God, I hate the Senate

I don’t tell this to many people, but I hate serving in the Senate. Worse, I hate serving New Yorkers. What a bunch of whiny, moan happy, self serving complainers.

The Senate is worse. It’s the worst job I ever had, including those where I didn’t get paid. The Senate is full of rich old white men, for the most part, and they all seem to think they can command respect by acting like British lords in Bombay, circa 1935.

We had a Senate armed services committee meeting last week and I had to fly in from my campaign to attend. Senator Byrd asked me to get him some coffee. If he wasn’t so old I would have crushed his withered old hand with my purse.

The problem with that committee isn’t that we don’t have many women. We do. There’s Claire McCaskill of Missouri, Susan Collins of Maine, and Elizabeth Dole of North Carolina. The problem is Libby Dole. She’s always baking cookies or brownies or serving tea for the male members and talking like she’s some kind of southern belle princess, touching their hands, rubbing against them, and wearing skirts that are just a little too short for someone her age. She doesn’t know a pant suit from a panting Senator.

Truly, the Senate is a man’s club and no place for a lady. Or, me.

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