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“Justice Samuel Alito took luxury fishing vacation with GOP billionaire who later had cases before the court.” — ProPublica
“The Supreme Court on Thursday struck down affirmative action programs at the University of North Carolina and Harvard in a major victory for conservative activists, ending the systematic consideration of race in the admissions process.” — NBC News
We, the conservative justices of the Supreme Court, have ruled against Harvard and UNC, striking down affirmative action for college admissions across the country. For a detailed explanation of our ruling, feel free to read the court’s majority decision. But in a nutshell, we believe the only people who should ever get extra consideration are those who invite you to hang out on their boats.
You see, it came down to a matter of fairness. Getting into college should be based purely on merit—getting good grades, scoring highly on the SAT, writing a compelling essay, and participating in extracurriculars that speak to your interests. And if one of those interests happens to be sailing, and your family happens to have a 120-foot sailing yacht, and you happen to go on an eight-day pleasure cruise in the Mediterranean the summer before your senior year of high school, and your dad happens to invite the head of admissions at Dartmouth on that trip, we’d see absolutely no problem with that. Just as long as you keep the conversation to nautical topics like, “What are some of your favorite knots?” Or “Spinnakers, am I right?” Or “Say, how competitive is the Dartmouth sailing team, anyhow?”
As we deliberated on the Harvard case, we saw two major sources of inequity in the admissions process:
To determine which was a bigger ethical issue, we asked ourselves a simple question: In which of these two groups are you more likely to own a catamaran? After considering that, the majority opinion practically wrote itself.
The liberal justices argued that rolling back affirmative action would undo decades of progress designed to right the wrongs of systemic inequality. But we don’t believe in being on the “right” side of this issue. We believe in being on the “starboard” side of this issue—the side that favors folks who invite us over for cocktails on the starboard sides of their boats. Which, incidentally, is the right side of the boat, so we think that counts.
Regarding the merits of the decision, some legal scholars felt it was dubious to cite the 14th Amendment, which the court had previously used to argue the exact opposite ruling in favor of affirmative action decades ago. But not one of those scholars invited us on a deep-sea fishing trip to Alaska, or an island-hopping jaunt in the Caribbean, or even a day sail on the Potomac. We might have been more sympathetic to their counterpoints had they thought to do that.
It’s also worth noting that, while the 14th Amendment says many things about equal protection and due process, it says absolutely nothing about boats, or at what point a “boat trip with friends” becomes a “quid pro quo.” Nobody needs a reason to invite you on their boat. Besides, who wouldn’t want to spend an afternoon with Clarence Thomas simply for the divine pleasure of his company?
For those who say the college experience is enriched by having classmates of different backgrounds and perspectives, we can say with certainty that the college experience is also enriched by knowing more people who own megayachts. Depending on how you define “enrich,” of course.
And if you do eventually strike it rich and want to bring us along for a sail, we’d be happy to hop on board. Better yet, hand us a mai tai and one of those captain’s hats with a little anchor on it, and you might find we’ll be “on board” with just about anything.
“The celebration of LSU’s first-ever national championship is being met with unfair criticism of Angel Reese, one of the team’s star players… Reese first waved her hand in front of [Caitlin Clark, the Iowa Hawkeye’s leading scorer]…. then pointed to her ring finger… Sports and political commentator Keith Olbermann referred to Reese as a ‘fucking idiot’… In addition, Barstool Sports founder David Portnoy tweeted ‘Classless piece of shit.’” — Forbes, 4/3/23
[The Roman Senate is gathered at the Curia Pompeia, the senate house of the Roman Republic. The Roman general MARK ANTONY addresses the group.]
MARK ANTONY: Friends, Romans, co-workers, lend me your ears! It is once again time to enter the senate office pool for the annual Tournament of Gladiators. Sixty-eight teams from around the empire will compete, single-elimination (losers die) for the coveted City-State Championship Trophy. There are many exciting matchups to keep an eye on this year. Will the number VII seed Spartans go all the way, or will the number X seed Trojans be the tournament spoilers? Only time will tell…
[Two of the Romans, CASSIUS and BRUTUS, whisper to each other as Mark Antony gives his speech.]
CASSIUS: My money is on the Spartans.
BRUTUS: Oh please, the Spartans couldn’t land a death blow down the stretch if their lives depended on it, which they do.
CASSIUS: Yes, but their shielding is unparalleled. You know what they say: defense wins championships.
BRUTUS: Well, it doesn’t matter. You know who is probably going to beat us all again anyway.
MARK ANTONY:… As is tradition, last year’s office pool winner will be the first to submit their bracket. Come on up here, Jules…
[JULIUS CAESAR, a two-time office pool winner, who was generally disliked among his fellow senators for never refilling the wine carafe in the break room when it was empty and for occasionally killing his political rivals, walks up to the podium.]
CASSIUS: I swear to the gods, if he wins again this year…
BRUTUS: You thinking what I’m thinking?
[Cassius nods.]
JULIUS: (submitting his bracket)The die is cast, fuckheads!
[The remaining senators submit their brackets one by one and gradually disperse. Julius Caesar leaves the Curia Pompeia and walks past a SOOTHSAYER, an elderly beggar wearing a tattered Spartans jersey.]
SOOTHSAYER: Beware the Madness of March!
JULIUS: Whatever, lady. We only bet, like, ten denarii each.
[Weeks later, Julius Caesar, on his way to a post-Final Four orgy, walks past the Soothsayer, who is now wearing a tattered Trojans jersey, being what some would call a fair-weather Spartans fan.]
JULIUS: The Madness of March has come. It is April now.
SOOTHSAYER: Aye, Caesar; come, but not gone. There’s still the championship match, which, admittedly, is on the third of April but is still technically considered part of the Madness of March.
