The New Yorker has really covered itself in glory over Brett Kavanaugh.

Today is no exception:

Here’s how “investigative reporter” Michael Lista’s piece begins:

At fifty-three, Brett Kavanaugh is an adult now, or at least no longer young, but after Christine Blasey Ford came forward to testify before the Senate Judiciary Committee that he had pinned her to a bed, drunk, when they were teen-agers, covering her mouth so that she couldn’t scream, he gave his own statements after a recess and blubbered like a child. His voice broke sharply up a couple semitones while his mouth curled down at the corners. He scrunched up his nose and dug his tongue into his bottom lip, as he was deposed in an embattled bid to save his Supreme Court nomination. If he would get to don his black robe, he’d do it weepily.

As you can probably guess, it’s all downhill from there.

We can’t. We’re not that demented.

How much time have you got?

A quicker solution:

And when you’re finished with that:

Editor’s note: This post has been updated with additional text and a tweet.