By Bart O’Kavanaugh
I was deeply honored to stand at the White House July 9 with my wife, Whatsherface, and my daughters, they know who they are, to accept President Trump’s nomination to succeed my former boss and total fucking madman Justice Anthony Kennedy, on the United States Supreme Court of Beer. My mom, who I call Mom—one of the first women to serve as a Maryland prosecutor and trial judge making substantially less than her male counterparts for doing the same job, and my inspiration to become a lawyer (only one paid commensurate with the justifiably higher income of a man)—sat in the audience with my dad, the enigmatic and elusive character known simply as Ed.
That night, I told the American people who I am and what I believe. I talked about my 28-year career as a beer-swilling maniac with an insatiable appetite for both pussy and ice cold suds who always has zero fucks to give. I talked about my many years as a self-appointed judge of beer, and even my five years of service in the White House for President George W. Bush, who despite the ultimate sin of quitting drinking was a pretty good shit nonetheless. I also talked about my long record of advancing and promoting the murder and torture of poor brown people all over the world, and also how I worked with lots of women, the overwhelming majority of whom I swear I never sexually assaulted. But mostly I talked about fucking beer because that’s my jam, bro!
As I explained that night, a good judge of beer must be an umpire—a neutral and impartial arbiter who favors no particular type or style of beer. As that wild-eyed lush Justice Kennedy has stated, beer judges do not make decisions to reach a preferred result (unless that result is getting totally fucking shitfaced!) Beer judges make decisions because flavor is the only thing that matters, baby. Over the past 12 years, I have ruled sometimes for the pilsner and sometimes for the stout, sometimes for an ale and sometimes for a lager, sometimes for a bock and one time, even for a goddamn saison, if you can believe it. In each case, I have followed my taste buds. I do not decide cases based on personal preferences (though I do prefer blondes if you catch my drift!). I am not a pro-domestic beer or pro-foreign beer judge. I am not a pro-microbrew or pro-big beverage industry judge. I am a pro-beer judge.
As that crazed sonofabitch barfly Justice Kennedy showed us, a beer judge must be independent, not swayed by pressure from anyone – especially not hot broads, who the beer companies will definitely bring in to try to sway you (okay, okay, you got me, I’ve been swayed a time or two!). Our independent beer judiciary is the crown jewel of an international beverage industry that stops at nothing to give us the sweet nectar of the gods we so lustfully crave. And the Supreme Court of beer is the last line of defense for the single-most important right and liberty guaranteed by our Constitution – the right to drink our fucking faces off. (Twenty-First Amendment forever, bitches!!)
The Supreme Court of beer must never be viewed as a partisan institution for any particular kind of beer. The justices do not sit on opposite sides of a bar. They do not caucus in separate rooms like a bunch of separate-room caucusing weirdos. As I have said repeatedly: if confirmed to the highest beer court in the land, I would be part of a team of nine hard-livin’, hard-drinkin’ lunatics, committed to partying all night, consequences be damned. I would always strive to be a team player (especially if being a team player entails getting tag-teamed by Sotomayor and Kagan, meow!).
During the confirmation process, I met with 65 senators and explained my approach to drinking. I participated in more than 30 hours of tastings before the Senate Judiciary Committee, and I submitted written answers to what seemed like thousands of questions about my qualifications as a beer lover of the highest order. I was grateful for the opportunity, though to be totally honest my memory of most of it is pretty hazy.
After all those meetings and after my initial hearing concluded, I was subjected to wrongful and sometimes vicious allegations by Republicans who suggested that I am not the hard-drinking fuck machine well known to my closest friends and family. My time in high school and college, more than 30 years ago, has been ridiculously distorted – even reporting that this grade-A pussy hound was a virgin (as if!). My wife and daughters have faced vile and violent threats, from me, because they better keep their goddamn mouths shut if they know what’s good for ’em!
Against that backdrop, I testified before the Judiciary Committee last Thursday to defend my good name and my lifetime record of tearing shit up like few others who once ran track for Georgetown Prep. (Did I mention I ran track for Georgetown Prep!!? Do you have any idea how much easy pussy that earned a tanned brolic god such a young myself?!!!!)
My hearing testimony was as forceful, passionate, and unwanted as my lovemaking. That is because I forcefully and passionately denied the vicious allegations of sobriety and restraint leveled against me. At times, my testimony—both in my opening statement and in response to questions— reflected my overwhelming frustration at being wrongfully accused, without corroboration, of basically being a total pussy. My statement and answers also reflected my deep distress from the unfairness of the allegations that I lack balls and the effect it has had on my rep in the D.C. bar scene where I am pretty much a legend.
I was very emotional last Thursday, more so than I can ever remember being (though I have often been told I have a tendency to fly into long bouts of vigorous, uncontrollable bawling while black-out drunk). I might have been too emotional at times, like a bitch. I know that my tone was sharp, and I said a few things I should not have said about what I’d do to Diane Feinstein if locked in an empty dorm room with her. I hope everyone can understand that I was there as a son, a father, and a beer-swilling psychopath. I testified with two people foremost in my mind: my best bro forever Marky J. and my number one dude, the man I affectionately call President Cheeto McPussygrab.
Going forward, you can count on me to be the same kind of beer judge and person I have been for my entire 28-year career: angry, bleary-eyed, belligerent, and endlessly dedicated to raging 24-7. As a beer judge, I have always treated beers and beer makers with the utmost respect. I have not changed into the milquetoast, sweater-wearing vag Republican leadership seems to think I am. I will continue to be the same kind of beer judge I have been since I started drinking at 12 years old. And I will continue to contribute to our country as a glimmering example of what happens to privileged WASPy white kids when their cold, distant parents ignore them and they turn to alcohol to fill the bottomless void inside of them. Every day I will try to be the best Goddamn beer judge I can be. I will remain optimistic, always trying to pass out in locations that enable me to wake up 14 hours later with a pounding headache on the sunrise side of the mountain. I choose to see the drinks to be served ahead, not the drinks that have been spilled in the past.
I revere cold beer. I believe that an independent and impartial beer judiciary is essential to the integrity of our precious keggers. If confirmed by the Senate to serve on the Supreme Court of Beer, I will keep in a deep and constant state of alcohol-induced mania at all times, and in every case before me, I will always strive to preserve the one rule of law that matters: it’s happy hour somewhere!