JULIUS: Well, I’ve already got this one in the bag, whether the Trojans win or not.
[Julius Caesar walks off triumphantly, thinking about all of the men and women he was looking forward to seeing naked at the Final Fourgy.]
[Days later, the Roman Senate is gathered, and Mark Antony addresses the group again.]
MARK ANTONY: Ladies and gentlemen, you know him, you love him. He’s the man who puts the “tri” in triumvirate. Give it up for three-time Roman Senate Madness of March office pool winner, mister Julius Caesar!
[A half-hearted applause breaks out, along with a few audible groans.]
JULIUS: Well, what can I say? I came, I saw, I conquered…
CASSIUS: (to Brutus) How in the Hades did he win it again? I chose every bracket buster the Oracle predicted.
BRUTUS: (to Cassius) I told you the Spartans would shit the bed. Classic Spartans.
CASSIUS: Sure, but who would’ve thought Syracuse would come out of nowhere like that? I didn’t even know they were in the tournament this year, those damn Sicilians.
BRUTUS: Well, shall we?
CASSIUS: Yup, showtime.
[Cassius and Brutus look around the room for their fellow conspirators and give the signal: the Trojans’ famous “V for Victory” hand gesture, which, ironically, looks a lot like the peace sign. Cassius and the other conspirators descend on Julius Caesar, stabbing him repeatedly with chisels, scroll openers, and whatever other sharp implements they were able to find lying around the Roman Senate break room.]
MARK ANTONY: Jesus Christ, you guys, this was supposed to be a lighthearted team bonding exercise!
CASSIUS: (still stabbing) Who is Jesus Christ?
MARK ANTONY: It’s an expression. I’m just saying you people need to chill.
[Brutus lands a final stab—an iron stylus with “Empire’s Best Boss” etched in gold—straight to the heart.]
JULIUS: Et tu, Brute? The pool was, like, ten denarii each, man?
BRUTUS: It was never about the denarii. It was about the bragging rights.
[Caesar dies.]
[Outside the Curia Pompeia, the Soothsayer, now wearing a tattered Syracuse jersey, being somewhat of a fair-weather Trojans fan, wanders the streets. A group of Roman women passes her, excitedly chatting about their office pool for a competition where women from around the empire compete for the chance to marry an eligible Roman general with good looks but very little personality. The women discuss how this year’s general, Mark Antony, is falling for some Egyptian chick everyone else hates.]
SOOTHSAYER: Beware the Baccalaureate!
For a breakdown of the author’s thought process behind this piece, check out the latest edition of Carlos’ new newsletter, Shades of Greaves, here.
Do you enjoy writing? Do you like the idea of taking the thing you love doing the most in the world and turning it into work? So that your access to food and shelter hinges on your ability to turn a creative outlet into a commercial product? Smart move. It sounds like you’d like to become a professional writer.
The good news is there are many ways to make it as a professional writer.
You could become a novelist. All you have to do is get an MFA from a top program. Then win a prestigious national writing prize. Then leverage that to earn a coveted artist-in-residence. Then use that time to pen a dazzling manuscript that lands you a book deal. Then publish your debut novel to largely positive reviews. Then follow it up with another widely acclaimed novel. Do that, and you’ll be a third of the way there.
Or you could freelance write. Freelance writing is like that scene from Aladdin where the cave collapses, and Aladdin has to hop from rock to rock as everything around him falls into a pit of lava. Talk about a life full of excitement! Plus, with the right dose of anxiety medication, you’ll barely even notice that the check you’re counting on to make rent still hasn’t come in the mail. That’s called work-benzo balance.
You could even try your hand at writing for television. You know that classic joke: “What do you call the dumbest graduate of medical school? A doctor.” Well, the same is true for comedy writing. Except it goes: “What do you call the writer who sent in the second funniest packet out of thousands? Unemployed.” See? All you have to do is be number one.
And if none of those is your speed, you could always teach writing, which is valued just as much by society as writing professionally. There are tons of famous writing teachers known only for their teaching skills. Their names will come to me … just give me a minute.
Whatever route you decide to pursue, be patient. A writing career is not a sprint. It is also not a marathon. A writing career is one of those wilderness survival challenges where they dump you in the woods without a map or a compass or food and whoever finds their way out wins. Except the only thing you “win” is that you don’t have to go to law school.
Is there a formula for being a good writer, you might ask? Yes, and it’s simple: Writing is 40 percent talent, 70 percent luck, and 50 percent determination. To become a writer, you do not need to be good at math.
But before you can write professionally, you must first learn the rules so that you can break the rules, then fix the rules, then send an invoice to the rules for the repair costs. Sometimes being a writer means crafting elaborate metaphors that lose their internal logic halfway through.
Once you’ve mastered the craft, being a writer is just a matter of venturing out into the desolate, windswept nuclear winter that is the modern publishing landscape and having the courage to shout, “Does anyone have time to give this a quick read?”
Aside from that, being a writer is easy. You just sit down at your laptop until you #bloodemoji. Being a writer is essentially paraphrasing other writers with a few light changes that appeal to modern sensibilities.
If you commit to writing every day for the next three to ninety-six years, you’ll be sipping gin and tonics on the French Riviera with your fellow Pulitzer Prize winners before you know it. Or be dead in a pauper’s grave. It’s a coin toss, really.
Remember: writing is rewriting. It is also showing, not telling. And killing your darlings. Kill enough of those darlings and, eventually, the writer police will come and send you to writer jail, where you’ll do lots of writer push-ups, and form a prison writer gang, and get sent to writers’ solitary confinement, where you’ll realize, “Wait a minute, this metaphor stopped working a long time ago.”
So you’ll go back and rework it. And that’s when you’ll know: you’re a professional writer.
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