For the love of God, senators, keep your clothes on
It always blows in on a sexy feather boa. And then it settles into a creepy, lurching ogre with beady eyes who makes grunting noises and appears to have just escaped the psych ward wearing a soiled hoodie, smelly tennis shoes without socks, and baggy gym shorts with a blown-out waistband.
It’s like the old bit of wisdom from a wise woman: What is worse than waking up in bed next to Willie Nelson? Finding out it’s not Willie Nelson.
In these final stages of Slouching Towards Gomorrah in the U.S. Senate, it’s worth remembering how we got here in the first place. How is it, exactly, that Senate Majority Leader Charles E. Schumer, the New York Democrat who is better looking and in better shape than Jerry Nadler, decided to scrap the dress code for “the world’s greatest deliberative body”?
Sen. Kyrsten Sinema, the fit and trim Arizona independent who proudly describes herself as bisexual, was how it started. Sen. John Fetterman, the Pennsylvania Democrat who makes President Biden sound like a brain surgeon, is how it is ending.
Ms. Sinema is the picture in the catalog. Mr. Fetterman is what came in the mail.
Ms. Sinema is the dish you ordered off the laminated Chinese menu. Mr. Fetterman is what you threw up in your motel room bed in the middle of the night.
Ms. Sinema is the Caribbean vacation you booked from the travel brochure. Mr. Fetterman is the Mexican drug lord in a Toyota pickup truck with a .50-caliber mounted in the back who pulls your minivan over on the deserted highway to steal your luggage and abduct your family.
When Ms. Sinema first joined the Senate, she set tongues to wagging over her chic and daring sartorial choices.
For her swearing-in, she was so underdressed that a gray, furry shawl had to be found to cover the rest of her torso so that then-Vice President Mike Pence didn’t divorce his wife and quit his church while administering the oath of office.
Another time, she got waved off the Senate floor for baring her shoulders. She promptly returned wearing a buttercup yellow feather boa. Often, she comes in wearing thigh-high leather boots that make her look like she might be Sen. Kyrsten Sinema, Las Vegas Strip independent.
Just recently, she sauntered into the well of the Senate wearing a short skirt with black tights and pumped-up high heels with some kind of gray cable-knit sweater. She was lugging a giant bag and looked like the centerfold from an old December issue of Playboy magazine.
When she got to the rostrum, Ms. Sinema voted with a flair by raising her arm and digging her thumb downward with a kick of her hip before twirling and marching out. Ms. Sinema votes with such panache, it doesn’t really matter how she votes or even what she votes on.
All anybody remembers is the twirl.
Any warm-blooded American — which excludes the reptilian Mr. Schumer or his Republican counterpart, who is a Galapagos turtle — would watch Ms. Sinema vote and quickly agree that the Senate dress code is outdated and some kind of impediment to progress.
But then, in walks John Fetterman. You can smell him on C-SPAN.
There is something to be said for tradition and decorum — no matter how badly these people deserve neither.
Tradition is just the tip of the iceberg above the surface. The rest of the iceberg is the lifetimes of experience and knowledge that give the iceberg its steadiness and wisdom.
Because of the all-out war on all that is good in America today, tradition has become the modern battlefield of true rebellion. It takes tremendous courage to defend tradition and wisdom against the angry fake rebels with all their silly face piercings and conformist tattoos.
In the olden days, when people talked about tradition and decorum — specifically dress codes — they talked about “modesty.”
It would be “immodest” to shed clothes. “Modesty” meant you remained properly dressed, such as in church.
This language about “modesty” probably still applies to someone like Ms. Sinema. She is an attractive woman who knows how to use her attractiveness.
But Mr. Schumer? Mr. Nadler? Mr. Fetterman? If any of these disgusting slugs took their clothes off, it would hardly be a point of pride for them. It would be so hideous that it would be declared a new weapon of mass destruction.
Forget Playboy. These people couldn’t make the pages of National Geographic.
So, for the good of the people — for the love of America — and for you own self-worth — please, senators, keep your clothes on.
• Charles Hurt is the opinion editor at The Washington Times.