whose maleness and whiteness and family money didn’t figure at all in his success. He worked himself up from nothing, just as any owner of a plantation coaxed cotton out of Georgia’s red clay by sheer determination and hard work.

And then came The Troubles.

            I do feel your pain, Judge Brett. It must be incomprehensible to one minute be certain that something is yours for the grasping, something big and noble like a seat on the Supreme Court, just inches from your clammy open hand; and the next minute you find yourself instead an icon for date-raping frat boys. If it soothes you any, sir, those forefathers of yours considered the Civil War a similar affront: All those years of exhaustively managing unpaid labor—all of that buying of humans, separating of families, raping of females, administering of beatings—gone with the wind that blew through Jesus Landia.

            I can imagine Miz Kavanaugh sobbing at the bottom of his staircase in the plantation’s great house. With only Aunt Pittypat (a/k/a Lindsey Graham) to clutch pearls with, he must feel very much like he’s been robbed and abandoned. But take heart, your honor. Much like Chuck Grassley, your confirmation is not dead yet. There’s still the possibility that your fellow old white men, embittered by years of having their privilege questioned, will push you through. Especially if the senators from Alaska and Maine behave like ladies and do as they’re told.

And even if you are defeated, all is still not gone. Unlike your spirit-guides—those fallen Confederates who lost everything—you have the luxury of joining a support group. Lobbyists, I believe they’re called. When one fails at politics, there is always big money to be made influencing policy-making, keeping the world safe for the entitled, exacting revenge on the poor.

           If it should turn out that you fail at lobbying as well, keep repeating to yourself that tomorrow is another day. And you don’t even need tomorrow to have another beer right now. You will always have beer. Beer will never fail you, will never tell on you. It may make you cry, as alcohol does, but not because it said mean things to you or took away what God said was rightly yours. To further misquote that beloved masterpiece of plantation mythology written by white supremacist Margaret Mitchell, “Beer’s the only thing that matters. It’s the only thing that lasts.”

Drink up, Scarlett.