yustyoking

Trial by Committee

 

Max is nervous. The red warning light is blinking. He holds aloft the large white card declaring “ONE MINUTE LEFT,” but the witness plows on relentlessly. Yammering. Jesus, it isn’t Max’s fault if the witness ignores the rules. Yet, somehow he fears that he, Maximilian Campbell, a mere page of the Senate, will be held accountable. He waves the card wildly, fanning the air. Cripes! It was Committee Chairman Ghastly hisself who instigated the Three Minute Rule just the day before, in a vain attempt to corral some of the wilder grandstanding among the committee members. Damn Democrats! “Three minute questions, three minute answers,” declared the chairman. The motion passed, over the objections of the minority members. So why couldn’t this lady witness put a cork in it?

She’s from California, that’s why! Typical surfer mentality, no one can make her obey any rules. Here she is, nattering on, taking up the committee’s time with lurid passages from her so-called “testimony.” Sounds like something out of a women’s magazine! “…His frenetic fingers scrabbled at the rubber straps of my white, one-piece bathing suit,” she whines breathlessly, oblivious to the stentorian frowns of the majority members.

All men, of course, but still… impartial, bipartisan men.

The audience sits spellbound, never a good sign in a hearing. “His hot, smelly breath positively reeked of beer,” declares the witness. So? There is no law against getting drunk in this country. Okay, maybe because they were underage teenagers at the time, but Senator Ghastly has already declared that to be a technicality.

“Any particular brand of beer?” interjects Senator Rockland, pressing down the lapels of his alpaca suit, leering at the witness and winking playfully. Who sits stone-facedly glaring at him.

The buzzer sounds and Max lets his card flop idly to the floor. “The witness will answer questions succinctly,” intones the chairman. Eliciting giggles from the audience, packed wall to wall in the committee room. It’s cold in here, maybe 65 degrees. Washington is in the midst of its annual monsoon season. The committee chairman has had the air conditioning turned on full blast to keep the paperwork and the committee members from wilting in the damp. All this laughter is something new. Our Supreme Leader spoke three days before at the International Forum in New York. When he declared what great progress has been made under his administration, the other world leaders laughed! Just like that, Our Supreme Leader was made a laughingstock! Politics as Comedy Central. It makes Max grit his teeth in frustration.

“Did the young man make any lurid or untoward remarks at the time of this alleged attack?” asks Senator Feingold, a woman Democrat from California. (Full disclosure: No relation to the author.) Hell! Everybody knows where her sentiments lie.

“He muttered drunkenly, spraying me with his saliva,” answers the witness primly, folding her hands in front of her. Azure blue nail polish! These women don’t even know when they are being provocative. Spraying saliva? What kind of answer is that?! Ha! Just what you would expect from someone with a doctorate in Asian Studies! All wrapped up in Zen rituals, no doubt.

“Dr. Blasé,” intones portly Senator Rascal from Wyoming. “Allow me to commend you for appearing here today at the witless table, young lady. We find your testimony to be riveting. Riveting. Made up of rivets. However, I also find it extremely doubtful that some witch from Surf City really has that much to tell a congressional committee.”

“Mr. Chairman, I object!” shouts Senator Feingold indignantly.

“Duly noted,” sighs the chair. “Let’s try to keep our objections to a bare minimum,” he pleads for, like, the fifth time.

“My point is,” exclaims Rascal, holding up an enormous enlargement of a yearbook picture of the good doctor at the age of 15, “look at this face. Look at all that blond hair. Those startling blue eyes, just begging for it. That gorgeous mouth. Those pearly white teeth. Any red-blooded young man would want to play kissy-face with such an icon of young womanhood.” Rascal shrugs innocently.

“He pressed his hands over my mouth so I could not scream out,” testifies Dr. B. “There was dirt under his fingernails. I was terrified that he might accidently kill me.”

“Yes, but he didn’t,” mansplains Senator Rascal. “That’s my point, young lady. You are still here to tell the tale, as it were. One from Column A and one from Column B.”

“Point of Order,” intones Senator Dempsey from North Dakota.

“Yes?” asks the chairman, trying not to sound annoyed.

“Oh, I forgot what I was about to say,” admits the senator and the proceedings continue from there. Eventually, Dr. Blasé is allowed to lay out the entire grisly, harrowing narrative. Everyone expresses their regrets over what a hard time she has had. No one has any follow-up questions.

 

Looking as youthful as always, clad in his signature gray suit, Judge Judd Cavendish approaches the witness table. Amazingly, the man has only two facial expressions, either he is smirking or he is sulking. At the moment, the world gets treated to the Cavendish smirk. The judge is accompanied by his lawyer Bono Banana. His head shaved like an Indian guru, he is dressed in blue serge.

