Thank you, Mr. Trump, for inviting me to speak tonight, and thank you, disgraced figure skater Tonya Harding, for that wonderful introduction.
Now, you’re probably wondering why I’m up here with a chair again. Well, this isn’t just any high-backed swiveler. Go ahead, buddy, tell them who you are… No? That’s okay, they’ve probably figured out that you’re the Supreme Court seat vacated some 155 days ago, upon the death of Justice Antonin Scalia. What gave you away? I’m guessing it was that off-putting sheen of cobwebs — but don’t worry, I’m going to introduce you to Donald’s hair guy!
Seriously, though: I brought you here today, brave and distinguished SCOTUS seat, just to thank you for being out of service. I know it’s hard to turn your tufted leather back on the millions of Americans who are demanding that you be expeditiously filled with an experienced and well-intentioned arbiter of the law. But every day you sit in a basement storage room is an important victory.
Now, I know what you’re thinking: “Clint, I don’t know about this. It’s pretty damp down here — I feel like I’m catching a cold. Roaches are crawling. Can we maybe just speed things up a little so I’m warmed by the buttocks of a reputable, even-handed steward of the Constitution?”
Look, I hear you, compadre, but if Clarence Thomas went ten years without saying a word, then you can damn well lay low until we get a member of our rapidly disintegrating party into office.
What? What’s that you say? “Most Americans agree that in the interest of justice and due diligence, we should get the confirmation process rolling”?
Well, I’ve got news for you, punk: The only thing rolling is going to be you — right back into a musty, forgotten corner in the bowels of the Supreme Court building, where you’ll be covered with a bed sheet before anyone can fill you with an impeccably qualified interpreter of federal law.
Look, I don’t mean to sound harsh. I’m just the guy from A Fistful of Dollars — which, by the way, is not a documentary about Trump’s campaign budget. I hear you when you say, “Clint, I’m serious, I really think I should be filled with someone who can cast a deciding vote in cases involving the fates of women’s health, immigration, and voting rights. This is bad. This is really bad.” I get it. But trust me, soldier: if you know what’s good for you, you’ll get right back into that foxhole and stay completely motionless but for the occasional imperceptible swivel brought on by a passing tumbleweed.
Take it from the director of Sully, coming soon to a theater near you: You don’t want to be “sullied” by the keister of some no-good rapscallion determined to help the court uphold its sacred motto, “Equal justice under law.”
I know you’ll stay strong, sweet SCOTUS seat. Underneath that five-month coat of dust and mouse droppings, I can still see your handsome beige hue. And so I leave you with the catchphrase everyone’s been waiting for: “Brownie, you’re doing a heck of a job.”