No, really. 'Member me? 'Member our little conversation this spring?
Ah, coming back to now, is it? It must have been important to you at the time, as you couldn't wait to jump in front of a TV camera and brag about our being on a first name basis.
"I prayed about that, as well," Bachmann said. "And that's really what that means. It means that I have a sense of assurance about the direction I think that God is speaking into my heart that I should go."
That's right. That was Me. And what was I telling you? You have to run for president.
Sounded really nice, didn't it? Tricked out bus, all the hot dogs and pizza you could eat, cheers and media attention. Felt nice, too. You were practically purring after the straw poll. (Don't try to deny it; I am that I am, remember?).
Now, with one little setback, you're ready to throw in the towel, pick up your matching funds and slink home.
Well, forget that. I am the Lord of Hosts, lady, and I do not look kindly upon My servants when they are disobedient. When they whimper and quit when the going gets tough.
Buck up, girl. Remember your Scriptures (your major in college, if My memory serves, and believe Me, it always does). Remember Gideon. Remember David. Remember My Own Boy. He might have let loose a sigh there in Gethsemene, bitching about beverages, but then He finished the game.
Listen up, kid. I don't Call just anybody. Sure, I've got everybody on Heart Speed Dial, but, frankly, most of 'em aren't worth the dime. And when I do, I expect a little cooperation.
So dry your mascara, fix your hair and get back on that bus. Your countrymen need you.
Really. You wouldn't believe how many good Americans have been calling about you in the last hour.
Stewart, Colbert, Leno, Mahr. . .