What I may remember about an incident that may have happened

After years of secret shame, I must finally go public with the truth, or something resembling the truth — maybe.  Here are the sordid details.  Thirty years ago, if my memory is correct, I suspect that I may have possibly been sexually offended by someone who I suspect may possibly have been someone like Christine Blasey Ford.  Maybe.

There were no witnesses, and I cannot remember the date or place, because I was unconscious the entire time.  But immediately after the alleged possible incident, I went directly to the press and reported the matter — by the press, I mean a newspaper boy, or somebody resembling a newspaper boy.  Maybe it wasn't immediately.

The next day, I was accosted by two men in black suits and fedora hats, who warned me that if I pursued the matter, my reputation would be ruined forever, and my family would be in personal danger.  I asked them, is Christine really this important to the government?  They seemed confused.  Christine?  Who is she?  Oh!  You're not the guy we're looking for.  But just to be on the safe side, if you ever see a UFO, keep quiet about it.

This, by the way, explains my loss of memory over the alleged incidents.  I have a vague recollection that, as someone who might possibly have been someone who looked something like Christine Blasey Ford stepped away from my ravaged, naked body strapped to the hood of her car in the middle of Rodeo Drive during rush hour, she held up a flashy thing, after which my memory went blank.

Maybe it wasn't during rush hour, but during the movie Rush Hour.  And maybe it was at an actual rodeo.  But the details do not matter.  The seriousness of the allegations is what should drive the investigation and subsequent conviction, impeachment, and imprisonment of somebody resembling Justice Kavanaugh.  After all, he may have something to do with all this.

It should not matter that my memory of these possible events is hazy.  Nor should it matter that I have no evidence of them.  Nor should it matter that I am making the entire thing up — the technical term for which is lying.

I should be believed.  Period.  End of story.  (Well, not yet.  There may be more.)

After years of secret shame, I must finally go public with the truth, or something resembling the truth — maybe.  Here are the sordid details.  Thirty years ago, if my memory is correct, I suspect that I may have possibly been sexually offended by someone who I suspect may possibly have been someone like Christine Blasey Ford.  Maybe.

There were no witnesses, and I cannot remember the date or place, because I was unconscious the entire time.  But immediately after the alleged possible incident, I went directly to the press and reported the matter — by the press, I mean a newspaper boy, or somebody resembling a newspaper boy.  Maybe it wasn't immediately.

The next day, I was accosted by two men in black suits and fedora hats, who warned me that if I pursued the matter, my reputation would be ruined forever, and my family would be in personal danger.  I asked them, is Christine really this important to the government?  They seemed confused.  Christine?  Who is she?  Oh!  You're not the guy we're looking for.  But just to be on the safe side, if you ever see a UFO, keep quiet about it.

This, by the way, explains my loss of memory over the alleged incidents.  I have a vague recollection that, as someone who might possibly have been someone who looked something like Christine Blasey Ford stepped away from my ravaged, naked body strapped to the hood of her car in the middle of Rodeo Drive during rush hour, she held up a flashy thing, after which my memory went blank.

Maybe it wasn't during rush hour, but during the movie Rush Hour.  And maybe it was at an actual rodeo.  But the details do not matter.  The seriousness of the allegations is what should drive the investigation and subsequent conviction, impeachment, and imprisonment of somebody resembling Justice Kavanaugh.  After all, he may have something to do with all this.

It should not matter that my memory of these possible events is hazy.  Nor should it matter that I have no evidence of them.  Nor should it matter that I am making the entire thing up — the technical term for which is lying.

I should be believed.  Period.  End of story.  (Well, not yet.  There may be more.)