Ending your college satire career is a huge deal according to the random person at Caffè Nero who tried to sell me the shoe off of their foot. I bought the shoe and I agree. This is huge. For three years I have spent every 3rd Sunday in CAS pitching the most abhorrent articles possible to my dearest and most favorite acquaintances. Originally, I thought that eulogizing myself would be the move to close out my college comedy stint, but after a little thinking, I realized something: I’m not dead yet. Sure, I feel a little dead because I’m graduating and the future is uncertain, but I’m still here breathing and spending too much money at Pavement. 

As someone who is alive and chronically silly, I know what I must do. I realize that I have a responsibility…a duty, even. I would be doing a disservice to the publication and myself if I went three years without sharing the story of my wild night at Longhorn Steakhouse with MGT, the pride of Georgia’s 14th district. The blondest woman alive. Miss accident. Wild thang. The one. The only. Marjorie Taylor Greene.  

Let’s rewind. 

It’s Friday afternoon on a chilly autumn day in Boston. In an attempt to undo all the progress I made with my sleep schedule, I take a chance on myself and decide to rest until 2 pm. My phone rings. I’m awakened from a dream where Annette Bening wins every Oscar. I can’t tell you how perfect this dream is. Some (me) would suggest a perfect dream. I wish I could live in that world…

I grab my cellular device off my side table, which is just my desk pushed close to my bed, and I look at the number. A Georgia area code? Surely Stacey Abrams isn’t hitting up my line—we only chat via WhatsApp and I ghosted her after she asked to go to an Ed Sheeran concert with me. I just don’t vibe with him like that!

 I answer because if there’s one thing I’m gonna do it’s make a new friend. The following phone call went a little something like this:

MGT: Soph?

SOPHER: Who is this? Mom? 

MGT: It isn’t your mom, she wouldn’t call casually like that.

S: Then who is this?

MGT: I got your number off a really sad poster that read “Adult Woman Looking to Try Saxaphone”.

S: Yes, that was me.

MGT: Since you have so much free time on your hands, would you like to grab a brewski at Longhorn’s with me?

S: Let me check my calendar.

MGT: You don’t have a calendar.

S: I can meet you tonight at 8:30 PM EST.

MGT: Deal.

S: And who is this?

MGT: Marjorie Taylor Greene, the mean queen of the Midgeville scene.

S: But we don’t agree politically at all!

MGT: Again, you have no one else to go out with.

S: True. What are you wearing? 😉 

I think that’s enough of that. You get where the conversation was going.

Anyway, so I put on my big t-shirt and hit the ground running. I’m dressing Longhorn’s formal! I add a pop of color with a pair of neon pink crocs because bitchin is a habit! It’s giving Roseanne Barr at the airport and I am here for it. I get into my car, which is a discontinued 1974 Ford Pinto. Blood stains on the seats, no bottom, trunk full of coins. Every time I go over a bump it sounds like a tambourine. Boy, do I love how I roll!

I pull up to Longhorn’s. I’m blasting Barbara Streisand like nobody’s freakin business. I mean, I’m really playing the hits. I slam the door, coins a’jigglin. MGT meets me at the door. She’s dressed like the spectator at a bowling tournament. She looks perfect. Gun in tow. “Sophia, show me how you do it!” MGT exclaims, and I do! God, I hate to love her.

We link arms and make our way to the bar. The barkeep, whose name is Veronijessica, takes our order. She wears a shirt that reads “I guess my momma couldn’t make up her mind!” I assume that the quote is referencing her name, which is a combination of two common lady names.

 MGT starts off her night of drinking with a shot of absinthe. I take a different approach and jump into the evening with a glass of white wine. MGT starts talking about her kids and how she wishes their little hands could hold guns. I nod understandingly because active listening is a skill I listed on my resume and every opportunity to hone that skill is valuable.

