When Gov. Rick Perry said earlier this month that he was offended by Congresswoman Michele Bachmann's suggestion that he could be bought for $5,000, he set a high bar for the most cringe-inducing moment during a presidential debate.

He later eclipsed it with a sputtering attempt to hit former Massachusetts Gov. Mitt Romney with a pre-rehearsed zinger that devolved into mush right before our eyes — and earned him a star turn on Saturday Night Live.

Both moments vindicated the governor's decision not to debate former Houston Mayor Bill White during last year's governor race — although you could argue that he could've used the practice. And while the governor got by with not debating at the state level, his performance on the larger stage has left a lot of Republicans casting about for a better alternative.

But the remark about being bought for $5,000 has larger meaning. More than just a lousy debate moment, it speaks to the chasm Perry is crossing when he jumps from state-level politics to the national stage.

Perry wasn't just saying something stupid in a debate. He was speaking a different language.

In Texas, where there is no limit on individual or corporate campaign contributions, politicians are openly, freely and unabashedly for sale. Perry has made a fine career out of selling his soul to the likes of Houston homebuilder Bob Perry, San Antonio businessman James Leininger, and all of the heavyweights in the oil and gas industry.

These people want something when they dole out piles of cash. They sure don't do it because they like politics.

That's why, when advocates of tort reform sit in the gallery at the Legislature, cynics call it the Owner's Box.

That's why Austin businessman Jeff Sandefer was given the time of day and then some for his “Seven Break-Through Solutions” for reforming higher education.

And it's also why the governor's use of state incentive money often looks more like a giveaway to his buddies than anything else. It often has been.

It's not outlandish to call any of that class warfare in reverse. It's just a different form of welfare.

Let's be clear, though. Some of the same poison infects politics at the national level, and in a bipartisan way.

President Barack Obama might be revving up a campaign for re-election in which he calls himself a class warrior, but when he had to decide between rescuing banks or the middle class, he came down on the side of the banks. Coincidentally or not, his 2008 bid for the presidency was the most expensive in U.S. history.

These days, national elections are a choice between monied interests. And politics on the national level is pay-to-play, too. It's just not as obvious as we make it in Texas.

Putting a limit on campaign contributions at the state level would be the longest of long shots, anyway. It surely wouldn't herald the end of special influence on government. Texas business heavyweights like being in charge. They like it that when they ask for something — immunity from lawsuits, say, or an end to the nonsense over sanctuary cities — lawmakers whose campaigns they've underwritten salute smartly.

But if you want to know what poisons our political system in Texas, or why it doesn't seem to matter enough that the majority of people want well-funded, quality public schools, look no further than our broken campaign finance system. I think it's the linchpin of the whole deal.

That's why Gov. Perry spoke the truth when he said he was offended by the notion that he could be bought for $5,000. In Texas, a seat at the table costs a whole lot more.

jstroud@express-news.net