a word about innocent until proven guilty

It’s Sunday night and I know I’m not alone in my #SundayNightVibe, which is basically:


Yes. I am an owl with resting bitch face.


We look at you, and you shit your pants.

Our wisdom is ancient and our patience is expired and we stay awake all night, motherfuckers.

Can I just say a word really quickly about innocent until proven guilty?

Because last week we dropped our podcast on Kavanaugh, in which we explored the idea of “Boys will be boys” as one that needs to be murdered posthaste, ideally with my bare hands but if you’ve got an ice pick I’ll give it a stab. In our podcast, we treated the accusations against Kavanaugh as if they were true.

And yes, the #1 comment we got from gentlemen named Trey and Josh and Michael and Frank was:

“Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?”

I would like to share with you the response that I did not have enough characters to share on Twitter:


Holy fucking shit… did I black out for the last seven to nine years, take the LSATs, go to law school, graduate, take the bar exam, kick its ass, interview for positions in top-tier firms before realizing that I’d rather put the bad guys behind bars than work to keep them out, you know like the DAs in Law & Order, and take a job in the prosecutor’s office, rise quickly because I can plea bargain like a coal miner’s daughter (nope, don’t know what that means, let’s keep moving), and eventually become the youngest judge in Washington State history, just in time for the case of Brett Kavanaugh’s 35-year-old assault charge to hit my docket, and have I brought with me to this case a set of prejudices that would preclude me from hearing the evidence and testimony presented in my courtroom with balanced, measured prudence, and are you arguing that I should recuse myself from hearing the case because of that set of prejudices that make it difficult for me to presume Kavanaugh’s innocence before I decide on his guilt or innocence on behalf of the government of the United States of America, a decision that bring with it actual fucking censure, professional consequences, and the possibility of jail time?



Last time I checked I am five of the following seven things:

  1. Woman

  2. American

  3. Writer

  4. Blogger

  5. Podcaster

  6. Judge

  7. Juror

And as luck would fucking have it, I am EXACTLY the five of seven that I need to be to make up my own fucking mind about the plausibility of the claims against Kavanaugh, articulate my opinions, and then share them in the written and spoken word while sipping bourbon and eating a Greek salad which is a terrible pairing but I LIVE IN FUCKING AMERICA I’m free to make my own choices and blog about them, ya flock of squawking shitbirds.

I don’t have a burden of proof to satisfy in order to say what I know, in my gut, is true. You know why I don’t have proof? Because most sexual assaults don’t happen in front of witnesses. You know why my gut tells me it’s true? Because mine didn’t. Not any of them.

do you feel lucky?

do you feel lucky?

No, I don’t have the proof to a 35-year-old sexual assault crime, just, you know, swimming around my kitchen junk drawer. YOU GOT ME. Surely I have no right to an opinion if I do not also have a cross-indexed and notarized collection of forensic evidence! And surely, if you care so goddamn much about the sanctity of fucking facts and evidence, you MUST have THE TOP SECRET PROOF THAT EXONERATES KAVANAUGH, right?

OH WAIT NO YOU DON’T HAVE PROOF OF SHIT, you pink-eyed little pigeon fucker.

You sure as fuck don’t have any proof that he’s innocent, do ya, chum? And you sure as FUCK don’t have any evidence that she’s guilty of lying, do ya, CHUM.

(In case it wasn’t clear, the first “chum” was a sarcastic “pal,” but the second “chum” was in when I likened you to the putrid, bloody entrails of fish that are tossed into the ocean to to attract sharks. I am the shark.)

shark attack.gif

what about my freedom of speeeee—


But in your mind only one of us is allowed to say things out loud without first apologizing for taking up space. I should feel embarrassed for saying something out loud, but you feel entitled to swoop in over my posts and our podcast and drop your chalky little “We all have to treat her like she’s guilty and him like he’s innocent OR I WILL NOT FEEL SAFE IN THIS SOCIETY!” turds all over our goddamn mentions.

Oh reeeeeeeally? Oh yeah, you want to tell me how goddamn unacceptable it would be for you to feel unsafe? Want to sing a 9-part Ring cycle about how fucking inhuman you would feel if you couldn’t just go live your life without someone leaping out of the night to attack you? TELL ME HOW THAT FEELS WE ALL HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA HOW AWFUL THAT FEELING IS. TELL ME AGAIN WHY I NEED YOUR PERMISSION TO GO TO THE FUCKING DOCTOR.

You fucking children. I hope you feel scared. I hope you feel vulnerable. I hope you’re wondering who among the people you know is going to reveal themselves to be someone who wants to fucking destroy you. I hope you’re fucking terrified to find out which of your friends is a predator, just like Christine Blasey Ford did. Just like I did. Just like millions of people do every single fucking day, you fucking egregiously self-involved stooges.

Except even your fear wouldn’t be satisfying, because even if I could scare you with the threat of sunlight, you’d never feel the actual bodily terror of being pinned down by someone who is bigger and stronger and can cover your mouth with his whole hand and hurt you in a way that shreds you for the rest of your life.

But I would never wish that on you.

Even now, when I fucking hate you, I would grieve with you if you felt that terror. I would hate you, and I would pick up a shovel and stand next to you, while together we buried your innocence, and I would tell you to hold on because it never goes away but you learn to live with it, and I’d tell you I was here if you needed someone, and I’d fucking hate you while I was there but I would be there because I would know, and so would you, that we are the only people who understand.

But enough of that, where were we?

Oh, right.


Fuck off and fly out to sea, you shit-caked trash peckers. Stay out there long enough to look long into the void and return to shore a changed being. And stay the fuck out of my mentions with your weak sauce. “Innocent until proven guilty.” Bitch, please.

Take care of yourselves this week, people. Find your medicine, whatever that looks like. A lot of people are going to say a lot of excruciating things about assault survivors.

When they do, remember that while most people are humans that happen to have assholes, these people are assholes that happen to have mouths. A shame, really. Poor lambs. Well, poor lambs’ assholes.