Yes, I feel sorry for David Vitter

Oh, don't get me wrong, I still want to see him resign, so Blanco can appoint a Democrat to the seat. Still, on a personal level, I very much feel sorry for Vitty-cent.

My sympathy goes along two lines. One is the generic, "there but for the grace of god go I" sort of thing that many guys feel when something bad happens to another guy. It's that Jungian sort of collective feeling men get in a movie theater when a guy gets kicked in the groin, all the men in the place suck in their breath simultaneously. It's the same thing here. We all know guys who have affairs, and/or consort with whores. Everyone wants to get their freak on occasionally. And it's really nobody's damn business but those directly involved. The reason we now know that Vitty-cent's freak is diapers is because the Federal Bureau of Investigation seems to really love to chase whores. To see the FBI closing down brothels using RICO and other tools designed to bring down organized crime is outrageous. For all that schadenfreude is enjoyable, I really shouldn't know this much about "lil Vitty."

But my sympathy for Vitty-cent goes even deeper. His background is a story I know all too well. Catholic family, Catholic school, up-and-coming lawyer. Marries your basic nice Catholic girl and makes babies. Here's where the story could become a really neat "Lifetime" movie. There's always been a lot of talk in the neighborhood that Mrs. Vitty-cent was more interested in being involved in politics than he was. That's not a new plot line, to be sure, the ambitious wife who pushes her husband further along than he ever wanted to go. Hell, the Rethugs are still beating that horse when they talk about Senator Clinton.

There are a lot of women who enjoy a bit of status at the various "Republican women's group" meetings, luncheons, etc. Oh, the stories they must hear! The taste of status that the wife of a State Representative gets is heady stuff. Makes a gal desire more and more. She talks that up in her own way to hubby, encouraging him to explore moving up in the political world. Hubby gives in and starts making political moves. Some work, some don't. All of them get him headlines in the local paper when he speaks up. Unfortunately, he's pissing off more than a couple of people as he makes these moves. But the motivation for all this is strong. Is it wife? Her father? *makes notes for screenplay*.

Then an opening presents itself. Your Congresscritter falls into disgrace and resigns. Someone new and fresh needs to take up the party's banner, and stand up to the immoral and evil libruls. I'm sitting in a coffeeshop in the 81st Representative District of Louisiana right now. This is the district that elected David Duke, and replaced him with Vitter when Dukkke took a shot at higher office. This is rich-folks land, where the main thing people want from their political officials is for them to keep the taxes down and the coloreds on the other side of the 17th Street Canal. Otherwise, they want them to stay the hell out of their lives, bedrooms, and wallets. What a great opportunity for the up-and-coming young Republican wife! But for the the man who lists "Lawyer" and "Professor" as his careers on official bios, leaving New Orleans for the rat race of DC would be just applying more and more pressure and stress to an already-stressed life. Having a nice partner's office in a nice law firm, teaching the occasional class, breaking up the routine with the 90-day legislative session in Baton Rouge, that's all fun. You can do your thing, make a good living, go to a lot of really fun social events (this is South Louisiana politics, mind you, it really doesn't get much better), and maybe even do something you believe in.

Moving to DC radically changes all that. Even in a Republican-controlled congress, there's work to be done. Being a legislator is more than a three-month-a-year job. Fundraising becomes quite the pain in the ass. No time for teaching. No nice office downtown. You've gone from being one of the big dogs on the lawn to a puppy on the porch. Thing is, your wife is loving it. She's still at home, of course, can't disrupt the children's school routine, mind you. She's now the big dog on the lawn that is the Republican women's social scene.

And then there's sex. Mrs. Vitty-cent looks like a lot of Catholic girls I've met in my life. They support their husband's career, putting them through school, running the household while they work ridiculous hours as a staff attorney. Making four babies like Mrs. Vitty-cent has done is hard work--takes time out of the day that could usually be spent going to the day spa, playing tennis, or shopping. I can't speak for Mrs. Vitty-cent's sex drive, but even if it's good, Vitty-cent can't bust a nut if she's at home and he's in DeeCee. Even when she's in DeeCee, you've got the official functions, fundraising events, etc. So, even if Mrs. Vitty-cent likes to get a bit of a freak on, there's just not a lot of opportunity. And her desire to get her freak on in the first place is a huge assumption; more likely, she's your basic repressed Catholic girl who believes sex is for procreation. If that's the case, Vitty-cent was no doubt well-acquainted with his right hand. The usual outlet for a man married to a repressed Catholic girl is to bang the secretary, nurse, office assistant...you get the idea.

