Newt’s Last Stand: Dispatches From The Frontlines of Republican Politics, Part 3
I awoke the next morning trapped in one of those purgatorial hazes where you need several minutes of mental calibration to reacquaint yourself with your surroundings. Slowly, the realization dawned on me. I was lying on a soiled mattress in a flophouse on the edge of town. I peaked around a corner to find Tammy cooking something in the kitchen, and judging by the smell it wasn’t eggs. I took stock of myself, hoping against hope that in my alcohol and drug induced stupor the night before I hadn’t gone so far as to make as big of a mistake as my current situation would lead me to believe. Just then Tammy came back into the room.