As this is written, the media and democrat party (I know, it’s redundant) are trying to destroy what’s left of Brett Kavanaugh. Today’s revelation is that he was at a bar where a fight broke out and he may have thrown beer or ice on some guy. The police questioned him about the incident.
Since confession is good for the soul, I know for a fact that there is a prominent female attorney in Minneapolis who also has to admit to throwing a drink in the face of some guy: she threw it in my face. Mind you, we were both 19 years old, and I was acting like a jerk, but throwing drinks in faces is not unheard of in liquor establishments. I still think she’s a fantastic person and a good lawyer. She doesn’t remember doing it, but I sure do. I deserved it.
I have not only been in bar fights, but I actually started one. I wouldn’t give up throwing that punch for a million dollars. It was well worth it. Sometimes violence is the only way to settle an issue, and in that specific case it was a noble deed. (I’m sticking to my guns on that one.)
Further, while a student at the University of Minnesota, I was also questioned about a drunken act of vandalism that resulted in blood being spilled and property being damaged. I’m sure if they have paper records from 1982 you can find my name in the blotter from a December night where a considerable quantity of alcohol had been consumed at Stub & Herb’s bar, adjacent to the campus.
I didn’t do anything, but the drunken fool (who was a good friend, but he was acting the fool) I was with decided to punch out a fire extinguisher box in the dorm where he lived. That glass gave him a nasty cut on his hand. I took him back to his room and administered first aid while I waited for the cops. I mean, seriously, about 20 people saw him do it, and he was bleeding like a stuck pig – all they had to do was follow the blood trail up the stairs.
Since both of us were rather large, they sent 4 cops that I saw. My friend was in the precarious position of either going to jail, or detox. I encouraged him to choose detox. He managed to avoid a criminal charge by doing so, but was put on double-secret probation by the University of Minnesota for the rest of his academic career, given alcohol abuse counseling, and got a royal butt-chewing from his mom, because he was locked up in detox for 72 hours during Christmas break.
Me? I was sober enough to handle myself, but I had too much alcohol onboard to drive – that’s why I was headed to his dorm room instead of to my car. One of the cops was insisting that I was an accessory to the misdemeanor vandalism, and that I should be arrested. He was kind of a jerk. There was a supervisor there, and I politely handed him my graduation card from the police academy. I pointed out that I had committed no crime, and was merely rendering first aid to my friend. There was no attempt to flee as we’d left the door open. The aggressive cop would have arrested me but for the supervisor, who merely cautioned me not to drive for a few hours and to keep out of trouble. Trust me when I say that wandering around campus at 3 am on a December night waiting for the alcohol to leave my system was a frigid experience.
Now, I’ve disclosed several incidents that evidently make Kavanaugh some kind of serial criminal. All were unimportant in the great scheme of life.
But what if I wanted to damage someone, like is being done to him, by basically duplicating the story of his accusers, and merely changing the dates? The odds are strong that they wouldn’t have been able to prove that I was lying at the time, and much less likely after 40 years.
Now, before I continue, I must point out that this is a story. It is fiction. I am a writer. But if you can in any way see how this differed from what Ford has said about Kavanaugh, and realize just how difficult it is to prove a negative – especially after decades – then put a comment on the blog. I will read it and if it makes sense, I will publish it. If you cannot prove that what I am about to write isn’t a damned lie, then perhaps you need to rethink the destruction of Brett Kavanaugh.
Beginning of Fiction.
On an April night in 1976 I attended a large house party in Minnetonka, Minnesota. It was not unusual for members of our debate and speech teams to associate with other egg-heads around the metro. We knew them through debate tournaments, and it was common to socialize. Some people I knew even dated kids from other high schools, having met them at tournaments.
On this night, I went with a bunch of people who had been at a tournament that afternoon. I don’t remember who drove, but it wasn’t me: I didn’t have a license yet. I was also, as a Catholic boy who obeyed his parents and his faith, a virgin and a teetotaler. Some have vivid memories that I drank in high school, but I didn’t touch a drop of liquor until I was a student at the University of Minnesota much later on. Same with sex: not in high school and for several years afterward.
During the party, where there was a lot of drinking, I stuck to soft drinks. At one point a group of really rowdy girls pushed down the hallway where I was reading a paperback. (Shy kids used to do that before electronics rose to prominence.) Two of the girls pushed me into a room and one of them grabbed my butt and put her hand over my mouth. She was laughing, and gave me an extra squeeze while she ground into me with her hips. I was shattered by the experience. After all, I was a good kid from the other side of the cities, and had no idea this kind of thing would happen. She let me go and stumbled off with her friends. I got a ride home from someone, but it’s all a bit vague after all these years.
Years later, only when she was elected to the Hennepin County Attorney’s office, I recognized the girl who’d molested me: Amy Klobuchar. I never said anything, and now it’s become important for me to recognize this incident in public, as she’s reached great levels of prominence and power. I am scared when I think of the damage a woman like this could do to the nation in such a position of importance. I have never had a normal life as result of this incident, and it has cost me greatly. I am absolutely sure that it was her. 100%. This was reinforced for me when I watched her drinking a beer at six the morning several years later. My God, she even said there was nothing wrong with drinking beer for breakfast. At the very least, her attitude on alcohol is disgraceful, and her level of abuse needs to be investigated. Does she have a drinking problem?
End of fiction.
So, do any of you think Senator Klobuchar could disprove my story? I have included exactly the detail level Ford included in her story about Kavanaugh. I would be willing to bet a large sum of money that unless she was out of the country for the entire month of April, 1976 she wouldn’t be able to prove she didn’t grope me that night.
The cautionary tale is there for you to see: there’s a statute of limitations for a reason, and memories get hazy with the passing of years. If you don’t believe my story, you can’t accord credence to Ford’s either.
It’s that simple.
(Oh, and for those of you who wish to expose my bad, drunken, boorish behavior from the past I have just one question: you had to be with me if you remember it, didn’t you? Glass houses, stones, etc. ring any bells? I’ve already outed myself so often it’s not worth your effort. But they might be great stories and I do wish you’d message them to me so I can use them in a book.)
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