Suppose you’re assigned to cover the first day of the legislative session. Suppose you drive straight to the Capitol, learn of a communications snafu, and realize your colleague’s House credentials (and yours, probably) have been distributed at the TV station. You drive back to the TV station. You fetch your colleague’s credentials. But yours are missing.
You lurch around the newsroom, looking for your credential. An alarmed co-worker named Donna Lowry says, essentially, “WTF?” You explain you lack a House credential, and the session starts an hour hence.
Suppose your colleague Donna Lowry, who isn’t covering the legislature, makes an offer: “Use mine!” She fishes her credential from her desk and hands it to you. “You think they can tell us apart?” she asks, referring to the photo ID depicting an image far more lovely than the frazzled, un-credentialed male TV news goon has ever produced.
A bemused photog sitting nearby may pipe up: “Well, Doug’s a bit — taller.”
Suppose you show up at the House chamber. The doorman, a serious-minded older gent, demands a credential. You pull Donna Lowry’s credential. You strategically place your forefinger over a portion of the photo, and casually flash the credential. The doorman, who also guards the House cloakroom, allows you to enter the press room.
Suppose it happens two more times. Each time, the doorman demands your credential. Each time, you show him Donna Lowry’s credential. Each time, he allows you to pass.
Suppose that happened Monday. To actually admit to such stuff would invite grave consequences, no?
And to try it again, hypothetically speaking, would be stupid. Especially now.