It was a cold, windy night in 1964. Martha Gamble was making her love to her husband, Everett Edward Kavanaugh. They wanted a son, but for one reason only: they wanted him to get nominated to the Supreme Court and then have his reputation tarnished in a huge way by false assault accusation.
The year was 1982. Christine Blasey was getting ready for a party. “You look nice,” her mother said, “are there going to be any cute boys there?”
“No,” said Christine, “They’re all pimply and gross. Well, there is one -”
“One cute one?” asked her mother intently.
“No, one who I suspect will someday get nominated to the Supreme Court. I’m going to try to get him in a compromising situation that I can make look like sexual assault in 35 years so as to torpedo his confirmation and ruin his life.”
“Well aren’t you a conniving little girl! And who told you to do that?” Christine’s mother laughed as she tousled her hair.
“Dianne Feinstein – who else?”
Dianne smiled broadly to herself. Everything was going according to plan. Being the mayor of San Francisco in the year 1982 – that was pretty fun. But you know what would be really amazing? Receiving a letter in 2018 from a woman who claimed Brett Kavanaugh had assaulted her in high school. If that happened, she could keep the letter confidential as the woman had asked, but eventually bring it forward just as the Senate was about to vote for Brett to be on the Supreme Court. All her colleagues would call her incompetent for not revealing the letter earlier, and this is what she really wanted after all – for the boys on the Judiciary Committee to finally notice her. Who cared if the claims were true or not? This would be her moment to shine – her whole life had been leading up to it.
Chuck Grassley felt a twinge in his back. It could be his arthritis. More likely, it was Democrats and the Fake News Media hatching a plot to do something really annoying in 35 years. And he was busy! Didn’t they know how hard it was working to make sure MLK day was not a national holiday?
Ronan Farrow sighed. Well, he sighed as much as an unfertilized egg can. The year was 1984, and Ronan only had 3 more years until birth (well, 2 more until conception, which is, of course, the universally agreed-upon moment life begins). But sitting around as an egg was dull. How could he drum up some excitement? He knew – he’d go to Yale. Of course, Mia would have to take him, but she was usually up for an adventure. There, he’d convince a young Yale student, Deborah, to hang around a party late with Brett and his friends. She was tired from studying, but Ronan was very convincing. Deborah would be drunk, and maybe he could convince her that she had seen Brett’s penis, even if she didn’t remember it so well. Ronan rubbed his chromosomes together furiously. He had such an advantage on other reporters, starting these stories before he was even born.
Michael Avenatti’s ears perked up around August 1985. He knew there was going to be a story sometime in the next 33 years — he knew it wouldn’t really involve him, but he’d find a way to get the attention right back where it belonged.
Dianne looked at the letter she’d received from the unfertilized Ronan. She had been busy working on legislation to revamp San Francisco’s Cable Car system – after all, it was 1983, and those things were simply antiquated! Surely not something San Francisco residents would still ride down California Street in the year 2018 and complain as tourists overcrowded them. Ronan was urging her not to give up on her plot to destroy Brett’s Supreme Court nomination in 35 years. Ronan believed that he’d be able to convince some of his Yale classmates to start telling their parents about Deborah’s story, just as soon as he got the magic hypnotic potion. Damn, he really was productive for an unfertilized egg.
In 2012, Christine went to therapy. On the ride over, she remembered something. That guy – Brett. He was going to be nominated for the Supreme Court in 6 years! She had completely forgotten about the story she’d invented 30 years earlier. She had to give it it’s finishing touches — she had to tell her therapist about it. After all, no one has ever said anything in therapy that they didn’t expect to get leaked to the New York Times.
2018 finally rolled around. It seemed like all the pieces had come into place. Martha had given birth to Brett Kavanaugh. Christine had gone to the party to make the story more plausible. Dianne had published the letter from Christine. Ronan had gotten the scoop from Deborah. It was all so crafted, so perfect. They were going to destroy Brett’s good name, even though he’d done nothing to deserve it. But then, they encountered something they weren’t prepared for – don’t tell me. Brett had a planner! From 1982! And nowhere in that planner did it say he assaulted a woman. Fools! Fools they were! They should have thought of that. Brett’s nomination lived to see another tear-filled (on his part) day.