The Ten Best and The Ten Worst Legislators
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Never was Whitmire’s lack of standing in the House more evident than on the final Friday of the session. With the House scoreboard clock showing 11:59 p.m. and the 72-hour deadline on considering new bills about to take effect, Whitmire stepped forward with a non-controversial local bill providing pay raises for Harris County probate judges. The one universal legislative courtesy is that anyone can pass a local bill—anyone, that is, but Whitmire. As the voting board flashed red, a disgusted Houston legislator cursed himself for not suggesting that somebody else present the bill. “I should have kidnapped him,” he muttered. Preferably at the start of the session.
Special Awards
The Three Worst Killer Bee Jokes
Killer Bee Senator Gene Jones of Houston ended his telephone conversations with “I’ve got to buzz off now.”
The Killer Bees hid from police at evangelist Lester Roloff’s controversial children’s home, because that’s the only place the state won’t inspect.
After the Department of Public Safety failed to find any of the missing senators and arrested Gene Jones’ brother, the DPS became known as the Bumble Bees. State representatives who supported the senators became known as the Houseflies.
Worst Sense of Timing
Craig Washington had just completed a stirring appeal to the House on behalf of Sam Hudson’s bill to allow conjugal visits for prison inmates. Supporters of the bill sensed that things had swung their way; it was time to vote, now, before the mood evaporated. But Hudson couldn’t resist the lure of the microphone: “All I have to say, members, is three little words.” The House waited expectantly. “Please vote for this bill.”
They didn’t.
Best Repartee
During a discussion of the same bill, someone asked Ed Emmett of Kingwood, “What’s the Republican position on conjugal visits?”
Replied Emmett: “Why, missionary, of course.”
Sleaziest Comment
First prize to Senator Carl Parker of Port Arthur, for asking a woman reporter to pick a number between one and eight. She guessed five. “Wrong,” Parker replied. “If you’d been right, I’d have taken off my clothes. Now you take off yours. Let’s go, baby.”
Second prize to Senator Carl Parker of Port Arthur, for answering a woman reporter’s question about a bill with “I’ll tell you if you kiss me.”
Special “Fiscal Responsibility Stops at the Wellhead” Award
House Energy Resources Committee chairman Joe Hanna of Breckenridge, when asked during debate why the Railroad Commission needed a $581,000 emergency appropriation he was proposing, replied, “It’s not my prerogative or duty to question what it takes for them to do their job.”
Furniture
The session involved so any issues almost everyone found something to do. It was hard to be furniture—the term for the most insignificant members—but a few managed: in the Senate, Bill Braecklein of Dallas and Lindon Williams of Houston; in the House, 1973 Worst Charles Finnell of Holliday and 1975 Best Bill Sullivant of Gainesville. Perpetual furniture Jim Clark spent the session running for mayor of Pasadena (he won); it was weeks before anyone missed him. Pointer Sisters look-alike Lanell Cofer of Dallas escaped the furniture list mainly by being the most-noticed member of the House.
Big-time Spender
During the first four months of the session, Fred Head went home to Athens (394-mile round trip) almost every night including 25 journeys by chartered plane—costing taxpayers $3620.80.
Best Nickname
Don Cartwright of San Antonio, “the Pillsbury Doughboy,” a name that resulted from the happy marriage of Cartwright’s cherubic face and his sponsorship of a bill to treble interest rates on small loans.
Room at the Top
We have traditionally considered the presiding officers—Lieutenant Governor Bill Hobby and Speaker Billy Clayton—ineligible for either list. This is unfortunate for Clayton but a blessing for poor Hobby.
Clayton once again was an evenhanded Speaker who let the House find its way on every vote. He tried to avoid bloodbaths by getting opposing sides together for negotiations before issues came to the floor. His only albatross: Tom Massey, his choice as chairman of the Calendars Committee.
Hobby was hampered from the start by the retirement of four key conservative senators. Short on loyal hands, he turned to the lobby for help in passing a separate presidential primary; they wanted no part of it. Still hoping for their support, he helped the remaining conservatives break liberal filibusters to get business-backed bills passed; the lobby took but it didn’t give. Hobby had lost control: of the liberals, by siding openly with the conservatives; of the conservatives by courting them so desperately. Finally he found a ploy to pass his primary bill—and that’s when the Killer Bees (Hobby’s own words come home to haunt him) walked out. Lesson: in politics, it’s never good to want something too much.
