Sen. Eric Schmitt, Jack Smith and the Case of the Missing Four

 Letters

A Senate Hearing, a Basketball Team, and the Greatest Investigative Faceplant Since the Salem Witch Trials

Before we begin, let us all observe a moment of silence.

Not for Jack Smith.

Not for the Senate.

Not even for the American legal system.

No, let's have a moment of silence for the four letters that Sen. Eric Schmitt and his staff somehow failed to read:

E-Y-E-S.

Those four letters turned what was supposed to be a political assassination into an episode of America's Funniest Home Videos.

And ladies and gentlemen, what a glorious wreck it was.

After watching the hearing, reasonable people may disagree about Jack Smith.

They may think he's right.

They may think he's wrong.

They may think he's somewhere between Clarence Darrow and the Hamburglar.

That's fair.

What is considerably less debatable is that Sen. Eric Schmitt, hereinafter referred to as "Sleazy," delivered a performance that should qualify for permanent exhibition at the Smithsonian's Hall of Governmental Embarrassments.

Now I realize Sleazy possesses a law degree.

I know this because we're constantly reminded that he's an attorney.

Apparently.

Allegedly.

Reportedly.

Although after watching this hearing, one is tempted to ask whether the diploma was earned through academic achievement or won at a county fair ring-toss booth.

Perhaps Saint Louis University should check its records.

Maybe there was a clerical error.

Maybe someone accidentally mailed him a degree intended for another Eric Schmitt.

It happens.

Whatever the explanation, Sleazy entered the hearing with all the confidence of a man holding what he believed to be the smoking gun.

He strutted into the Senate chamber looking like General MacArthur returning to the Philippines.

He was going to expose Jack Smith.

Destroy Jack Smith.

Humiliate Jack Smith.

History books would remember this day.

Cable news would replay this moment forever.

Schoolchildren would someday learn where they were when Eric Schmitt saved democracy.

Unfortunately, reality had other plans.

When his questioning began, Sleazy started marching confidently down a path leading directly toward a cliff.

A cliff visible to everyone except himself.

Like Wile E. Coyote carrying an Acme Roadrunner Trap.

The senator launched into a complicated theory involving Jack Smith, Fani Willis, Atlanta, basketball games, conspiracies, suspicious travel, and enough red yarn to knit a sweater.

Mr. Smith appeared thoroughly confused.

Not guilty.

Not nervous.

Just confused.

The expression on his face suggested he was trying to determine whether he was participating in a Senate hearing or being pranked by hidden cameras.

Then came the Big Reveal.

This was the moment.

The crown jewel.

The evidence.

The proof.

The checkmate.

Staff members dramatically displayed photographs.

Voices grew louder.

Sleazy smiled like a man who thought he had just discovered Jimmy Hoffa buried beneath the Senate cafeteria.

Then he triumphantly announced that Smith had attended an Atlanta Hawks game.

And from there, with all the caution of a drunk man operating heavy machinery, Sleazy accused Smith of being a perjurer.

And a dirtbag.

Case closed.

Mic drop.

Roll credits.

There was just one tiny problem.

The entire accusation was complete nonsense.

Enter Sen. Amy Klobuchar.

And just like that, the hearing became less of a Senate proceeding and more of a public execution conducted with PowerPoint slides.

With astonishing patience, she methodically demonstrated that Jack Smith wasn't in Atlanta.

He hadn't attended an Atlanta Hawks game.

He wasn't where Sleazy claimed.

He wasn't doing what Sleazy claimed.

In short, virtually every part of the accusation had the structural integrity of a dollar-store lawn chair.

Then came the fatal blow.

The kind of blow that leaves cartoon stars circling above your head.

The kind that causes staff members to immediately begin updating their résumés.

The kind that gets replayed on television forever.

The game in question involved the University of Iowa.

And Iowa's athletic teams are called...

THE HAWKEYES.

Not Hawks.

Hawkeyes.

There it was.

The entire scandal.

The entire accusation.

The entire dramatic performance.

The whole steaming mountain of self-righteous outrage.

Built upon a senator and his staff apparently quitting their reading assignment halfway through a word.

Think about that.

A United States senator accused a former federal prosecutor of perjury because nobody on his staff apparently made it to the second half of "Hawkeyes."

That's not investigative journalism.

That's not legal expertise.

That's not even good guessing.

That's the intellectual equivalent of seeing "Peanut Butter" and concluding you've discovered a dairy product.

One imagines the staff meeting.

"Sir, we've got him."

"Excellent. What do we have?"

"It says he attended a Hawkeyes game."

"Hawks game?"

"Well... not exactly."

"Close enough."

"Shouldn't we verify that?"

"Absolutely not. We're operating on confidence today."

At this point, every basketball fan in America experienced a simultaneous migraine.

Even people who don't watch basketball were embarrassed.

Somewhere an Iowa alumnus spit coffee across the room.

Somewhere an Atlanta Hawks season-ticket holder began questioning civilization itself.

Somewhere Rodney Dangerfield probably sat upright in his grave and said:

"Now THIS guy gets no respect."

Then came the request for an apology.

A simple apology.

Three words.

"I was wrong."

Not exactly climbing Mount Everest.

Not exactly solving nuclear fusion.

Not exactly translating ancient Sumerian tablets.

Just apologize.

Instead, Sleazy refused.

Because apparently accusing a man of perjury based upon your inability to distinguish Hawks from Hawkeyes is not something that requires remorse.

And honestly, you have to admire that level of commitment.

Most people, after discovering they've driven their car into a lake, stop insisting they're on the interstate.

Not Sleazy.

He rolled down the window and asked for directions.

To be fair, perhaps we're all being too critical.

After all, Hawks and Hawkeyes have some letters in common.

Just as:

Surgeon and Sturgeon have letters in common.

Constitution and Constipation have letters in common.

Competence and Congress occasionally share a few letters.

That doesn't make them the same thing.

In the end, Jack Smith survived.

The Republic survived.

The English language barely survived.

But the real casualty was the reputation of a senator who managed to transform what he hoped would be a devastating exposé into a national demonstration of why proofreading matters.

Thus, by unanimous decision, today's Rodney Dangerfield Memorial Dirtbag Award goes to Sen. Eric "I Stopped Reading After Hawk" Schmitt.

No respect.

No respect whatsoever.

And unlike the Atlanta Hawks and the Iowa Hawkeyes, everybody can clearly see the difference.