It’s said that the coverup is usually worse than the crime. In Clarence Thomas’s case, the rhapsodizing about his inner child longing for his basic roots and simple pleasures is coming back to haunt him with a vengeance. You may recall his comments in a documentary, which were then repeated in the bombshell ProPublica article that broke last week.
“I don’t have any problem with going to Europe, but I prefer the United States, and I prefer seeing the regular parts of the United States. … I prefer the RV parks. I prefer the Walmart parking lots to the beaches and things like that. There’s something normal to me about it.”
Oh, we know how you feel, Clare. We really do. We feel the same way. I can only speak for myself, but given a choice between poulet dijonnais and Dippin’ Dots, you know which way I’ll roll, right? I thought so. I, too, long for the corridors of Walmart over the castles of Wittenberg, who would not? Read Alexandra Petri’s satire in the Washington Post. You will love it.
Please keep in mind, my fellow Americans, that each moment I spent on the yacht was torment! That is why I did not disclose it. It was not my idea of a vacation. Every second I spent on those magnificent islands, in those bucolic retreats, eating meals cooked by private chefs, I was seething internally, wishing I were in a Walmart parking lot.
“Is everything to your liking?” numerous solicitous waitstaff aboard the yacht asked, and I sighed, dropping my cigar butt into the provided ashtray with a heavy heart. “No,” I said. “This — ” here I indicated the blue sky, the balmy sea breeze — “is not my idea of a good time, for I am a man of the people, with the tastes of the people, and I wish I were pursuing amusement as they do, by driving to Walmart on the weekend to make memories.”
A tear came to my eye as I spoke, for I could picture them so clearly, the happy weekenders, the salts of the earth who flocked to Walmart parking lots for their entertainment. Their children in the back seats, clamoring, “Walmart! Walmart! Walmart!” Their wrinkled elders, saving their pennies so that they could arrive at that cherished destination. Those parking lots are so full, always, and that is surely because they are a magnet for Americans who want to enjoy themselves. […]
All the private jet flights? Well, they lack the comfort and security of a larger plane, and I do not get to watch the charming United preflight video or rejoice in the whimsical Southwest safety announcements, nor partake in the American family pastime of sitting in an airport (that heaven on earth, full of shops and treats!) for hours while my flight is delayed and delayed and then canceled. I am denied such joys. Do you not feel sorry for me, when you hear that?
Ah, Clarence, you’re just like Donald. And Jesus. You suffer for us. You take in all the awfulness so that we don’t have to. We are so in your debt. I hope we meet in the local Walmart. I’ll keep an eye out for your Bentley. I’ll be in the sea of white Hondas. We’ll have an ice cream. Soft-serve of course. Let somebody else have the mousse au chocolate and the cherries jubilee. We’re real folks.