Okay, so you’re the Chief Justice of the United States of America. You have a sweet job. You’ve got a nifty black robe, an excellent seat for the festivities, and exactly one function to discharge for the entire day. That function consists of correctly reciting thirty-five extremely well-known words: the Oath of Office for the President of the United States.
Now, some people are nervous speaking in public. If that’s you, and you’re the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States of America, don’t worry. You can take comfort in the fact that 35 words isn’t really that much to remember. To put it in perspective, every barfly in every tavern in the world can belt out the entire first verse of Stairway to Heaven, all 48 words of it, verbatim. Even with a full-on snootful of loudmouth soup. So thirty-five words isn’t really that much. Thirty-five words is definitely manageable, right? Hell, you might not even be that hammered when you have to recite those words to the incoming President.
The big moment arrives, and you stand up on the stage in front of a live audience of a million or more people. Billions more are watching by television throughout the world. Here is what you do: incredibly, your mind starts to wander while you’re in the middle of discharging this simple little task. It’s hard to say how exactly these things happen. Perhaps you’re daydreaming about the day not so long ago that the New Guy had this to say when he voted against giving you that sweet job and the nifty robe:
The bottom line is this: I will be voting against John Roberts’ nomination. I do so with considerable reticence. I hope that I am wrong. I hope that this reticence on my part proves unjustified and that Judge Roberts will show himself to not only be an outstanding legal thinker but also someone who upholds the Court’s historic role as a check on the majoritarian impulses of the executive branch and the legislative branch.
Maybe you’re a little choked about your buddy W. and his puppetmaster heading out of town for good; nobody to really relive the good times with, y’know? Maybe you just got a little too wrapped up in clicking off some snapshots of the whole shindig with your point-and-shoot digital camera (jeez guys, I thought we were all bringing cameras on to the podium – was it really noticeable that I was doing that?) Anyway somehow, not fifteen words into the thing, you find your gums flapping away as if by themselves. Strangely, your renegade mouth has the President “to” the United States (instead of “of”) and that good ‘ol adverb “faithfully” seems to have very capriciously wandered off by itself near the end of an increasingly puzzling and unfamiliar sentence. Something’s not right. The New Guy – slick orator, smart guy, never seems to lose the thread of what he’s saying – is looking back at you, right hand raised, left hand on the Lincoln Bible. He has that “seriously, that’s the best you can do?” look on his face, and you are suddenly aware that you have, as the New Guy is so fond of saying, “at this moment” and “in this place”, shat the bed. You back up ten and punt; repeat the last sentence one more time with feeling and think to yourself, “do you suppose that next time I should write this fucking thing down in advance?”
The New Guy then takes the podium and rips off an eighteen-minute inaugural address without even once losing the flow of his moving and inspirational words. Dude just totally made you look like an idiot. A drooling fucking idiot. You can hear your brother judges laughing their asses off in chambers, pounding their knees in spasms of hilarity: seriously, eighteen minutes? And you screwed up thirty-five pre-ordained words?
When the ceremony is done and you’re putting your nifty black robe away in the garment bag, you pause to explain – for the eighty-seventh time in about a half an hour – to one of the many mucky-mucks in attendance just exactly what happened up there. You both laugh about it, but everyone who comes up to you has that look in their eyes; all of you know that you crapped the bed earlier today and incredibly, you all try to pretend that no one really noticed.
Then you head back to your judicial office, sit down at your desk and wait for the first chance to express your opinion – your judicial opinion, that is – about the New Guy and his policies.
I never understood the logic of how Major Nelson (just picture him in a uniform — same bewildered look, because there’s no way he screws up that bad without some absent-minded genie behind things) became the Chief Justice just because he happened to be the nomination for the outgoing CJ — wouldn’t the Justices have, you know, caucused amongst themselves before picking their newest member to be their Chief? Chief through an accident of timing? Really? Governmental rules sometimes seem as capricious and extemporaneous as playground laws.
Worse than playground laws, at times, I’d say.
If, for instance, Justice Roberts had committed his gaffe on the playground, his peers would by now have exacted justice on behalf of the community by repeatedly pantsing him, applying noogies, wet willies and the occasional trip, as well as referring to him forevermore as “stupidhead”. No mortal could withstand the continuous barrage of taunts and abuse, and the Chief Justice would have retreated into the background, his position of authority usurped by someone better, smarter and more reliable – the principal evidence of which might be found in the nature and quality of the fashionable backpack that he carries to school.