Grubby Rich People F***er Clarence Thomas Even Grubbier Than We Knew

There is nothing in the Constitution that says he can't role-play as a remora, we guess.

First, I thank the Chief Justice for allowing me to read this statement from the bench. Again. I promise to be brief before we hear arguments in the case of Texas et al v. All Them Illegals What Done Invading Us and Such. I think we all understand there is nothing unconstitutional about turning the Rio Grande into a civilian free-fire zone. Think of the extra few minutes here as more time to stockpile ammunition.

Ladies and gentlemen, more revelations have now surfaced about ultra-rich people oiling me up like a rusty bike chain. I last spoke on this issue because I hoped to alleviate any concerns about the impropriety of my “gadding about the planet on a billionaire’s dime.” I mean, I didn’t really care if those concerns were alleviated by even a flea’s dick worth of an amount, but I felt badly that my dear friend Harlan Crow was being smeared as some sort of weirdo simply because he likes to display Nazi memorabilia in his house.

As the old saying goes, poor people are crazy. Rich people are eccentric.

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So I concluded that there was nothing wrong with my actions because my dear friend Harlan Crow simply liked Clarence for Clarence, and all the haters are just jealous because they don’t have a billionaire friend who will sail them around obscure South Pacific island chains on a private yacht.

I fail to see how anything has changed now that the world knows I’ve gadded around the planet for decades on the dime of multiple billionaires. Is it so strange to think that the nation’s wealthiest people would seek out a lowly civil servant’s company because he is that much fun, especially with half a $10,000 bottle of French champagne in him? Is it so hard to believe they would treasure his friendship even if that civil servant’s life’s work did not help them amass and grow and never pay taxes on their obscene wealth? Does anyone think that people worth billions and billions of dollars can’t afford their own vast collections of soda-can-based pornography?

So yes, as I mentioned previously, I am dear friends with Harlan Crow, who is a billionaire. I am also dear friends with Peter Sokol, who coincidentally also happens to be a billionaire. And Tony Novelly, who is, yes, a billionaire.

It is not true that I am friends with H. Wayne Huizenga as alleged, because H. Wayne Huizenga is dead. It’s true that we were friends when he was alive, and that he showered me with gifts and what I believe the kids call “bennies,” but only because we had a lot in common. For example, he had “fuck you” amounts of money, and I desire to also have “fuck you” amounts of money.

Mr. Huizenga, or “Wayney” as we all called him, was a man of simple tastes. As I told his biographer, when we got together he preferred to meet in a strip mall, or sit out on the lawn of one of his houses drinking tea or diet soda. Did it matter if he owned the strip mall, or if that lawn was the size of a small African nation?

Frankly, I think it is disgusting the liberal media is attacking a dead man for his simple kind acts of flying me around in his private luxury 737 and granting me a lifetime membership that he paid for to his exclusive private golf club with its course designed by Gary Player and its own private marina so its wealthy members can sail their boats in anytime they feel like playing a round.

Mr. Huizenga has a family that is now reliving the loss of their beloved patriarch because of this scurrilous attack. Should their grief remain unconsidered simply because they are rich enough to have servants whose only job is to wipe away their tears and then dispose of the Kleenex in an environmentally unsound manner?

I will admit I can see why this all might look less than ideal. It’s not like I’m some lowly senator or president for whom the words “ethical constraints” might as well be written in Yiddish. I realize it might have impacted my self-created image as a salt-of-the-earth R.V.-loving American when the public learned that my R.V. is a custom-built luxury model that another wealthy friend purchased for me.

An image, by the way, that my wealthy friends created by financing hagiographic documentaries about my life and funding library wings in my name and generally building me up as some sort of god-king who should be revered as the greatest Supreme Court justice to ever sit on the bench. Is not a god-king of such stature entitled to be treated to all-expenses paid deep-sea fishing expeditions in the Bahamas?

But I want the American people to know that while I may have taken in Nebraska football games from Tom Osborne’s private suite, my heart was really with the ordinary Americans shivering in the bleachers while I stood behind glass in a heated room, sipping Chilean wine and eating catered food. And that while I was flown to Nebraska on Phil Sokol’s private jet, and that after the game we flew to his private ranch in Jackson Hole, I was with all the suckers idling in traffic in their own R.V.s while they waited to get into Yellowstone as we flew over them in spirit.

“Suckers” is my affectionate nickname for the ordinary Americans whose company I would surely enjoy if all my billionaire friends did not monopolize my time. For that, I suppose I’m sorry. Or I would be if I ever flew commercial.

[ProPublica]