Constitutional Misinterpretation
My understanding of constitutional law is best summarized thusly: of the five substantive comments on my con law exam, four were simply “???” and the last was a cryptic disparagement of my apparent inability to distinguish between “construction and employment.” (While I do believe the question marks were appropriate responses to my general incoherence, I maintain that Bob the Builder was gainfully employed.)
I am both a living constitutionalist and a complete narcissist; as such, I believe that the United States Constitution holds a dynamic meaning that evolves and adapts to my own personal needs. My earliest constitutional misinterpretation occurred at the tender young age of 5, while riding in the rear-facing seats of my mother’s station wagon with my friend Elizabeth, who was raised in a devoutly Catholic family. Since I myself was raised in a devoutly atheistic family, when the conversation turned to a debate about whether or not God was aware of my refusal to share my last several Goldfish crackers (“greed”), I knew that it was time to assert my First Amendment rights—to speak freely and in a manner disrespectful to established religion.
As Elizabeth forwarded her cunningly moralistic plea for my precious Goldfish, I interrupted: “Don’t you know that God isn’t real?” A shocked silence followed, which I took advantage of, adding, sagely, “It’s like with Santa! It’s just a big pretend guy in the sky and they tell you about him to make you do good behavior.” Another long pause ensued—and then: “Santa’s not real?” It was at this point in the conversation that I noticed a disturbance in the periphery of my vision, which turned out to be my mother waving her arms helplessly and mouthing words like “No” and “Stop.” Unfortunately, having insisted that we sit in the rear-facing seats (for the express purpose of harassing the drivers behind us), I had not noticed these wordless invocations until it was too late to spare my mother the tense, protracted call with Elizabeth’s mother that followed several hours after the incident.
A decade later, in another incident that coincidentally also came at my mother’s expense, I decided to siphon off the entirety of my parents’ sole handle of Stolichnaya vodka over an extended duration, topping it off each time with water. I reasoned that, having never seen my parents consume liquor in my life, it would go unnoticed indefinitely. I was on countless occasions parentally prosecuted for underage drinking, but the liquor theft was not discovered until midway through college, some years later. Upon receiving the angry phone call from my mother, I asserted my Fifth Amendment rights in my classic “cool, calm, and collected” way—by yelling, “You can’t double jeopardy me, Mom!” and hanging up the phone.
My use of constitutional misinterpretation in support of high-functioning alcoholism persists all the way up to this past weekend, when I attempted to assert my Fourth Amendment rights against unreasonable search and seizure in protesting the confiscation of my canned beverage (a nonalcoholic energy drink) by a local bouncer. The attempt was in vain, serving only to further provoke the bouncer's ire, resulting in his treating me with acute rudeness. But in all fairness, this may have been a belated consequence of my behavior at this particular bar on the previous weekend, when I found myself sitting on the curb around the corner attempting to temper my body’s urge to violently expel something like, oh, I don’t know, nine drinks of different alcoholic persuasions onto the street.
The problem I faced in that moment was this: about ten feet from me stood a trio of nice young undergraduate men waiting for a Lyft, and despite my drunken state I had somehow managed to retain some capacity for shame. Five minutes passed, then ten, then twenty—and finally, I could take it no longer. “Guys,” I croaked, “Is your Lyft coming or what? I’m going to puke, like, everywhere.”
They took one look at me and immediately concluded that it would be in my best interest to give up the ghost. Breaking rank, one of the three cautiously approached, handed me a bottle of water, and looked me dead in the eye: “Imagine a stinking, steaming trash heap, covered in cheese,” he said, solemnly. “You dig your fork in and take a bite….” This instantly had the intended effect, which resulted in whooping and cheering from my new fans.
This was, in retrospect, one of the sincerest acts of kindness by a stranger I have witnessed in my life. Unfortunately, the honorable character of this strange man also led him to pass responsibility for my care to the bouncer before leaving in the Lyft, and this, I think, is why my reputation at this bar is sullied.
My most recent assertion of misconstrued constitutional rights has consisted in intruding upon my friend Dave’s residence with such frequency and consistency that his roommates have by now resigned themselves to the fact that I live here too. I tromp through Dave’s apartment at all hours, helping myself to Rice Krispie Treats and off-brand bubbly waters, taking personal calls on his balcony, wearing his favorite hoodie from his service in the Marines, and falling asleep on his couch. Presumptuous though it may seem, it is, in the end, simply an expression of my Third Amendment right to quarter myself in the home of a soldier.
