How hilarious is it in this pornography-saturated culture of anything-goes-and-nothing-matters that a long-ago session of awkward teenage necking becomes the most horrifying crime since Eve consorted with a snake in the original wayback?
One theory: having worked tirelessly to destroy behavioral boundaries in its quest to transform human nature for the greater good of society, the Prog-Left has no idea anymore how the world works or how to interpret what human beings actually do in it. Hence this effort to turn the Brett Kavanaugh nomination proceeding into a retroactive abortion of the nominee.
The Democratic Party seems to be afflicted with a vicious sort of PMS that has turned the brains of even its theoretically male members, Senators Chuck Schumer and Richard Blumenthal, into polenta with red sauce on top. They see blood everywhere, and even appear to be thirsting for it like a gang of Old World Nosferatus, or giddy Jacobins merrily geeing up the guillotine blade in a frenzy of summary execution.
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My own sense of the situation is that Christine Blasey Ford’s accusations are going exactly nowhere, no matter how carefully and elaborately conditions are set for her to lay out her case. It couldn’t be more firmly established that she doesn’t remember what year or what place the alleged necking happened in. Is she going to change that part of the story now? Surely lawyers, gumshoes, and phrenologists on the Democratic Party payroll would like to engineer some magic memory retrieval so she’ll be supplied with dates and addresses when her turn at the microphone comes. By the way, the boundary between truth and…