Boing! Boing, boing! Boing, boing, boing! In a blur of motion, six yellow plastic toy darts tipped with bright red rubber suction cups strike the two men. Fired by six angry young women who stand in various parts of the audience like sentinels. Wearing matching yellow summer dresses. Already reloading their yellow plastic dart guns, they shout obscenities. They look both cold and angry. Which makes sense. The A/C in the hearing room is a killer. Since the pistols and the darts are made of plastic and rubber— only the spring is made of metal— the Capitol’s magnetometers have somehow missed these potential weapons, duct taped between the ladies’ legs.

Sprinting into the crowd, federal marshals and Capitol policemen hammer the protesters into the ground with their fists and black wooden billy clubs. Later the women will be identified as members of “R U Yellow?” A feminist protest group that stages demonstrations at public events.

Crouched incredulously at the witness table, Judd and Bono blush furiously, their faces red as tomatoes. Nervously, they finger the plastic yellow darts, shaking their heads in wonder. Thank God the projectiles weren’t tipped in curare or some deadly nerve agent!

When order is finally restored and the women led from the room, it seems natural that Judge Cavendish begin his testimony with a major excoriation over the dwindling standards in public safety. “Here we see how unsafe we truly are!” he shouts. Seated, he leans aggressively over the witness table, looking ready to charge the dais. Mostly, he resembles a ferret. “This day will long live in infamy,” he assures the committee, all fired up and speaking without notes. “Four score and seventy years ago, no one even considered the possibility of plastic dart guns. Back then, toy guns were carved out of wood. Young boys and girls played Cowboys and Indians. If elected to the Supreme Court, I would honor that precedent.”

Now we are getting somewhere! What a difference, hearing from a man. Someone who knows what he wants to say. “I have carpooled with many of my daughters’ classmates,” he tells the committee. “I have the trust and friendship of their parents, as well. Alicia, Maryanne, Betty, Karen, Malin, Erica, Betty Number Two, Margaret, Susie, Pink Susie, Florence, Melissa, Amber, Teresa, Julia— “

“We get your point,” complains Senator Feingold crabbily.

“Ignore her!” suggests the chairman. “Please continue.” He is busy taking notes.

“— Kelly, Bridget, Penny, Irma, Peapod, Alexa, Sylvia and many, many more. I have coached women’s lacrosse. I have coached ground hockey. Intramural tennis.”

“Now how does that work? Intramural tennis?” asks Senator Rascal, pursing his lips dramatically.

“That really has nothing to do with this confirmation hearing,” objects Senator Feingold. Sheesh! Has she no sense of wonder? This is important information we’re about to get here.

“Actually,” replies the judge, “I try not to talk about it.”

“Of course,” agrees Senator Rascal, chastened. “I withdraw the question! Please.”

There is much shuffling of papers among the senators.

“How do you feel about a woman’s right to have an abortion?” asks Senator Sookie Lyons from New Jersey. Despite her flaming red hair, she is dressed in a very formal gray twinset and pearls.

“Brenda,” exclaims the judge. “Anna. Louise. Bettylou. Pamela—”

“Roe v. Wade?” asks the senator pointedly.

“Jaynie, Jimmie Sue, Roxanne, Vickie, Jasmin, Kirsti, Kristin, Amanda—”

“The nominee has answered that question fully earlier in this hearing,” insists the chairman.

“I should like to hear his answer again, if it please the chair.”

“Alas,” admonishes Chairman Ghastly stolidly, “I am afraid we do not have any more time for that.”

“Gloria, Heather, Imogene, Jessica, Claudia, Lauren—” recites the nominee in a prodigious feat of memory. As usual, he looks like he’s sucking a lemon, his default facial expression when carrying out his duties.

“Is there anything else the nominee wishes to tell this committee?” asks Ghastly portentously, glowering behind his wire-rimmed glasses.

“Yes, there is,” insists counselor Banana, turning to whisper in his client’s ear.

“Liz, Stephanie, Bobbie, Sharon, Nancy, Ruth, Mary, Rita and Lucille,” concludes the nominee. “If there are any further questions, I am here at the committee’s convenience.”

“Did you assault this woman?” thunders Senator Feingold in her squeaky voice. “Are you a serial groper?”

“Here, here!” complains Chairman Ghastly. “Show some comity, senator.”

“Answer the question!” Senator Feingold demands.

“I will not dignify your question with an answer,” insists Judge Cavendish.

“If appointed to the Supreme Court, would you be a beacon of judicial restraint?” asks Texas Senator Luther Marvel. Old and cantankerous, his voice creaky, he is shown deference by his colleagues. It’s not his fault that time has caught up with him. After all, none of us is getting any younger.

“I would, senator. I welcome the opportunity.”

It’s a tie, just like in the nomination of Betsy DeVos as Secretary of Education. Once again, it is Vice President Mike Pence who casts the deciding vote, elevating Judd Cavendish to the Supreme Court. Our Supreme Leader is pleased.