ANALYSIS/OPINION:

Welcome, ladies and rapists, to Washington, D.C. — your nation’s capital — where sterling reputations come to die.

Whether you are a man or a woman, a Democrat or a Republican, a conservative or a liberal, we can all agree that this place has become a sewer of lies, a cesspool of indiscriminate human destruction. All in the name of a blood sport called partisan politics, played by the most dishonest vipers ever found under the earth.

The only bright speck in the whole circus of Judge Brett Kavanaugh’s confirmation hearings has been the honorable behavior of Republicans on the SenateJudiciary Committee. Committee Chairman Chuck Grassley, Iowa Republican, bent over backward to accommodate a woman who came forward with alarming accusations against Judge Kavanaugh.

She was given a full, thorough and respectful hearing to level her serious accusations.

Though her claims are strenuously disputed, entirely uncorroborated and riddled with inconsistencies and shifting versions, the woman deserved to make her case. Mr. Grassley made sure she was able to.

She was not shouted down by protesters. She was not silenced. Nobody called her a murderer.

We have come a long way since Paula Jones was called a liar and trailer-park trash by Bill Clinton’s war dogs after she accused the then-governor of exposing himself to her and sexually harassing her. Those charges were corroborated, and Mrs. Jones was ultimately vindicated.

But James Carville’s disgusting treatment of her could never be erased.

Mr. Grassley does not play those vile games. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said about others.

Over the past two weeks, sitting senators have publicly and enthusiastically denounced the single most fundamental tenet of fairness in America: the notion that an accused person is presumed innocent until proved guilty.

Judge Kavanaugh was accused of a very serious crime. Instead of being allowed to rebut the charges and clear his name, the accusations were allowed to sit and fester like a dead body rotting inside an upstairs room of an un-air-conditioned house in the Southern heat.

By the time the authorities arrived, the body was unrecognizable. Judge Kavanaugh had deformed into a monster.

It is little wonder.

As soon as Judge Kavanaugh was nominated, Democrats warned that women would suffer and millions would die if he was elevated to the Supreme Court.

During his confirmation hearings, Sen. Cory Booker, New Jersey Democrat, set the tone of the ridiculous circus, excitedly declaring it his “‘I am Spartacus!’ moment.”

No, sir, Mr. Booker. You are not Spartacus — except in that you will ultimately lose.

You are Caligula.

You wear your silly Roman toga, whipping up this bacchanalia of personal destruction. This orgy of leaks and lies and smears and innuendo. This debauched festival of political grandstanding, self-adulation and senatorial fornication.

Say it now, Mr. Booker: “I am Caligula!”

Then came Judge Kavanaugh. He refused to back down from the bullies. He remained to defend himself, his sterling reputation, his strong wife, his wonderfully decent daughters and his family.

He torched the committee, the entire Senate, the whole confirmation process with a ferocious in-your-face rebuke the likes of which sitting senators rarely endure.

He absolutely filleted them all. The most touching moments of his testimony were about when he was a boy, trying to become a good man. Like his father. Who kept calendars. To remember things. But also to entertain the family with treasured memories.

Democrats on the committee not only tried to destroy a man. They tried to destroy the boy he once was.

When Judge Kavanaugh was finished, Democrats on the committee looked like scalded dogs. Staffers sat in back with stony faces.

They were left with nothing but questions about how much Judge Kavanaugh likes to drink beer, what he wrote in his high school yearbook and flatulence.

Caligula’s quiver was empty. His sword bent.

All that is left now are loud clanging noises as Caligula exits the arena, vanquished.

⦁ Contact Charles Hurt at churt@washingtontimes.com or on Twitter @charleshurt.