Yesterday, I received a visit from Austin Houston Crockett Bowie Bonham III, Texan extraordinaire. He was his usual self, prompting the usual complaints from Gretchen, which I heard in full detail shortly after his departure. For his sake, I certainly hope Gretchen never gets the idea of telling Austin’s wife, Bluebonnet, about how he behaves when he comes to Washington. I would never do that, of course – it simply wouldn’t be professional. Austin’s mood was beyond ebullient, though, as he made amply clear when he strode confidently through the heavy oak doors leading from the reception area to my office and sprawled his rangy, lanky frame across the couch in front of the picture window overlooking the White House.
“Whattya got to say now, my friend?” he jovially inquired.
“About what?” I teased.
“About the Republicans walkin’ all over that worthless Democrat trash in the election,” he huffed. “What else would I be talkin’ about?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I taunted. “How about the bottom falling out of the oil market?”
Austin’s countenance darkened suddenly. “Yeah, there is that,” he admitted with a sigh of resignation. “Not particularly good for business, especially mine. But hell, money ain’t everything! And like we say in Texas, ‘Lord, give me just one more oil boom – I swear I won’t [expletive] all the money away this time.’ And He does, too, you know.”
“Too bad you Texans never keep up your end of the bargain, though,” I noted.
“Well,” he shrugged, “I reckon God Almighty’s got us Texans figured out pretty good by now, and so that don’t bother Him none no more.”
“Evidently,” I dryly responded. “So, what brings you to my office, and on a Saturday, no less?”
“I came up here on behalf of the Tea Party to make sure the Republicans don’t blow it,” he proclaimed. “And while I was workin’ on makin’ sure they do all the right stuff now that they’re in the driver’s seat, whattya know – ol’ Louie Gohmert up and says he wants to run for Speaker of the House. And as soon as I heard that, I figured it was time for a talk with the smartest man in Washington.”
“Which is a lot,” I reminded him, “like being the tallest building in Baltimore.”
“Baltimore?” Austin spat. “Nothin’ but a bunch of polacks, dagos, bohunks, beaners and pepper-bellies eatin’ garbage and callin’ it food – and a huge bunch of [expletive] on welfare, of course.
“You left out the considerable population of Hebrews,” I observed.
“They have [expletive] in Baltimore?” Austin replied with an air of mild astonishment.
“An extensive Jewish community,” I confirmed, “and the best kosher food this side of New York City, I might add. A lot of people say better, actually.”
“You can have that there cracker-ball chicken soup and pickled cuts of beef brisket,” he scoffed. “Cain’t do nothin’ about what happens to my cows after I sell ’em, of course, but damned if the thought of that happen’ to them don’t rankle me awful bad.”
“Be that as it may,” I continued, “what’s your issue with Louie Gohmert running for Speaker?”
“Issue?” Austin laughed, slapping his knee, “the issue, my friend, is I want him to win!”
“What’s wrong with Boehner?” I asked.
“What ain’t?” Austin retorted. “He went crawlin’ to Pelosi and Obama to get that there damned cromnibus bill passed; he promised he’d fight Obama tooth and nail on immigration and then he went and funded it; he kicked fiscal conservatives off key committees; and he ain’t done nothin’ about Obamacare, even though he’s had more than five years to do it! Look here, Tom, as of last week more than sixty percent of Republicans said they want a new Speaker of the House.”
“I think those numbers include independents who voted Republican in the last election,” I pointed out.
“Ah, hell, Tom,” he blustered, “don’t go splitting [expletive] hairs on me!”
“Only twenty-five percent of Republicans actually want a new Speaker, and that’s hardly a majority,” I observed.
“Well then, damn it,” Austin insisted, “the Republicans cain’t afford to lose all them there independent voters, and they sure as hell will if somethin’ ain’t done about that there Boehner feller.”
“Okay,” I hypothesized, “suppose Gohmert wins. What’s he going to do as Speaker that John Boehner wouldn’t?”
“Fight that [expletive] over there in the White House!” Austin roared as he pointed over his shoulder out the picture window behind the couch. “Really fight him, like John Bell Hood fought at Chickamauga!”
“Actually,” I reminded him, “Barack Hussein Obama is a mulatto.”
“That’s close enough for me and the rest of the Tea Party!” he declared. “Half [expletive] is plenty enough to get us riled up!”
“Riled up, yes,” I acknowledged. “But you folks have been riled up about that for six years now, and the only significant consequence has been to gridlock Congress. Face it, now that the Republicans have control of both bodies, they can’t just stand there, ranting neoconservative code words for ‘[expletive], [expletive], [expletive]’ to the people back home, as if they were latter-day versions of George Wallace or Strom Thurmond, and then come to Washington and vote against everything Obama over there in the White House proposes just because he happens to be one.”
