Members of the House playfully heckled and hissed at Hutter, but Hebert quickly hushed them, saying, "Don't y'all be hard on her. She's not the only blonde that rode in that Cadillac, I promise ya'."
Sitting in the chamber was Hebert's girlfriend, smiling and shaking her head. "Just hold on, baby," he told her. "I'm going to confession."
And he did. Hebert, who was an impressionable 30 when thrown into the House in 1996, talked briefly about his first and only divorce (and how much it cost), touched on the number of doctors he has dated over the years and finally assessed the types of women around the State Capitol. "It's been said I like women. That is a lie," he said. "I love women. It's also been said I like blondes. That's a lie. I like brunettes and redheads, too."
Such hysterical and heartfelt apologias have been commonplace for the past few weeks in the House, where 45 term-limited lawmakers and a handful of imminent retirees have been given five minutes each to sign off. Across the hall in the Senate, 15 members are term-limited and planning similar remarks. Most of the farewell speeches in the Lower Chamber thus far, however, have amounted to nothing more than mini-autobiographies.
But some have yielded real political lessons, reflections on a bygone era and glimpses into the future of the Louisiana Legislature.
Rep. Robby Carter, a squat, countrified Democrat from Independence, likened his final days to the "end of summer camp" and promised his colleagues that they would "stay friends forever." While he didn't name any BFFs directly, he did thank a few lawmakers for their advice over the years. In particular, he said he learned from Rep. Warren Triche, a Lafourche Parish Democrat known for his own antics, that practically any bill can be passed if positioned correctly.
For instance, if a legislator tags a bill as local, other lawmakers from outside that region will traditionally back off. "If you got a bad bill that needs to pass, somehow couch it as local and it'll get 'em every time," Carter said, laughing.
A tearful Rep. Danny Martiny, a Republican from Metairie, revealed he originally ran for office as a placeholder, hoping to keep other candidates out of the race as a favor to someone else. Then legendary Jefferson Parish Sheriff Harry Lee unexpectedly threw his support behind Martiny. An accidental legislator, Martiny said he eventually learned to keep his rookie mouth shut and his keen eyes open. "As much as you want to say this body is driven by issues, it isn't," Martiny said. "It's driven by people. If you figure out what makes people tick, you can get a lot done."
One hard lesson Martiny learned came at the hands of Westwego Rep. John Alario, another term-limited Democrat with a Capitol hallway already named after him. Martiny recalled how he was once playing golf with Alario, and at the same time, back in a committee hearing, one of his bills was being amended beyond recognition and replaced with language from a measure Alario was pushing.
When he cornered Alario later to ask what had happened, the seasoned pro let loose on the lesson, disclosing, "The first rule of a hijacking is that you don't tell the pilot."
While Martiny also celebrated the many party opportunities afforded through service in the Legislature, it took Rep. Romo Romero, a New Iberia Democrat, to bring the House to church. Romero isn't exactly known for his religious bent, but that may change. For certain, he's known for frequent smoke breaks during committee meetings (to which he often returns still cleaning his pipe), for erupting into French during heated debates, and for the long stick he used for years to reach over his desk on the House floor and vote other lawmakers' machines.
In his final and memorable farewell, Romero urged members to put faith first in their future decisions and then, in an odd twist, confided that he may be the devil.
"We all have a tendency that we believe we are here because the people elected us and put us here. But that's not so. We're here because God chose to put us up here. And you see, Satan does not sleep. When we get here in the morning to take care of the business of the state, Satan has been in here waiting all night. In fact, I think he sits in seat 25," Romero says, motioning wildly at his own seat before moving on without explanation.
Rep. A.G. Crowe, a Slidell Republican, gave a shout out to the unofficial "Bird Caucus," which replied loudly with unidentifiable fowl cries. The all-GOP caucus, which does nothing more than caw when a fellow member is at the microphone, consists of Reps. Crowe, Gordon Dove of Houma and Carl Crane of Baton Rouge.
On a substantive note, Crowe reflected on a near-death experience earlier this month when a two-by-four nearly flew through the window of his car. Visibly shaken, Crowe recommended lawmakers treasure each day. "Had the board been two seconds earlier, I would not be here," he told the House.
Meanwhile, Rep. Monica Walker, a Marksville Democrat, utilized the time to recount her humble beginnings on the Lafayette High School student council, back when Commissioner of Administration Jerry Luke LeBlanc was president and she was a sophomore representative. Aside from her House elections, it was the only other time she ever ran for office.
Then, in a move reminiscent of the responses given during a Miss America Pageant, Walker concluded her address by reading the lyrics from a song she said she has been "listening to every day," a little ditty that serves as a constant source of inspiration -- "I Hope You Dance" by Lee Ann Womack.
"When you get the chance to sit it out or dance, I hope you dance," she gushed at lawmakers, clearly overrun with emotions. "It's now my turn to dance," Walker concluded as she left the podium in sobs.
Melodramatics aside, and there have been plenty, nearly every farewell speech in the House mentioned the growing divide between Republicans and Democrats. Rep. Mickey Frith, an Abbeville Democrat who also serves as chairman of the Acadiana Delegation, echoed the remarks of other term-limited lawmakers by noting that party politics are taking over the process and overshadowing the needs of citizens.
In his own Cajun way, Frith attempted to tell lawmakers that parroting Washington, D.C., with its policy gridlocks and partisan fever, would do nothing to move Louisiana forward. Unfortunately, he concluded, that is the direction the Legislature is heading after term limits take effect.
And what will happen then?
"The only thing that you'll feel good about at the end of the day is taking off your shoes," Frith predicted.
Jeremy Alford can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.