This is what my life has become . . . at least for the next 60 days or so. Lawmakers, like millions of tiny spermatozoa have filled the Phallus Palace and are ready to explode. Like any veteran porn-tographer, I’m here for the money shot.
Maybe that’s a little harsh. This time around, the honorable gentlemen (and a few gentlewomen) have converged on the state house to save me money . . . at least that’s what the governor has told me. Until the session opened, he was ready to trash the state’s income tax along with his career. Then, on the day he could make it happen, he decided his approval rating couldn’t withstand the hit.
Me, I don’t really care. I get paid to bellycrawl under the wood-paneled dais and store every syllable uttered in every committee room for posterity, or until the server fills up, burps, and wipes the slate clean. I only wish my brain worked as well.
Somehow, I seem to have forgotten what a vile den pestilence and hot air the capital can be. I actually volunteered for this assignment. And not one of my brethren of the lens tried to talk me out of it — the bastards.
So, for the next two months, if I seem a little surly, it’s not you; it’s me. Now, you’re going to have to excuse me. The senator from the round-the-way district is working himself into a lather, and my reporter gets mad if I’m not close enough to get my lens spoojed.