A Legislative Lexicon
The Legislature, like any club, has developed a descriptive language all its own. Among the more popular expressions:
Bad ol’ bill n. A bill that, in the eye of the beholder, is utterly without redeeming social value. “Members, this is a bad ol’ bill,” is the nuke of legislative rhetoric.
Crater v.i. To renege on one’s promises under pressure; a sudden and total cave-in. “He really cratered when his mayor showed up.”
Dog and pony show n. A staged event designed to appear real, in which participants follow a set script. Senate meetings held for the sole purpose of denouncing the missing Killer Bees were this session’s classic example.
Downside n. The unsavory aspects of a proposal. Usually well hidden and little publicized, as in a bill purporting to expand the Tarrant County civil service system. Buried deep in the bill was the downside: if a referendum on the expansion failed, the entire system would be wiped out.
Flake v.i. To drift away by degrees from a previously stated position. “Senator, I may have to flake on that presidential primary bill.” In contrast to cratering, flaking may serve to enhance the flakor’s bargaining position with the flakee.
Gang of Four n. The hard core of opposition to Speaker Billy Clayton, viz., John Bryant of Dallas, Ronald Coleman and Luther Jones of El Paso, and John Whitmire of Houston. Blamed, like their Chinese namesakes, for all the regime’s troubles.
Grandfather v.t. To exempt current practitioners from the effect of a law. Frequently designed to give those already in business a competitive advantage, as in a bill (later vetoed) that put tough restrictions on new pawnshops and grandfathered old ones.
Green board n. A favorable outcome for the matter under discussion. Refers to the electronic voting board in the House chamber, where a green light beside a member’s name signifies he is voting “aye” and a red light signifies “no.” Usually heard in the interval between the start of voting and the flashing of the final tally: “That’s a green board, friends.”
Heat n. Intense pressure. Can be applied by the leadership, influential folks back home, even the press. “Senator Blackhart has really been taking the heat on this bill to quadruple interest rates.”
Lib n. Derisive term applied to a liberal who would rather make an eloquent, quixotic speech against a bill than kill it quietly in committee. Anyone who talks openly about “right and wrong” is a suspected lib.
Linoleum Club n. The otherwise nameless junk-food dispensary in the basement of the Capitol. The primary source of sustenance for legislators who don’t go to real clubs for a free lunch on the lobby.
Lobster n. A lobbyist willing to pick up the tab. “Let’s go to the Quorum. I’ve found a lobster.” syn SPONSOR
One Hundred Club n. Informal designation for a group of House members whose proposals have been rejected with more than a hundred votes against. Charter member was Don Rains of San Marcos, whose bill to regulate plan nurseries lost 19-106.
Pissing match n. A spiteful, petty test of egos usually characterized by A killing B’s bills and B retaliating in kind. Can bring the entire legislative process to a halt, as occurred four days before adjournment, when Dallas House members responded to a bill’s death in the Senate by holding up over a hundred Senate bills in the House.
Red Square n. An area of the House floor where most of the desks are populated by liberal members. “Are you voting with Red Square on this one?”
Sleazy adj. Extremely unsavory, morally offensive, lacking in merit or character. Has replaced low rent as the universal legislative pejorative. Additional contempt may be conveyed by drawing out the first syllable, as in “The honorable member from San Antonio is a sleee-zy sumbitch.”
Team, the n. The Speaker’s support in the House. Includes both staunch and occasional loyalists; hence, has little significance except to opponents, who blame it for their legislative shortcomings. “I can’t get any bills passed because I’m not on the team.”
Traveling light adj. Without a legislative program; therefore, free to resist the leadership without fear of retribution. Not to be confused with furniture, members whose lack of a legislative program betrays their standing as little more than the desks and chairs they occupy.
Walk v.i. To leave the floor as a means of avoiding a vote. Usually a sign of cowardice, but may be used to help a cause by not satying around to vote against it. “If you can’t vote with us, will you walk?”
Water carrier n. A legislator who uncritically sponsors bills and amendments drawn by lobbyists; a faithful servant of the lobby.
Work v.t. To persuade, bargain, threaten, solicit, or beg, when done by a legislator. When done by others, known as lobbying. “I’ve got to work the floor for the Speaker.”
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