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SCOTUS headcanon: Difference between revisions

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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 pressure; 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 pressure; 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 garbage." 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 Cricut like I do everything, Brett. As a soldier for the Lord. Little Kavanaugh Kondoms in pink boxes, sold $14 a throw at Macy's. Plus a free bath bomb. Then I'll throw those condoms into a 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.
"Let's get this absolutely straight, you trust-funded ballless witless Godless gormless asslick <i>Protestant</i> piece of ritually unclean garbage." 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 just as good at Cricut as I am the Law, Brett, and the only thing I do better than Law is whipping your ass. Little Cricut Cavanaugh Condoms in pink boxes, sold $14 a throw at Macy's. Plus a free bath bomb. Then I'll throw those condoms into a 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, just like you."
Writhing on the floor, whimpering, Brett Kavanaugh coughs out a plea, "but Barettnator i'm Catholic, just like you."