Student strands member of Congress

I once interned for Rep. Sam Farr of California. I had a good rapport with him and considered myself the hottest son of a gun this side of Waffle House. Now when I say good rapport, I do not mean the kind of rapport Monica Lewinsky and Chandra Levy had with their respective bosses. There were no cigars, thongs or late-night rendezvous involved.

One Friday Farr’s chief of staff held an office party after work and rides were being sorted out for the staffers. High on myself and the 37 Cokes I had while opening the mail, I sauntered over to the congressman and said, “I’ve got a car. Do you need a ride?” Having the good rapport with him that I was bound to lose that day, he took me up on my offer.

I cruised over to the congressman’s apartment to discover were both wearing Hawaiian shirts. Then I picked up a hooker . no, I mean the other intern, and the three of us were on our merry way to the party just east of the Capitol.

Driving along, I was pleased as punch. I had some bluegrass on the radio, one hand on the wheel, the hot other intern and, of course, the congressman all up in my ride. I felt like a legend in the making. This was a story I was going to tell my interns.

As I pulled onto East Capitol Street, my car sputtered then ran out of gas. My palms started to sweat as I found less and less power in the gas pedal. We were going about 40 mph, so I slammed her into neutral and began to roll down East Capitol Street towards RFK Stadium. I looked at the other intern, and she smiled because I had panic written across my face in big, bold letters. Luckily for now, Farr failed to notice. He was gesturing wildly, commenting on cultural diversity and how much he liked pre-sliced cheese.

It was when I came to a stop sign that all my troubles seemed to gain speed. The car shut off and the congressman said, “Hey Dave, I think you’re out of gas.” Here I was in a part of town that I had never been to. I had another intern and my congressman wearing a Hawaiian shirt, and my car had the heartbeat of Jimmy Hoffa. A news headline then danced into my head – “Stud Intern Strands Congressman and Hot, Other Intern – No Longer Stud Intern.”

I pushed the car into a parking space and ended up paying gas station attendant Gary $20 to bring me a gallon of gas. I didn’t drive Farr home and the hot intern went home with the dreadlocked fundraiser from Iowa.

The beer flowed like wine when I got home that night.
– The writer, a senior majoring in philosophy, is a Hatchet humor columnist.

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