“Why not?” Austin barked. “It got George Wallace into the Alabama statehouse and Strom Thurmond into the United States Senate, didn’t it?”
“Maybe in 1955,” I objected. “And however great a Texan General Hood may have been, the Battle of Chickamauga was fought in September of 1863. Austin, I would respectfully suggest for your consideration that, in the Year of Our Lord 2015, on the other hand, a political strategy based on ‘[expletive], [expletive], [expletive]’, whether straight up with no chaser or stirred and shaken into a code word cocktail, not only has severe limitations, but is, in addition, potentially detrimental not only to the nation, but also, ultimately to the political party that stubbornly insists on using it.”
“Seems to have worked pretty good last November,” Austin chuckled, “no matter what Year of Our Lord it is. Them [expletive] can keep droppin’ babies like rats in a grain elevator, and so can those damn pepper-bellies, too, but there’s still more white people, and that means more white votes!”
“That situation could change within the next ten years, right there in your home state of Texas,” I reminded him. “It seems that the Hispanic population is growing with sufficient rapidity that by 2025 Texas will be a majority Hispanic state.”
“That’s why Gohmert has to be Speaker of the House!” Austin growled. “He’s from Texas and he understands that! He knows that we gotta deport those damed illegals back to Mexico and build a fence good enough to keep any more of them from getting’ in! Then we gotta cut off the welfare and child care and other such liberal, bleeding-heart [expletive] so’s if some Jose Come Lately wants to make sixteen niños with nine different squaws, then he’s got to pay to raise them, not my taxes – or yours, Tom – and if he can’t do that and they die, and never get to vote, well tough [expletive]!”
“And you figure,” I sought to verify, “that is Representative Louie Gohmert’s point of view?”
“Figure?” Austin guffawed. “Hell, I know it is! Listen, Tom, you’re pretty smart guy, else I wouldn’t be payin’ all this money to talk to you, and if you’d take your head out of your [expletive] for a minute or two, you’d see I’m right. What this country needs is Louie Gohmert as Speaker of the House, not some spray-painted orange phony from [expletive] Ohio! I know you don’t agree with me, but I also know you’re a professional, which in this town means you’ll do anything for money, and I’m payin’ you plenty. So come on, tell me how do the real Americans get Louie Gohmert elected Speaker of the House?”
“The vote is this Tuesday,” I observed. “You would have to move fast.”
“Let me worry about that,” he grumbled. “You tell me what we can do to win this.”
“Identify the members of the House who can be swayed to vote against Boehner,” I began.
“And who are they?” he demanded.
“I’ll send you a list tomorrow,” I replied. “Remind them that Boehner’s a slave to lobbyists, and cashed out his mutual funds after a private chat with Henry Paulson back in 2008. Then he voted for TARP.”
“Okay,” Austin nodded with approval. “What else?”
“Make sure they know he worked with Ted Kennedy on the No Child Left Behind Act,” I recommended.
“He what?” Austin exploded. “When?”
“In 2001,” I answered.
“You bet they’ll find out,” he promised, “or my name ain’t Austin Houston Crockett Bowie Bonham III!”
“And tell them he wrote the Pension Protection Act while you’re at it,” I advised.
“I knew it,” Austin fumed, “damned [expletive] socialist, that’s what Boehner is!”
“He also tried to get Newt Gingrich thrown out,” I recalled.
“Might as well have voted to impeach Ronald Reagan!” Austin shouted. “Wait until they hear about that!”
“Then there’s the sex scandal – Boehner and two young women,” I offered.
“Sex scandal?” Austin blanched. “Says who? When?”
“The National Enquirer,” I replied, “in 2011. Look – you want to win this thing or what?
“Okay,” Austin acquiesced with a shudder, “I asked you and you delivered. Go on.”
“Then there’s his drinking problem,” I added.
“Boehner’s a drunk?” Austin responded, incredulous.
“Probably not by Texas standards,” I conceded, “but the Enquirer said so in 2013. Look, you don’t have use these if it makes you feel… dirty or something, you know.”
“Not half as dirty as I’m gonna feel if I don’t get that rat bastard out of the Speaker’s chair,” he muttered. “What else you got?”
“There are a couple of newspaper endorsements,” I said, “that are guaranteed to turn their heads – and probably stomachs. The Pittsburgh Tribune wrote, ‘On both sides of the aisle, Boehner earns praise for candor and an ability to listen.’ And The Cleveland Plain Dealer extolled Boehner because, according to them, he ‘has perfected the art of disagreeing without being disagreeable.’”
“That does it!” Austin yelled, jumping to his feet, his face purple with rage. “That proves Boehner’s a traitor to everything the Tea Party stands for! Time’s a-wastin’! You get me that list pronto, you hear? I’m going over to Capitol Hill right now and get together with my posse!”
And at that, Austin dashed away through the heavy oak doors without another word.