The whole truth Supreme Court nominee Brett Kavanaugh, in a far-fetched attempt to defend himself against accusations of sexual misconduct as a prep-school guppy at Georgetown Prep, has offered to release a “calendar” of his days in the summer of 1983 as proof that he could not possibly be getting wasted and forcing himself on teenage girls back then.
Another document has surfaced, though, and while its authenticity is not beyond a shadow of a doubt, it tells a much different tale—the story of “Bart O’Kavanaugh,” a hopelessly horny young man who seeks only to lose his virginity before he goes off to Yale to get ready to be a Supreme Court Justice. Details from the personal journals of the legal sapling follow below:
JUNE 3--Friday night, and the biggest fest of the year looms! This is the one—I can feel it. Markie Judge’s parents are out of town and you know what that means—two kegs of Schlitz and he’ll be turning on the fountain of Jägermeister! The girls are going to be so wasted, even a short guy with aggressively pointed hair is bound to get laid. Or so Markie says. My groin is surging with anticipation! Better have some of that Jaeger, take the edge off.
JUNE 4--Woke up in the bushes outside of a liquor store. Markie tells me I went there with his older brother’s expired driver’s license to get more Jägermeister for a girl I was making real progress with, and to make up for throwing up on her. Asked Markie if I was still a virgin. He said yes. I must have looked depressed, because he slapped me on the back and said “It’ll happen, bro.”
JUNE 11--Pool Party! Now they’ll be nothing but a thin layer of nylon between my burgeoning manhood and ground zero! A keg of Coors and a keg of Heineken will be positioned at the deep end, where I plan to tread water casually while waiting for the babes to paddle by in their bikinis. Got me some tequila, too. Markie says nothing turns on a girl’s love-furnace like Mexican booze.
JUNE 12--In ambulance, headed for emergency ward. Apparently forgot to tread water at some point. Coughed up enough water to fill a goldfish bowl. More importantly, am I still a virgin? I’m still wearing my swim trunks, so I have a sinking feeling the answer is yes. I asked Mark and all he said was, "Sinking feeling, bro? That’s a good one.”
JUNE 16--It’s Friday night, and I ain’t got nobody. Got some money ‘cause I just got my allowance. No party because Markie’s in Europe. Asked him to keep track of where he went, in case I might need an alibi for the summer when I’m testifying before Congress someday. Watched Bill Cosby on TV. That guy ought to get his own show. Somehow, I identify with him, even though he’s black.
JULY 7--Markie’s back, and he’s pulling out all the stops. There’s going to be a Democrat at his welcome home party. Her name is Christine. All Democratic girls are sluts, Markie tells me. Just push her down and she’s yours. I was good to go with that program. I even limited myself to half a bottle of Jim Beam, but even then, I fell on top of her. I felt a little dizzy, so I put my hand over her mouth so I wouldn’t throw up on her like I had done to that girl at the first party. Then Markie jumped on top of me. I don’t remember anything afterwards.
JULY 8--My mouth tastes like I slept with one of my gym socks in it, and there’s a strange pain in my bottom. Crust on the inside of my shorts means I’m still a virgin. Stayed in and played Donkey Kong all night. Markie’s going back to Europe, and I’m going to Yale. Hope I’m not the only virgin there.
SEPTEMBER 23--Shared my problem with my new Yale buds. They took me over to the colored side of New Haven. Stopped in a place called the Maroon Room. There was a girl there named Roxy. She grabbed me and took me upstairs. Relieved me of my virginity and sixty bucks before you could say “Hey, do you know Bill Cosby?” She had a huge behind. My friends said that’s common in Negro girls.
SEPTEMBER 24--Partying again. Got a little loose on a bottle of Smirnoff and pulled out my wiener on the dance floor. “Guess who’s not a virgin anymore!” I shouted. I thought some girl named Debbie wanted a piece of it, so I waved it in her face. Instead of grabbing it she shoved me away. Some of my Yalie pals said I was getting a little out of line. “Who cares?” I said. “In thirty-five years, who’s going to remember this anyway?”