For some reason Longhorn’s has a jukebox. When MGT learns of the music machine, she moseys on over and plays “Tush” by ZZ Top. She grabs my arm, and we start dancing. We stick our hands up to the sky and wiggle around. For a moment, it’s almost as if January 6th never happened. She motions to the bar and yells “let’s do another!” This makes everyone think that she’s talking about storming the capitol again, but I know she just wants to get her drink on! We walk over and Veronijessica hooks us up with some Dos Equis. I tell her that Dos Equis means two xs. She loses her shit.

Food time.

MGT orders a steak and a Texas Tonion for the table. We lady and the tramp that shit harder than Pete Davidson and Kate Beckinsale at a Rangers game. Then she hits me with the question.

”What if I opened fire right here, right now in this Longhorn Steakhouse?”

I joke that we aren’t drunk enough and she agrees. We order two shots of Casamigos. MGT goes on a rant about George Clooney and I nod again. I guess the great unifier is that we all can’t see that Amal thing working out in the long run. She’s a lawyer, he’s a bachelor—there is just no way that their love will endure.

The dance floor, also known as the bathroom, gets poppin at Longhorn’s. At this point, MGT is so drunk that she’s managed to wear her shoes as earrings. We’re smoking in the bathroom and she’s offering cigs to everyone. You’d think she’s a socialist with how generous she was being. Then, someone lays an absolute dumper in the toilet and MGT starts a fight. She punches the lady, whose name was Tilda, between the eyes. Tilda goes down and MGT scurries out like a weasel during mating season. I follow suit because as MGT would say, I’m a sheeple.

MGT leaps on the table and tries to get the Macarena going. God, does she fail. Veronijessica tries to grab MGT’s ankle, but MGT manages to kick her right in the clavicle. Veronijessica casts a spell on MGT and flies away. “Uh, so that happened!” MGT retorts. Back to the bar.

With Veronijessica gone, MGT and I are the closest thing to a bartender. We start taking orders. MGT refuses to serve queer customers, which works in her favor at Longhorn’s because there aren’t any. After loading up 14 coldblooded americans with Bud Light, MGT takes me into the alley, which she refers to as “the yard.” We have a conversation and it goes a little something like this:

MGT: Hey…

S: Uh huh.

MGT: I’m worried that people know me in there.

S: It’s Longhorn’s, MGT, of course they do!

MGT: What if they start asking me questions about what happened on that day…

S: What day?

MGT: God, you’re drunk.

S: Yeah.

MGT: That is literally so cool that you forgot what I did.

S: Did what?

MGT: What’s my name?


MGT: And what does that stand for?

S: Miss Gorgeous Lady

MGT: You literally rock so freakin hard!

S: Can we go back into the bathroom?

MGT: Anything for my number #1 fan!

S: Oh, it just came to me. You’re talking about the insurrection you fomented.

MGT: Fuck.

By midnight I’m absolutely spent. MGT hires a guy named Bruno to drive us home on his four-wheeler. The thing isn’t street legal at all. Bruno is dressed in a Shania Twain shirt and assless chaps. He has the skull of a pangolin taped to the hindquarters of the damn vehicle. God, I wish I went out with him instead.

We make a pit stop at Jimmy John’s for a late night sandwich. They keep the place open for MGT a little later because, and I can’t stress this enough, she has a gun. She wants me to clarify that this wasn’t a hold up, but lemme tell ya, it sure felt like one! That sandwich was delish. Bruno shit on the counter, which took MGT back to her time at the capitol in Chuck Schumer’s office…

When we pull up to my house, I dismount from the four-wheeler and go in for an awkward hug with MGT. MGT thanks me for sacrificing my career, and really everything I’ve ever worked toward, to hang out with her. She reminds me that security footage and other covert paparazzi photographs will ensure that the general public never forgets that we hung out. I tell her she’s wildin and I go in for another hug because I’m nervous. A tiny bit of me wonders if what we did was a date and then I remember the “Don’t Say Gay Bill”.

And you know what, that’s it. She drove off into the distance with Bruno and I never heard from her again. I mean, yeah, she’s in court and all that stuff. I guess I see her on the news?

Welp. That’s it for me. Signing off forever, Pinky. XOXOXO

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