SCOTUS headcanon: Difference between revisions
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'''[[Dankblog|dankblog!]] 2022-06-14, 0217 EDT, at [[Viewpoint|the danktower]]''' | |||
[[File:Acb.jpg|right|thumb|ACB has no time for your bullshit.]] | |||
It is Halloween Anno Domini 2017, and the eight seated Justices eagerly await the arrival of a freshly-confirmed ACB. Amy Coney Barrett, heir to the seat of RBG, two badass women comparable in feist if not interpretation. Soaring high above Washington, D.C., Antonin Scalia breathes easily; he can finally pass to the Beyond. "Pure apppppppppplesauce!" he howls gleefully, ascending towards Opus Dei's skylounge. ACB is 167cm in stocking feet, which means she's stood at least 173cm in every pair of shoes she's worn since turning sixteen in Metairie, Louisiana. Seven months pregnant with Liam, her fourth, a writer for Notre Dame's <i>Observer</i> asked why she still insisted on running her daily laps in stilettos. ACB laughed, wide eyes looking up(Heaven?)ward, and answered "sprezzatura". The Fighting Irishman had to look the term up later, and whistled (but we do note that her next two children were adopted). | It is Halloween Anno Domini 2017, and the eight seated Justices eagerly await the arrival of a freshly-confirmed ACB. Amy Coney Barrett, heir to the seat of RBG, two badass women comparable in feist if not interpretation. Soaring high above Washington, D.C., Antonin Scalia breathes easily; he can finally pass to the Beyond. "Pure apppppppppplesauce!" he howls gleefully, ascending towards Opus Dei's skylounge. ACB is 167cm in stocking feet, which means she's stood at least 173cm in every pair of shoes she's worn since turning sixteen in Metairie, Louisiana. Seven months pregnant with Liam, her fourth, a writer for Notre Dame's <i>Observer</i> asked why she still insisted on running her daily laps in stilettos. ACB laughed, wide eyes looking up(Heaven?)ward, and answered "sprezzatura". The Fighting Irishman had to look the term up later, and whistled (but we do note that her next two children were adopted). | ||
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In a flash, she's immobilized him with a <i>Do-jime</i>, judo's feared "trunk strangle", prohibited in competition but fair game among the Brethren, especially if no one else sees. "DAWG WHAT MAH BREW--" she puts just enough pressure on his windpipe to guarantee silence, loathing the touch of his skin. He squirms, and she applies a little more force; both hear the strain of a trachea at its breaking point, sinews buckling under the hate. | In a flash, she's immobilized him with a <i>Do-jime</i>, judo's feared "trunk strangle", prohibited in competition but fair game among the Brethren, especially if no one else sees. "DAWG WHAT MAH BREW--" she puts just enough pressure on his windpipe to guarantee silence, loathing the touch of his skin. He squirms, and she applies a little more force; both hear the strain of a trachea at its breaking point, sinews buckling under the hate. | ||
"Let's get this absolutely straight, you trust-funded ballless witless Godless gormless asslick <i>Protestant</i> piece of ritually unclean | "Let's get this absolutely straight, you trust-funded ballless witless Godless gormless asslick <i>Protestant</i> piece of ritually unclean anathematic shit." Her nails--still salon-fresh, she notes with pleasure--are red against his bluing neck. She hews a pattern from his fear. "The first time you slimily look over at me and invitingly smile, you'll boof your own dick in reverse as I rip it off through your aggrieved turdcutter. Then I'll fashion bespoke condoms from your dick, really good ones. I'll use my Cricut. I'm as good at Cricut as I am Law, and the only thing I do better than Law is whipping your ass. Little Cricut Cavanaugh Condoms in pink boxes. $14 a throw at Macy's. Plus a free bath bomb. Then I'll destroy those condoms in holy fire, Brett, because they're an affront to the Lord." She spins him, and spits in his face. "Just like you, Brett. Just like you." As she stomps his insole, dropping him to the floor, she bends down to whisper. "Then I'll publish a paper about it in a leading law journal. Unlike you, Brett. Unlike you." Not a single brown hair has been displaced, nor a drop of her Sazerac. | ||
Writhing on the floor, whimpering, Brett Kavanaugh coughs out a plea, "but Barettnator i'm Catholic | Writhing on the floor, whimpering, Brett Kavanaugh coughs out a plea, "but Barettnator i'm Catholic dawwwg." | ||
"Not anymore you're not, Brett." She upends a 40oz of Olde English onto his anguished face. "I'd swear you'd just been baptized via immersion." She throws a judicial robe at him. "Clean yourself up." | "Not anymore you're not, Brett." She upends a 40oz of Olde English onto his anguished face. "I'd swear you'd just been baptized via immersion." She throws a judicial robe at him. "Clean yourself up." | ||
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<b><i>ps if Scalia was still alive, rather than calling for Big Government security, the Justices would be erecting tents in their yards and taking bitches down with long guns. just further proof, as if anyone needed it, that Brett Kavanaugh is a sad little trust fund pussy.</i></b> | <b><i>ps if Scalia was still alive, rather than calling for Big Government security, the Justices would be erecting tents in their yards and taking bitches down with long guns. just further proof, as if anyone needed it, that Brett Kavanaugh is a sad little trust fund pussy.</i></b> | ||
'''previously: "[[Further_reflections_on_watercooling|further reflections on watercooling]]" 2022-05-01''' | |||
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