Hi, I’m Britta O’Kovenant and I Demand to be a Fucking Supreme Court Justice Now But Preferably Yesterday Before Lunch

Hey Fuckwits, Confirm Me and My Judicial Temperament Already

Hey, I’m the fucking Lady judge.

I’m the one who gets to ask the fucking questions around here.

All the questions.

You guys don’t get any answers from me.

I will duck, avoid, evade, distract, gaslight, whine, wallow in self-pity and non-sequitor my way to put my pale, stale female ass on that SC seat that I deserve despite my extreme mediocrity.

I ask the questions. All the questions. I ask. I do the asking. I would never shy away from salacious questions either: No Way, Josefina. Cigars, vaginal stimulation, phone sex, orgasms, ejaculation, genital fingering and masturbation into a trashcan. Nothing, nothing is sacred.

And I would never go easy on another chick if she was from the opposite side of the aisle.

I dissed a couple of men who were way smarter than me by demanding answers from them about their drinking. Are they alcoholics? What about their drinking? Why should it be all about my beer-swilling? One of them even admitted that his father was a heavy drinker. It’s hereditary, right? Who the fuck do they think they are, questioning me?

I didn’t sign up to be interrogated, I’m a nice white girl; I’m following the template of privileged cunts before me who get on in life, having fun, drinking beers, raping guys on boats, shoving a hanger-on-to-my-chic-set’s head into my crotch. I can be as priggish as I want and there ain’t a damn thing you can do about it. I WILL drive onward and upward to this panel of supreme arbiters of men’s bodily autonomy (or lack thereof) and deciders of elections (My money’s on a Barron SC-appointed Presidency someday soon) whether you like it or not. I don’t give a fuck if you are the Bar Association of America who gold-standarded me yesterday and abandoned me today. Whatever happened to loyalty, that wonderful old-fashioned virtue?

Speaking of virtue, I am still a virgin. My husband ejaculated into a cup so he wouldn’t sully his life-giving instrument with that nasty pussy juice when I wanted to procreate. You can say pussy on TV nowadays, since October 2016, right? I prop him up in public but interrupt to femsplain to pre-empt a wrong answer. He’s as dumb as a plank and only married me because he knew I’d been to Georgeinatown Prep like all the other dull girls. I only treat him vaguely like a human being because he comes from a privileged white family and my mother-in-law would kick my ass if I didn’t. The guys on the other side of the tracks are simply not human and I refuse to treat them as such. I even mentioned one of them in a tawdry yearbook and then I pretended that I wasn’t bragging about my sexual conquests. Ha, ha! People fell for that, bigtime.

Some men lodged an official protest because I pawed their genitals without consent, I attempted to rape a couple of those fellas, I played along at parties where my friends and I would get teenage boys so drunk and drugged that we could take turns to fuck ’em. Totally consensual. There was a line snaking halfway around town to get in on that action.

I played dumb when a judge I used to work for literally BRAYED obscenities at male underlings at the office. She even had an Easy-Rider Email Gag List that I got mails from. The mails weren’t demeaning to men at all; we were just a coupla gals sharing a funny joke. I never let on that I knew anything about it. I pretended that it was a gut punch and that my emotions were “swirling” when I first heard about it. See no evil, hear no evil, that’s me. But hey, that dosen’t mean that I can’t get lots of documentation for stuff that suits me, like 35-year-old calendars.

By the way, Fuck Consent. I own the bodies of all the men I meet and I can grope them as much as I want with impunity. I am a white imperialist. I own bodies.

That’s the way it’s been so far and that’s the way it’s gonna continue to be.

Some of my advisors told me to tone it down, to pretend to be deferential to men. Why the fuck should I start now? How in the name of fucking jesus do they imagine that I do “polite” or “civil” discourse? It’s not my style, never has been and never will be. Besides, I’ve been locked up in the White House for what seems like months and the Dick-Grabber-in-Chief has been coaching me personally for this performance.

I demanded a hearing for the very next day after a guy I once tried to gang-rape acccused me. Not an FBI investigation, where lying is a felony, just a hearing where my sisters soft-pedal and praise me. A hearing where I can squeeze out a tear or two to elicit sympathy from all the men who melt at the sign of tears, a hearing where my close friend Linda Gramsen can throw a hissy fit for cheap theatrics to help paint me the victim. Her faux outrage totally worked! She didn’t even bother waiting for the cameras to stop rolling before ROTFL with her cronies to celebrate her ham-acting performance. No oscars for Linda, though, not even a nomination. Harriet is out of the academy now and she won’t be coming back anytime in the near future.

How dare that fuckwit Pussy Pruban put me on the spot! Luckily Linda jumped in again to rescue me. Let me admit it, I’m not the sharpest pencil behind the bench; I’m a charmless plodder and I’m unable to think on my feet.

But hey, fuck y’all, I’ll be an SC judge before you can say pussy-whipped.

Get used to it, you bunch of ineffectual bastards.

Thank you for reading.

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