Let's Call Them Kavanaughs

Hello and welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where the first whiff of late summer is (briefly) in the air! It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood. Sort of.

Every year in September, the borough of Haterfield trots out a nice binge -- a flea market and a book sale on the same morning. I can't deal with the Haterfield book sale (crowded with dealers, high prices for used white people books), but the flea market is always a nice stroll. Also, every Saturday there's a farmer's market with local produce. All in all, this Saturday was a morning to toddle around the ol' village and take the air.

First I went to the flea market, which was chock a block with the stuff the millennials won't buy -- and I don't blame them. The place was pretty crowded with shoppers, many of them older than me. And right through this throng of tottering seniors came a male in the prime of life, riding his bike. Not slowly, either.

"Rude," I thought to myself. "He could knock someone down."

Hard on his heels, also on bicycles, came several strapping white teenagers, also riding too quickly for the foot traffic.

"Damn!" I thought. "Can't these kids see all these older people?"

Answer: Nope, they are blinded by privilege.

Matters became more fraught when I made my way to the farmer's market. It's packed into a smallish court, with not much room for pedestrians and the merchants. And wouldn't you know, here came another pack of white teenagers on bikes, scattering mayhem in their wake.

That's when I thought of the name. I hope it becomes used far and wide.

I dubbed them "Kavanaughs." As in a Supreme Court justice who would have done the same damn thing at the same damn age.

The name was so catchy that, when the last kid passed me, I said, "Watch out, Your Honor."

And then when another one passed me as I walked home, I sing-songed "KAVANAUGH" and said, "Your Honor!" to the blithe and blond brat.

From now on, that's what I'm going to call these shitty wastes of genetic material. If a teenager of color did this in Haterfield, he would be sternly warned and possibly ticketed. But who's going to discipline Biff? No one. The world is his oyster, and perhaps it always will be.

I think Haterfield should have a club called Future Supreme Court Justices of America. Just a modest proposal.