Montana’s political snake oil problem

by Bill Lussenheide, Florence

In 1906, the United States finally decided that maybe—just maybe—it should tell people when their “medicinal miracle tonic” was actually half heroin, a dash of opium, and whatever the chemist swept off the floor that morning. Thus arrived the Pure Food and Drug Act, which brought an end to the golden age of unregulated elixirs and introduced the radical idea that consumers deserve to know what they’re putting into their bodies. The outrage was minimal. Turns out, folks like knowing whether their cough syrup contains more morphine than a Civil War field hospital.

Labels were good. Truth in advertising was good. Even Coca-Cola eventually accepted that maybe the “Coca” cocaine part didn’t need to be quite that literal.

But here in Montana, one realm remains gloriously unregulated: political labeling.

Anyone can slap an “R” after their name, stride into a primary, and declare themselves a conservative, even if their voting record is about as Republican as a San Francisco bicycle collective. And since Montana doesn’t register voters by party, the branding is looser than a prospector’s britches after six months in the mountains.

This vacuum of standards has produced our own era of political snake-oil salesmen—some rolling into Helena in rhetorical covered wagons, peddling their patented “Dr. Good’s Republican Elixir.” Guaranteed conservative on the bottle, but the fine print might as well read: “Contains copious amounts of Democrat, independent thought, or unfiltered opportunism.”

Thus, we end up with the Nasty Nine, the Dirty Dozen, and the Occasionally-Republican-When-It’s-Convenient Solutions Caucus—legislators who join Democrats in lockstep on key votes, all while insisting they’re the purest brand of Republican. If this were the 1890s, they’d be selling “Cure-All Pills” that cure nothing except your belief in honest labeling.

Every two years, the Montana Republican Party conducts the civilized, normal, entirely expected act of… writing down what it actually stands for. It’s called the Montana Republican Party Platform, and elected Republican delegates from across the state gather to hammer it out. If you’re going to run under the Republican banner, staying somewhere in the vicinity of that platform isn’t just polite—it’s the whole point.

But ask certain candidates to confirm they align with the platform of the party they claim to represent, and suddenly you’re accused of running a “purity test.”

A purity test?! As if asking a Republican whether they share Republican values is as unreasonable as asking the town drunk whether he’s qualified to run the temperance society.

Which brings us to Dave Bedey, candidate for Senate District 43, who has elected to boycott the Montana GOP survey designed to let voters know—brace yourself—what candidates actually believe. Bedey calls the survey a “purity test.” Montanans might call it “basic transparency.” Or, to use the earlier analogy, the nutritional-facts panel on your toothpaste. His opponent, Kathy Love, a true Republican, has no qualms whatsoever in providing this vital and expected information 

Because if we require labels for shampoo, canned peaches, and dog treats, maybe—just maybe—we should also know the ingredients of the people who want to govern us. It’s not extremism. It’s civic hygiene.

If a candidate wants the Republican label, then they should be willing to show that what’s inside the bottle matches what’s printed on the outside. No hiding behind curtains, no coy evasions, no “trust me” from behind the political wagon.

Montanans deserve pure, unadulterated truth.

Not imitation Republicans.

Not political off-brand knockoffs.

Not another bottle of “Guaranteed Conservative Tonic—Results May Vary.”

If the Pure Food and Drug Act taught us anything, it’s this: Labels matter. Ingredients matter. And the people buying the product deserve to know exactly what they’re getting.

And when it comes to the governance of this state, that’s not purity—it’s just common sense.