Antonin Scalia, juris doctor, adjusted his welding goggles and peered into the heart of his Originalism Engine. Something was amiss! Something SEXY. The entire 2nd Continental Congress stared back, jaws chiseled and hair mussed. “Come on in,” husked Peyton Randolph, “the water’s fine.”
“Oh my gosh I don’t even know,” said Scalia, flustered and more than a little aroused. “I’m just a simple Supreme Court Justice!”
“Scalia,” whispered Richard Henry Lee, “we don’t even know what that is.”
“Let me just get my Leyden jar and elaborate model dirigible, I’m so excited, I mean really wow.” The Congress flexed into ever more tantalizing poses. William Ellery made out with Pierpont Edwards. Scalia’s goggles fogged up nearly completely and he had to turn on the little wipers.
Later — much, much later, when his mind started to clear — Scalia couldn’t help but dream longingly of the Constitutional Convention. “Someday,” he vowed, “someday.”