Some day, years from now, Bobby Jindal, you're going to be moving into your new windowless office in the basement of the Heritage Foundation, which used to be a closet, or you'll be awkwardly wiping away sweat, standing in front of the desk of some snooty congressman's secretary, while trying unsuccessfully, for the tenth time, to arrange for five minutes of face to face with the congressman in order to lobby him on some meaningless and obscure oil bill, or you'll be waiting in the lobby of a TV studio at one am, in order to fill ten minutes of air time on a low rated late night cable television show, where you'll get confused by the delay in the satellite feed and never be invited back, and you'll think about that time, late in your governorship, when you, a child of immigrants, chose to turn away men, women and children, who'd survived unimaginable horrors, and were fleeing war, genocide, and despair, in order to score easy points to prop up your already dead political career, and appeal to the basest instincts of your fellow citizens.
You'll realize that was the last significant thing you ever did in elected office. You'll wonder if it was all worth it, not just that single act of meanness, but your whole life. You'll think about that for a long time.
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