I hope John Roberts ran outside this morning in his underwear to grab the paper, realized the door had locked behind him, walked barefoot and freezing to the back door to see if that was open, realized it wasn't, froze for half an hour before his wife woke up, slipped and fell on the ice banging on the window, and spent the day groaning in bed with sciatica.

I hope John Roberts' furnace breaks today.

I hope John Roberts broke a glass and cut his finger while mixing his Manhattan tonight.

I hope John Roberts' wife notices a weird pimple on the shaft of his penis as they're about to make love tonight, tells him she has a headache, excuses herself to the bathroom, and quietly starts googling the words "syphilis" and "chancre."

I hope John Roberts' hemorrhoid flared up really badly today and even bled through his suit pants a little.

I hope John Roberts' cat threw up in his bed last night.

I hope peaceful but very loud resistance protestors disrupt John Roberts' church today.

I hope John Roberts has to get up in the middle of the night to pee because of his enlarged prostate and stubs his baby toe REALLY hard on the metal corner of his bedframe.

I hope John Roberts comes home tonight and is astounded to find, on his front porch, a completely functional time machine so he travels back to 1787 to actually meet the Framers of the U.S. Constitution except he contracts cholera and dies painfully but not from the cholera itself but rather from the 18th century physicians who apply leeches and let his blood until he becomes fatally exsanguinated. #OriginalistMedicine

I hope John Roberts goes to an exclusive party thrown by a D.C. powerbroker and accidentally picks up a roofied drink intended for a young intern and the intern gets home safely but Roberts gets completely wasted and a recently-fired WaPo photojournalist who now has to try and make a living as a freelancer gets a really embarrassing photo and it goes viral and now everyone is sure the Chief Justice is an alkie.