Another document has surfaced, though, and while its authenticity is not beyond a shadow of a doubt, it tells a much different tale—the story of “Bart O’Kavanaugh,” a hopelessly horny young man who seeks only to lose his virginity before he goes off to Yale to get ready to be a Supreme Court Justice. Details from the personal journals of the legal sapling follow below:
JUNE 3--Friday night, and the biggest fest of the year looms! This is the one—I can feel it. Markie Judge’s parents are out of town and you know what that means—two kegs of Schlitz and he’ll be turning on the fountain of Jägermeister! The girls are going to be so wasted, even a short guy with aggressively pointed hair is bound to get laid. Or so Markie says. My groin is surging with anticipation! Better have some of that Jaeger, take the edge off.
JUNE 4--Woke up in the bushes outside of a liquor store. Markie tells me I went there with his older brother’s expired driver’s license to get more Jägermeister for a girl I was making real progress with, and to make up for throwing up on her. Asked Markie if I was still a virgin. He said yes. I must have looked depressed, because he slapped me on the back and said “It’ll happen, bro.”
JUNE 11--Pool Party! Now they’ll be nothing but a thin layer of nylon between my burgeoning manhood and ground zero! A keg of Coors and a keg of Heineken will be positioned at the deep end, where I plan to tread water casually while waiting for the babes to paddle by in their bikinis. Got me some tequila, too. Markie says nothing turns on a girl’s love-furnace like Mexican booze.
JUNE 12--In ambulance, headed for emergency ward. Apparently forgot to tread water at some point. Coughed up enough water to fill a goldfish bowl. More importantly, am I still a virgin? I’m still wearing my swim trunks, so I have a sinking feeling the answer is yes. I asked Mark and all he said was, "Sinking feeling, bro? That’s a good one.”
JUNE 16--It’s Friday night, and I ain’t got nobody. Got some money ‘cause I just got my allowance. No party because Markie’s in Europe. Asked him to keep track of where he went, in case I might need an alibi for the summer when I’m testifying before Congress someday. Watched Bill Cosby on TV. That guy ought to get his own show. Somehow, I identify with him, even though he’s black.
JULY 7--Markie’s back, and he’s pulling out all the stops. There’s going to be a Democrat at his welcome home party. Her name is Christine. All Democratic girls are sluts, Markie tells me. Just push her down and she’s yours. I was good to go with that program. I even limited myself to half a bottle of Jim Beam, but even then, I fell on top of her. I felt a little dizzy, so I put my hand over her mouth so I wouldn’t throw up on her like I had done to that girl at the first party. Then Markie jumped on top of me. I don’t remember anything afterwards.
JULY 8--My mouth tastes like I slept with one of my gym socks in it, and there’s a strange pain in my bottom. Crust on the inside of my shorts means I’m still a virgin. Stayed in and played Donkey Kong all night. Markie’s going back to Europe, and I’m going to Yale. Hope I’m not the only virgin there.
SEPTEMBER 23--Shared my problem with my new Yale buds. They took me over to the colored side of New Haven. Stopped in a place called the Maroon Room. There was a girl there named Roxy. She grabbed me and took me upstairs. Relieved me of my virginity and sixty bucks before you could say “Hey, do you know Bill Cosby?” She had a huge behind. My friends said that’s common in Negro girls.
SEPTEMBER 24--Partying again. Got a little loose on a bottle of Smirnoff and pulled out my wiener on the dance floor. “Guess who’s not a virgin anymore!” I shouted. I thought some girl named Debbie wanted a piece of it, so I waved it in her face. Instead of grabbing it she shoved me away. Some of my Yalie pals said I was getting a little out of line. “Who cares?” I said. “In thirty-five years, who’s going to remember this anyway?”
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