A simple majority should be able to pass legislation in the U.S. Senate. That doesn’t mean the filibuster has no place, though. Its proper place is in my group chat, where it would allow forty-one per cent of the chat’s members to block terrible ideas, such as:
Swiping right on a self-described “moderate.”
Double-messaging (romantic interests and also this group chat).
Making a new friend. If you want to bring someone in, we have to vote someone out. Let’s raise the debt ceiling, not the friend ceiling.
Going to law school. Our floor debates are contentious enough as it is. (Let’s just get a rug from IKEA and move on.)
Ordering in from Domino’s. We live in New York City. There are four Ray’s on this block. And, no, they’re not a chain just because they taste exactly alike. Each is named after a different Ray and serves pizza that tastes the way pizza is supposed to taste.
Organizing books by color. It doesn’t look “nice”—it looks like you never read your books.
Authorizing two thousand dollars for a group Peloton. Don’t tell me this can bypass the filibuster through budget reconciliation. My objection is not just about the money—it’s about who we are as people.
Scheduling a Zoom. I don’t care if there’s another lockdown. I’m Zoomed out. I will flee the state before the vote and go somewhere with no Wi-Fi, like Vermont. Can’t we just do what normal friend groups do and not talk?
Going off antidepressants because you “don’t need them anymore.” That just means they’re working. I’ll add your psychiatrist to this thread if I have to.
Hosting a destination wedding. This should be constitutional-amendment rare—so, like, two-thirds to bring a vote. I know there are only ten people in the thread, but a lot of the time Sharon is half in, half out.
Dating a Chad (a man named Chad or a man with Chad energy).
Bringing a child into this nightmare world. This should require two-thirds, too. If you want to feel maternal, you can care for my plant, Fernie Sanders.
Tattooing the chorus to “Blank Space” on your thigh. Lisa, the amendment process could have been your friend on this one—it’d be way more poignant to write the name of your newest lover. Did you even listen to the song? Wait, the new guy is named Chad? O.K., yeah, don’t do that.
Watering Fernie Sanders. Guys, I know you want only the best for him, but he’s absolutely drowning. As am I, in texts.
Wearing overalls for the third day in a row. It doesn’t matter if they’re a different pair of overalls. That’s actually worse. Why do you own multiple pairs of overalls? And what did I say about antidepressants?
Going to a baseball game with Chad. We will spend six hours filibustering this so that you don’t have to devote the same amount of time to a sport so slow that players have to warm up nine times per game.
Hosting a dinner party for the group to get to know Chad better. I can’t believe I got clotured into this. I’ll go, but don’t expect me to be in a good mood. (Actually, don’t expect me.)
Asking Chad to tell us about himself. I’ll talk about how bad the “Gossip Girl” reboot was for ten hours if it will prevent this from happening. Don’t underestimate me—I use a standing desk.
Having another screwdriver. Liz, you’re yelling. And you just told Chad you’d be happy to read his novel.
Doing this again sometime.
