It doesn't matter if dead Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia loved his family and was loved by them. It doesn't fucking matter if Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg was best buds with him. It doesn't fucking matter that he was smart or funny or that he had a great singing voice or that he could cook like your Italian grandma. It doesn't fucking matter if there were times that Scalia ruled on the side of liberals in free speech or warrantless search cases. None of that fucking matters. Because Antonin Scalia was a poison to the nation, a dick who was proud of how dickish he could be, and the thing that most of us on the left felt upon hearing that he was dead was relief and "Oh, thank fucking Christ." The only difference between you and the Rude Pundit is that you might have felt a little guilt after thinking that. As for the Rude Pundit? Fuck dancing on Scalia's grave. He's ready to have rough anal sex on it before the dirt even settles and then wipe himself off with the pages of a Bible.

Let's put aside Scalia's bitterly pissy dissents, where he sought not just to counter the arguments of the majority but to degrade them, mock them, and bully them. Let's put aside Scalia's place in the conservative party circuit, where he drank and laughed with the political power players and then pretend he'd rule fairly when they came before him. Instead, let's just look at Scalia when he was either writing for the majority or concurring with it, where his cuntistry had the fullest effect on the lives of Americans.

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The Rude Pundit would like to think that Scalia is in Hell now, chained to a bed on his stomach next to William Rehnquist, who looks over at him and says, "Don't worry. After the first few times, you realize that getting ass-fucked by the barbed dicks of demons isn't so bad. Now, the red hot pokers, those'll wake you up." And then he gets to see a liberal take his place on the court.