That's where Southern Louisiana politics becomes really fun. LSU games, hunting trips, fishing rodeos, hanging out in Baton Rouge during the regular session while the family is back home. It's all one big frat party. And frat parties always have whores. Whether they're groupies or professionals, there are always girls around. It's a great zipless release for the guy who has a subscription full of issues. You don't have to worry about the mistress who demands you leave your wife for her; groupies and pros just want a bit of fun. They move on right away. They might come back next spring for some more fun, but they leave you alone in the summer and fall.

DeeCee doesn't work like that. Sure, there are frat parties with whores, but the microsope that you're under as a Congresscritter makes it tough to maintain the lifestyle that a kinky member of the Louisiana House of Representatives had back home. You've got to make a decision at that point. If your career is important to you, you suck it up. You put away the toys, turn down the offers when they're presented. And you damn sure tell the pros to lose your phone number.

But what if your career is more important to your wife than you? Even if you're not a sex junkie, romping in bed with women who enjoy sex has got to be more fun than a repressed Catholic girl whose idea of afterglow is to talk about your next political move. The temptation to pick up the phone for some $300/hour, no-frills fun has got to be strong. So, you give in on occasion, and it relieves some of the stress. You're willing to live the DeeCee lifestyle for a while, in the hopes you can bail on it at some point and go back to that nice downtown New Orleans office as an elder statesmen. Maybe even be a judge or something. Not to mention, the longer you're a Congresscritter, the higher you rise on the totem pole. Life gets better as your ass gets kissed more and more.

Problem is, the wife won't let up. From her perspective, she and her family have put up with a lot of your shit, and now it's time for the big payoff. The senior US Senator from your state is retiring. In spite of your mistakes, you're in good position to make a run at this job. If it works, you're in the United States Senate, a very elite club of 100. Your triumphant return to the downtown law office as elder statesman is looking even better. What's even more interesting about this run is that if you lose, you're done. You have to give up your House seat to take this shot. Losing is winning in many ways.

But you do win, and the cycle starts all over again. Worse still, wife seriously starts thinking her deepest fantasies might come true--living at the US Naval Observatory or the brass ring of the White House. She pushes. The deals you've made with truly evil men start coming back to haunt you, as they demand that you deliver. You're in way too deep by now; if you're going further, you need these people on your side. And wife demands you go further.

Still, stress relief is available, at $300/hour. The social contract between high-priced whore and Important Client is a well-established custom. You pay, they keep their mouth shut. Until the FBI gets involved, then their survival is much more important to them than your reputation. You're just 85 on the power ranking in the club of 100. Your party's leader is so deep in trouble, leagally and politically, that the FBI's whore-chasing is fine by him, even if it sucks you in. Throwing you under a bus looks real good to men who are being hit with Congressional subponeas on an hourly basis. Anything to create a distraction.

So, it all hits the fan. Your cry for help has been answered. You act tough and blame it on the libruls. Larry Flynt is everyone's favorite disgusting individual when it's time to point fingers. These evil scum won't leave you alone. They torture you and your family. It's just not fair to the children, so you reluctantly return to private life.

Yes, you tell the reporters, you're unspeakably angry that you have to return to a nice, downtown New Orleans law office. You're furious that you can be an elder statesman at Tulane games, fishing rodeos, and hunting trips. But you'll be OK, you tell the stenographer. You'll write, you'll teach, you'll work with young lawyers. The stenographer will file the report, closing the book on your public life. Your name isn't in the paper every day. The dirty fucking hippie librul bloggers move on to the next target. You hire a nice-looking secretary.

Maybe even become a judge or something.

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