Help Wanted: One Congressman, Qualifications Required

J.E. Dean has taken a long, hard look at Congressman Andy Harris. In the piece, and especially the comments following, I noticed something.

Nobody was hiring.

Seems like folks jumped straight to jersey picking.

If you have an extra, I’m an “L,” by the way.

So how about something radical?

Let’s treat Congress like a job.

POSITION: U.S. Representative, Maryland’s First District.

DUTIES: Vote. Show up. Read things.

REQUIREMENTS: Judgment, experience, a record you can defend without changing the subject.

PREFERRED: Answers questions from actual constituents, ideally in the same room.

NOTE: Firearms not required for the interview. Nor for the House floor. We tried that. It’s remembered mostly for the still-unexplained heater.

Now, the comments. I read them all so you don’t have to (but you should), which makes me, I suspect, the only one who intentionally ingested all sides.

One reader was thrilled to vote “Red!” Another wants you to know the Democratic Socialists are coming for your guns, your taxes and possibly your Buick up on cinder blocks.

A third posted what appeared to be a farm-policy dissertation, with footnotes, in installments, the comment section’s answer to a Senate filibuster.

A fourth has a nickname for the Congressman that I’m told is affectionate, in the way a crowbar or a ball-peen hammer is affectionate.

What went unsaid?

“Here’s what I’d look for in a job candidate.”

Nobody applied for the job. The partygoers arrived pre-locked and pre-loaded, so to speak.

I grew up a bit differently.

My father, Eugene Barber, was a Republican in the Eisenhower mold and a Marine. Parris Island, no doubt, was formative.

My mother, Dorothy May, was a Kennedy Democrat with a saucy New England edge. But we were, in a sense, nevertheless “rounded.”

One Thanksgiving featured a discussion of one George Wallace, which guaranteed indigestion before anyone carved the bird.

Nobody left the table. Nobody called anyone fascist, communist or racist.

Somebody just passed the gravy, aggressively.

Maybe it was the head of the household wielding the carving knife that proved persuasive.

That’s the thing. We’ve gone from disagreeing to subscribing, with little in between.

Addiction, even.

If politics were a twelve-step program, the first meeting would open with, “Hi, my name is America, and I’m addicted to disagreement.”

“Hi, America.”

Then somebody in the back would complain the coffee was fluoridated. Somebody else would complain it wasn’t organic.

Meanwhile, most people I know are busy living their best lives, the only ones they’ve got, for the first time.

They’re sweating the mounting bills, patching the roof after the nor’easter, trying to keep half a tank of unleaded Texas Tea in the Buick and hoping to put something, anything, on the table to eat tonight.

Have you seen the line of cars outside St. Vincent de Paul?

These folks aren’t up nights wondering whether “See Spot Run” has landed in the crosshairs of Moms for Making Sure Spot Knows His Place.

Every election, the ads—and the handful of voters on either side who will never change their minds—warn us they’re coming.

Coming for our guns, our Medicare, our kids and our taxes.

And any day now, the toaster.

They’re never coming for the toaster. Nobody wants your toaster. It’s from 1987.

Quite frankly, if I were running (and I’d lie if I said I’d never thought about it), my platform would be one issue and one issue only: the same healthcare as is available to the people who represent us should also be available to each and every single one of us in the First District.

Period.

If it’s good enough for them Congress people, it’s good enough for us.

No need to reinvent the wheel. Just expand the coverage from 435 to . . . .

See how easily I become distracted . . . .

So here’s my immodest proposal.

Read their records. Weigh the judgment. Notice who answers questions and who just answers fundraising emails.

Then vote for whoever you’d actually hire, and yes, that includes the candidate on the other team, and possibly the one your brother-in-law insists is a lizard.

If Karl Rove can cross the aisle, so can you. He’s been a Republican longer than some of you have had teeth.

The proof it can work is on the books.

The EPA came under Nixon. George H.W. Bush signed the Americans with Disabilities Act. Obama signed the Affordable Care Act. Clinton presided over balanced federal budgets.

Clean air and water don’t check your voter registration.

Neither does a wheelchair ramp.

And if your guy or gal loses, relax.

That’s why they hold these things every two or four years. It’s a do-over, with yard signs.

Nobody (let me clarify: no candidate) is perfect.

If perfection were required for office, we’d have to close the Capitol.

We’d also have to cancel the stupidity tax I’ve proposed previously, which would raise far more than any tariffs ever would.

It is a precious gift to disagree, grumble, and walk into a booth to make up our own minds.

Women and men have died so that we, right here, right now, get to do it.

That’s worth a moment of gratitude, if not silence for the fallen, right before you start posting.

Just remember, even for a millisecond, that the person on the other side of the argument puts their pants on one leg at a time, too.

Same as you.

Only they’re probably wearing the other color.

And if anyone has that spare jersey, I’m still an “L.”