Why am I here? Here in this place in life, I mean.

Here, in more immediate reality, is a bus heading up I-95, past the White Marsh shopping center, north of Baltimore. Yes, a bus.

I didn’t want to take the train. Someone might recognize me. Not the public, necessarily, I’m not an egotist (though, truth be told, I’m the best, most important non-egotist there is), but one of my new congressional colleagues or a staffer or journalist or something. And what am I going to tell them? That my election was an accident and I have no plans to speak of? That I’m not even conversant with the needs of my district?

Maybe I could tell them about the poster I saw the night I crashed on the floor of the apartment Louie Gohmert took over from Todd Akin after Akin left Congress at the beginning of the year. Unironically taped to the wall was a diagram of women’s reproductive anatomy that was the gynecological equivalent of the New Yorker cover featuring a Gothamite’s view of the world.

According to the diagram, used by doctors in many of the southern states and parts of the west, beyond the vagina lurks a rape dam, wee beasties, car keys and, of course, New Jersey.

This information came in handy when the time came to drive home.


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