The President took his Jack of Clubs
routine down to Mississippi last e-
vening, not necessarily to distract
from The Times' simultaneous exposure
of his decades of fraud and tax eva-
sion, although it couldn't have hurt.
No, the principal deal - and what an
odd resort to stereotype - had been
blood of misogyny, which binds his
tribe to him as an incubus steeping
itself in its fount. He had warned,
after all, of his fury with women in
his first campaign debate, snarling
on stage his objections to menstrua-
tion - the shortest route, it soon
emerged, to a Republican's heart-
felt respect for a woman's evidence.
We want Kavanaugh, they chanted.
Rather a first, wouldn't you guess:
a rock star cannibal of scruples,
for a Court that won't play fair.
Possibly not a time to recall the
Nobel Prize for Literature, with a
rape conviction suspending the a-
ward this year. But our own last
laureate in that field had already
warned, of being down in Mississ-
ippi, a day too long. Didn't need
presidential corroboration for that.
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