Rant: Saudi Oil and Brett Kavanaugh

Bad mood continues.

I never know why I feel what I feel. If ever a woman was completely walled off from the sources of her own emotions, tis I!

Nevertheless, I know what works to alter my emotions when they need altering, and it’s generally some variant of exercise and full-spectrum sunlight.

Alas! Neither worked yesterday, so after my run, I came back to the house and fumed.

< Begin Rant>

The sorry state of the world is not a proximal cause, but it is a convenient target.

If the U.S. is now the world’s biggest oil producer and essentially energy-independent, then why should we give a fuck if a Saudi Arabian oil facility is droned? (Yes, yes, yes—I know the global oil market sets prices according to global inventories of crude oil and oil products, but why should it be a “global oil market” if, in fact, the U.S. is in a position to be autonomous?)

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Also, The New York Times dug up yet another woman who Brett Kavanaugh allegedly waved his dick at some time back in the Neanderthal era except the woman does not actually remember seeing Brett Kavanugh’s dick. Other people remember seeing her see Brett Kavanaugh’s dick.

I watched the Kavanaugh confirmation hearings.

I didn’t find Christine Ford at all credible in a legal sense.

She couldn’t remember basic circumstantial facts about the incident like the exact year, day, time of day, how she arrived at the party, how she got home from several miles away, or the name of the fourth person she remembers attending the gathering etc.

Most damningly, from my perspective, is that she didn’t even name Kavanaugh in her therapy sessions. Her husband named Kavanaugh—after Kavanaugh was nominated to the Supreme Court.

This would never stand up in a court.

I really, really resented being “worked” by Democrats in this way.

Yep, Kavanaugh is an arch-conservative who doesn’t like Roe v. Wade.

That doesn’t justify slimy, underhanded means of bumping him.

Let’s say the vague, alcohol-soaked, 40-year-old allegations are true. Statutes of limitation are basic to both English and Roman law. Victor Hugo wrote a novel about what happens when there are no statutes of limitation, and a man endures a lifetime of persecution over the commission of a petty crime. I was forced to read that novel in the 11th grade. I was also forced to listen to a song from the truly dreadful musical Andrew Davies composed from that novel when I was trapped in an elevator last week. But that’s a story for a different day!

News at 11: Teenagers Behave Badly!

So fucking what?

I completely reject the notion forwarded by so many of my sanctimonious progressive friends—whose own bad behavior I have been privy to for decades—that people installed in higher office are somehow subject to a higher moral code. (Though I will say that anyone who thinks they might run for President some day would be wise to drop their social media accounts.)

< End Rant>

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Sometime way after dark, it dawned on me that my bad mood might be related to Ben’s death.

It does seem so strange that I will never, ever talk to him again. He really was the best conversationalist I can ever imagine talking to.