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As always, Caveat Lector.
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<A HREF="aol://5863:126/alt.conspiracy:480163">What's Wrong with Chief Justice
Renquist?</A>
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Subject: What's Wrong with Chief Justice Renquist?
From: Mark Adkins <[EMAIL PROTECTED]>
Date: Tue, Jan 19, 1999 10:59 AM
Message-id: <[EMAIL PROTECTED]>
Has anyone else wondered of late whether Chief Justice Renquist is
competent to serve? I fear he may be suffering from some underlying
organic condition, perhaps an incipient brain tumor. The first clue
was when he showed up for what is, arguably, the most important single
function of his career -- presiding over the impeachment of the
President of the United States of America -- wearing four gold bars
on the shoulders of his black robe: not traditional, but rather, an
idea inspired by a Gilbert & Sullivan operetta. Is this an appropriate
occasion for whimsical frippery?
The second clue, which went oddly unpublicized by the major news
media and could only be seen by those who watched the full, live
proceedings on C-SPAN, was when he arrived at his station on the
floor of the U.S. Senate, stood up, and said in a nasally, old-woman's
voice (evidently an impression of Bette Davis), "Fasten your seatbelts
gentlemen -- it's going to be a bumpy ride!" The gallery erupted into
laughter, and I suppose it was amusing, but then, is this really the
venue for vaudeville?
But if this was not sufficient evidence that the Chief Justice had
lost all sense of proportion, the proceedings would soon dispel all
doubt. First of all, he made a point of standing up every 30 minutes,
ostensibly to stretch his bad back, but I believe to draw attention
to himself. Each time he did so -- apparently, for C-SPAN soon
began muting his microphone for television -- he would repeat his
earlier quip in that same, eerie old woman's voice: "Fasten your
seatbelts gentlemen, it's going to be a bumpy ride!" At first
there was scattered tittering, but soon the line became tired even
to those for whom it had originally been the greatest source of
amusement. Several Senators became noticeably agitated whenever
the Chief Justice showed signs of stirring, the whole event turning
into an ordeal of terror for them.
Toward the end of the day, evidently overcome with ennui, Justice
Renquist saw fit to remove a pocket comb and, holding up the first
inch or so of its teeth beneath his nose, he turned, first this
way and then that, giving the Nazi salute to the assembly. It was
without doubt the most remarkable spectacle I have ever seen, and
the sheer mortification and panic it engendered among all present,
from the politicians to the C-SPAN remote camera operator, gave
that august body of elder statesmen all the appearance of the
pandemonium at a carnival freak show.
I suppose that this was all perfectly predictable. I should mention
that Biff Spiceland (yes, his real name), the CNN weatherman, is an
old and dear friend of mine. He sent me an email letter three or four
months back, excitedly remarking that he had just seen the Chief
Justice of the Supreme Court, William H. Renquist, eating a sandwich
in the restaurant of a local Washington hotel. I have never been
much for celebrity gossip and paid little attention, though there
was one troubling detail which disturbed me briefly.
Spiceland went over to Renquist's table to introduce himself and to
meet the Chief Justice. Renquist, he related, was busily engaged in
some sort of complicated transposition of his sandwich ingredients on
his plate, and evidently not satisfied with his attempts, for he kept
shaking his head and rearranging them again. He introduced himself,
to which Renquist gave cursory and noncommital acknowledgment without
looking up and continued his strange behavior. Overcome by
curiosity, Biff asked him what he was doing. "I'm segregating.
This sandwich is against the laws of man and God, and the
Constitution does not authorize the contrary meddlings of federal
bureaucrats." Spiceland was speechless. Suddenly Renquist looked
up, as if noticing him for the first time. "By gad sir, who are you
and what do you want?" Spiceland quickly excused himself and left
the restaurant, embarrassed and a little frightened. I told him
that he should sell his story to the Washington Post, but he
declined, saying that he feared for his job. He was probably right.
--
Mark Adkins ([EMAIL PROTECTED])
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Aloha, He'Ping,
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Em Hotep, Peace Be,
Omnia Bona Bonis,
All My Relations.
Adieu, Adios, Aloha.
Amen.
Roads End
Kris
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