Much has been written, here and elsewhere, on Mitt’s seeming inability to “fit in” and to interact with grace and ease with people outside of his apparently quite small comfort zone. For a man who believes that this really is his “turn” to step into the presidency, he seem to have missed the memo about having to campaign with the Great Unwashed to win their votes.
This has necessitated a crash course in American pop culture, a course in which many would give him an “incomplete” or a failing grade. He doesn’t “get” NASCAR, or donuts, or convenience stores. Dressed in his still-creased-from-the-package plaid shirts and strangely fitting creased jeans, Mitt wonders why he can’t simply buy these votes and be done with it.
Lacking either the common touch or the political Midas touch, Mitt has become increasingly petulant, frustrated, and irritated at the public, the media, and the whole process. Someone on his staff must have suggested the need to “humanize” Mitt and bring out his “likeable guy” side, so they’ve deployed his wife Ann who, unsurprisingly, is nearly as socially tone deaf as Mitt.
Leaving aside the uber-elite dressage horse stuff, we have her snarky remarks about taking less vacation time than the Obamas under the Romney administration because, after all, they derive their joy from their kids and grandkids, unlike those Socialist Kenyan Obamas, who probably spend their vacations palling around with terrorists. Not only that, but Mitt and Ann want you to know that they have several “places” for vacationing, unlike you, my pitiful little voter, who will probably be doing yet another “staycation” with a Smurf pool in your paltry little back yard.
If you feel resentful when you’re reminded about the Romney’s real estate and wealth, you’re just envious. It’s perfectly understandable. There you are, my pitiful little voter, getting up while it’s still dark, hauling your sorry ass to work in a car that’s still not paid for, slaving away at some dead-end job (thanks, Bain), and returning home to your macaroni and cheese or whatever you people eat. Donuts, maybe. Do you put gravy on those?
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In your wildest dreams, you’ll never live like Mitt and Ann. You’ll never own one home, much less a portfolio of mansions. Your bank account won’t qualify for transfer to the Caymans. No Cadillacs or pricey horses for you. Sorry, that’s just the way things work, my pitiful little voter. Your kid, unable to find a job, enlists in the Army and comes back from the chickenhawk wars without a leg. Mitt’s kid gets $10 million in seed money to start his own financial firm.
When you’re a completely self-made successful man like Mitt, without ever having (or needing) a leg up from his old man (and thank goodness for that, because he really never amounted to much), the sky’s the limit. For the rest of you, well, what is it they say: “not that much?” Something like that. Keep on plugging away, though, and don’t forget to vote Republican.
Ann has assured us that, despite all evidence to the contrary, Mitt’s actually a wild and crazy guy, much more cool and fun and witty than he’s perceived to be. He’s a regular cut up. Just ask that kid at Cranbrook. Talk about fun hijinks! Even in the privacy of the boudoir, he’s a fun guy, trust me, she tells us. We turn away in disgust and revulsion, first at the mere thought of Mitt in a boudoir, then at the thought that she thinks we’re all so entirely witless as to believe her.
Voters, however pitiful, do have some pretty good instincts. We can spot bullshit a mile away. This is probably why Mitt stays off the campaign trail as much as possible, venturing forth only when his handlers convince him that it’s simply unavoidable.
Frankly, the job of humanizing Mitt is more than any one person could do. We shouldn’t blame Ann for falling short and leaving us thinking that, if anything, Mitt’s even less human than we thought.
Where I do blame her, though, is in one key aspect of spousal behavior: providing that little voice that asks, “Really, honey? Are you sure that’s what you want to do?”
When Mitt said "OK, I've got the rooftop carrier all set. Where's that darn dog?", where was Ann?
Did she say (as many spouses - male or female - might have said "What? You want Seamus to ride on the roof? Isn't that kind of dangerous? Why couldn't you have one of the servants drive him up in another car?" Or did she just say "well, be sure that it's strapped down tightly. We don't want to have to buy another carrier if something happens to this one"?
Did she speak up at all? If she did, were her suggestions vetoed?
If she didn't speak up, was it because Mitt's word is law? Did she fear retribution?
Or did she agree with this plan?
Or did she suggest it herself?
I've wracked my brain on this for months. I can't come up with a single scenario in which either of these miscreants could be forgiven for what they did to Seamus. If this was Mitt's idea, he's unfit to govern. If it was Ann's idea, heaven help any future White House pets under a Romney regime.
Under a Romney regime, we're all Seamus. Mitt and Ann will drive on oblivious to our terror, wondering why everybody's making such a fuss. Oh, wait. They're just envious. They'll never have a nice rooftop carrier like this.