The original filibuster is a very Roman move. In the ancient world, Roman senators like Cato the Younger were notorious blowhards who thrived on delivering long speeches to prove their stamina and talent at oratory.
The U.S. Senate is the only legislative body on the planet that still regularly lets itself be held hostage by Roman-style antics — or, these days, the threat of such antics. Our Washington senators only have to make it known they're willing to bore their colleagues to death rather than allowing them to vote on a given measure. And everyone caves.
The only thing that can end an individual filibuster is a vote of cloture. Unlike a vote on legislation, cloture requires a supermajority of senators — 60 of 100 — to pass, not a simple majority of 51. So even if 58 senators, representing 29 states, want legislation to get a hearing and a vote, they don't count. The legislation gets tabled.
Last week, Sen. Kyrsten Sinema, D-Ariz., told an interviewer that the filibuster is the key to "comity" in the Senate. That's rich.
Comity — courtesy, from the Latin comitas, as Cato the Younger might have said — is the last thing filibusters are meant to promote. Rather, they're a last-ditch delaying tactic by those who know they can't win in a real vote.
Filibustering politicians combine all the charm of kids singing with their fingers in their ears with the sportsmanship of a loser who flips a board game over and huffs off. In recent years, filibusters have served as nothing but a roadblock to keep popular legislation from getting a real hearing.
For Sinema, though, backing the filibuster seems to have become a way to pretend to support legislation while resting assured that it will stall.
On May 28, Sinema skipped a cloture vote that would have released from filibuster the bill establishing a bipartisan commission to study the Jan. 6 Capitol insurrection. She said she supported forming a commission; she urged Republicans to support it too. But, when it came down to it, she was out to lunch.