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People Pleaser

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Robin just wants to be liked. She has no idea why Roz an’ Her Lesbian can’t understand that.

She’d only gone into politics ‘cuz the seat was vacant an’ she didn’t have anythin’ better to do. Some boring white dude was runnin’ on the Democratic ticket, an’ most of her jurisdiction is Republican anyway, so she registered with the GOP, threw her hat in the ring, an’ hired herself a team of advisers to tell her what to say to please a crowd.

An’ oh, was she good at pleasin’ a crowd.

There’s nothin’ like standin’ in front of a cheerin’ crowd. There’s nothin’ like hearin’ them chant your name. De-San-To! De-San-To! She would pay people to follow her around, chantin’ her name all day. Oh damn, maybe she should. She types “DeSanto chntrs” into the Notes app on her phone. She will definitely remember what that refers to when she reads it later.

Her first campaign was aces. She an’ her advisers had a perfect system. Anytime she said somethin’ that got a cheer, a clap, or even a chuckle, her scriptwriters would write it into her next speech, but punch it up a bit. If the crowd liked the punched-up version, they’d punch it up a bit more for the next speech. It didn’t take long before she was gettin’ standin’ O’s at the end of ev'ry sentence.

She'd never felt anythin' like that before.

Sure, she didn’t really believe ev’rythin’ she said, but what politician does? Aren’t all politicians liars? They say what they hafta say to make people like them. An’ Robin is good at makin’ people like her.

Well, she useta think she was anyway. Her Lesbian has some kind of a bug up her butt for some reason.

Nobody had told her that actually bein’ in Congress would be a lot more boring than campaignin’. Ugh. So much sittin’ around. An’ listenin’ to other people talk. So many boring white dudes, talkin’ 'bout boring white dude stuff. She’d slept through most of her first hundred days, until her advisers told her that she was startin’ to get a reputation back home as “Do-Nothing DeSanto” an’ was gonna hafta start co-sponsorin’ some bills if she wanted to be re-elected.

Because oh yeah! When you’re in Congress, you hafta run for re-election every two years, and you basically hafta start plannin’ your next campaign the day after you’re sworn in. That sounds like the kind of boring detail she prob’ly shoulda paid more attention to during her campaign, but definitely wouldn’t’ve.

So she asked her advisors what bills she should co-sponsor, an’ she found herself a new group of people to please. Her fellow Republicans.

They were easy to please. A lot easier than her constituents. Just find out what everyone else is votin’ for, an’ vote for that. Done. Make a couple of jokes at the Democrats’ expense, an’ get a bunch of belly laughs an’ some pats on the back. Suddenly she was part of the Old Boys’ Club for the first time in her life, an’ it felt pretty damn good.

It’s not like she actually read the bills she co-sponsored or voted for. Come on. That’s the interns’ job. Ev’rybody knows that. She was too busy takin’ photo ops an’ givin’ speeches an’ lunchin’ with the Freedom Caucus to waste her time readin’ stuff. She didn’t need to know what the bills said, anyway. All she needed to know was that people would like her better if she voted for them. So she did.

Although. She is kinda bummed that that redheaded chick with the weird haircut coulda been hurt by one of the bills she’d voted for. Even if she is bogartin’ the couch that Robin clearly had dibs on first.

Her phone buzzes with another text from Frieda. She’s lost track of how many times Frieda has texted her today. She hasn’t read any of them. She’s not in the mood.

She opens up Tumblr instead.

Oh. Dammit.

A picture of that jagoff intern is all over her dash. The one that Her Lesbian told her roofies girls at parties. She feels a little sick to think that he works on her campaign. That he thinks she’s on his side.

She saves his picture to her phone an’ texts it to Frieda.

            WHO IS THIS?

            HE’S AN INTERN ON OUR CAMPAIGN

            GET ME HIS NAME SO I CAN REPORT HIM

            AND FIRE HIS ASS

Seconds later, her phone buzzes with more texts from Frieda.

            Where are you?

            I need you at a press conference

            3 PM SHARP

            Robin, I’m serious

Fuck it, she doesn’t have time for a press conference. She drops the phone on the floor an’ heads in to the kitchen.

“Hey, Les’? Do you have any Cadbury Creme Eggs? I got some serious thinkin’ to do.”