The Price of a Senator (Or: How I Learned to Stop Bleating and Love the Lobbyist)

I, Maurice the Goat—philosophical ruminant, connoisseur of tin cans and truth—have been observing your species with the intensity of a Buddhist monk watching paint dry on the walls of eternity. My beard catches not just brambles but broadcast signals from the cosmic comedy channel known as American Democracy.

Let me bleat you a simple truth, one as pungent and undeniable as a wheel of Limburger left in a hot car with Rush Limbaugh's greatest hits on repeat:

Democracy in America doesn't sell itself.
It threw itself a going-out-of-business sale back when Reagan wore cowboy hats, and everyone pretended trickle-down economics wasn't just rich people peeing on the poor.

What remains is the quarterly lease-to-own plan of governance, complete with performance bonuses and a free tote bag for lobbyists. (The tote reads: "I bought a senator and all I got was this lousy environmental deregulation.")

I've been chewing my cud—which tastes suspiciously like shredded campaign finance documents—and watching this carnival unfold. The ringmaster? A guy in a $5,000 suit who thinks "public service" means serving the public to corporate interests on a silver platter.

Let's talk about numbers, my bipedal friends. Numbers that would make Pythagoras weep.

Running a competitive U.S. Senate race in 2024 cost—steady your hooves—upwards of $100 million. That's enough money to:

• Every wheel of cheese in Wisconsin (twice)
• Fill the Grand Canyon with dollar bills (and still have enough left for a modest yacht)
• Purchase the naming rights to democracy itself (ExxonMobil Presents: The United States of America™)
• Or one (1) United States Senator, batteries not included

This isn't for President, mind you. This is for the Senate—a six-year stint playing legislative hacky sack with 99 other millionaires while interns fueled by Red Bull and desperation write bills longer than Proust's lost shopping lists.

Where does this mountain of money come from? From you, gentle citizen?

Maurice emits a laugh that sounds like a rusty gate making love to a saxophone

The cash flows from them—entities with names that sound like someone sneezing during a board meeting: PACs, SuperPACs, dark money groups darker than my uncle Bertram's soul (and he once sold his grandmother's dentures for lottery tickets).

Corporate bundlers bundle like obsessive-compulsive origami artists. Fossil fuel sugar daddies make it rain petroleum-scented hundreds. Tech bros pump more money into politics than they do into their CrossFit memberships—and brother, that's saying something.

They don't donate. They invest. And like any investor who's not completely bonkers (looking at you, crypto enthusiasts), they expect returns. Legislative returns. Tax-break returns. The returns that make Wall Street traders spontaneously combust with joy.

Watch our freshly purchased senator emerge from the electoral chrysalis! Do they spread wings of public service? Do they soar on thermals of civic duty?

Maurice chuckles, accidentally swallowing a particularly philosophical blade of grass

They arrive in Washington pre-programmed like a microwave with three settings: "Donor Appeasement," "Photo Op," and "Thoughts and Prayers." They careen through the Capitol, high on victory and other people's money, ready to legislate like their donors' lives depend on it (because their donors' profits do).

Meanwhile, who presses their noses against democracy's window like kids outside FAO Schwarz? Teachers armed with nothing but dry-erase markers and dreams. Nurses who've seen enough bullshit to fertilize Kansas. Artists who paint truth in colors the wealthy can't see. Minimum-wage workers climbing mountains of debt with flip-flops made of hope.

And goats. Don't forget the goats.

Here's the most exquisite absurdity—even the losers win! Defeated candidates recycle leftover donations into future campaigns, cushy consulting gigs, or gentle descents onto the plush ottomans of K Street lobbying firms. In this game, losing is just winning with extra steps and better job security.

You and I? We ante up with votes, prayers, and the quaint notion that government should serve something besides shareholder value. They ante up with cash so green it makes the Amazon rainforest look beige—and receive bespoke legislation tailored tighter than a hedge fund manager's conscience.

So what's the price of a senator, adjusted for inflation, moral depreciation, and the cosmic joke that is late-stage capitalism?

About $100 million, one soul (certified pre-owned), and shame levels so low they'd need James Cameron's submarine to find them.

But rejoice! Democracy still hands out participation trophies. They're called "I Voted" stickers, and they stick about as well as campaign promises in a windstorm.

Maurice returns to his cud, wondering if the grass truly is greener on the other side, or if that's just the money talking.