From the Guardian, August 17th, under the headline "Mitt Romney's tax returns: the 'voter fraud' theory":
"Sometime in or shortly before January 2010 – that is, not long after he filed his 2008 return – Romney registered to vote in Massachusetts, stating on his voter registration form that he lived in his son Tagg's basement at 18 Greensbrook Way. In January 2010, Romney voted in Massachusetts' special election, which would be a felony if he was not a Massachusetts resident at the time."OK, so the claim that Romney may have lied to the electoral authorities in order to vote for erstwhile nude model Scott Brown is intriguing. Especially given the strenuous efforts on the part of Republicans to disenfranchise anyone not holding a legitimate ID/ GOP membership card. But haven't we buried the lead here? The hilariously improbable scenario that Mitt and Ann spent a year skulking around their son Tagg's basement is perfect for a sitcom, along the lines of a updated Family Ties, complete with generation conflict and role reversal.
Suggested titles: They should all try to capture that weird, retro, did-the-60s-and-70s-really-happen-vibe that Romney gives off:
The Beacon Hillbillies
The Greedy Bunch
Three's Company (But for Tax Purposes, Let's Call it a Social Welfare Organization.)
Father Knows Best (How to Perpetrate Voter Fraud.)
So Mitt, if that post November 6th gig doesn't work out for you, take a gander at the script we've been working on below. There are worse fallback positions.
Telescript: The Mittcom
Episode 1: Reaching Out to the Base(ment)
The scene is a dark, cavernous basement filled with empty pizza boxes, horse equipment, and crates marked "Tax Returns" that emit an uncanny hum like the Ark of the Covenant in the hull of that Nazi U-boat in Raiders of the Lost Ark.
Enter TAGG, the long-suffering scion of the Romney clan-- think Michael in Arrested Development: Dad! Dad!! Did you order this pizza with extra truffles?
Enter MITT, who is wearing freshly-pressed blue jeans and a baseball cap backwards: Why, yes, Tagg, yes, I did. Now pay the man, for Pete's sake.
TAGG: But Dad, I don't see why you have to live in our basement! Why can't you and Mom just go live in one of your six other houses?
MITT: Look son, we've been through this: your Mother and I never got to enjoy any slacker time when we were younger. You know where I went straight after college, don't you?
TAGG (with a sigh and roll of the eyes): France...
MITT: That's right, France. Nearly three years on a mission in the late 60s. Pounding the pavement day in and day out, with only impeccable baguettes and a selection of the world's finest artisanal cheeses for comfort. In that heathen backwater that gave the world Jean Luc Godard, Simone de Beauvoir, and Jean Paul Sartre. Oh yes, I've served my time on the front lines of the culture wars...
TAGG (as if rehearsing a well-known litany): And then there was Bain...
MITT: Dang straight, there was Bain. Do you think those steelworkers were just going to fire themselves? Do you think jobs just go overseas of their own accord? No, someone has to step up, do the heavy lifting, and send them abroad. Now pay the man, and don't forget the tip.
TAGG: But he's driving a Bentley... Tagg realizes that it is useless to argue further, sighs, reaches for his wallet, and trudges off.
MITT smiles the smile of a patriarch that has just imparted an vital life lesson to his offspring.
From offscreen MITT hears a bloodcurdling cry, issued in a voice that makes James Earl Jones sound like Peewee Herman: WILLARD! W-I-L-L-A-R-R-R-D!!!
Almost paralyzed with fear, MITT turns around slowly to see RAFALCA stalk slowly into the room and then do a few adorable little hops. (We'll have to let the CGI/ animatronic guys go to town on this.) The effect should be like a cross between the pig's head in The Lord of the Flies and the sinister metallic rabbit in Donnie Darko. Only much more disturbing. And with a little hat.
MITT: Rafalca! What are you doing here? And you can talk?! How can this be?! Am I going mad?
RAFALCA: Search your heart, Mitt. You know the answer already.
MITT looks confused.
RAFALCA: I am what the Greeks called your anima. What the Native Americans called your spirit guide.
MITT looks even more confused.
RAFALCA: I am your motivating force, Mitt. Your LACK OF CONSCIENCE.
RAFALCA: Yes, indeedy. And it's time to saddle up, pardner, and make another run at the White House.
MITT: But I couldn't even run for re-election in Massachussetts! People don't like me... Even back in France... The insults... some of them were in the subjunctive...
RAFALCA: But Mitt, you do not reckon with the Power of the Pac. Unlimited funds. From a cabal of billionaires, who will only ask for enormous tax breaks and a deregulation bonanza in return.
MITT suddenly looks interested: Where do I sign up?
RAFALCA: Beware the Power of the Faustian Pac. Once you have signed, forever will it dominate your destiny.
MITT: Cut the crap, Mr. Ed. Where do I sign?