Mitt Romney, highway litterbug.
Well, let’s get to it. I’d bagged this column last year. One Texas paper ran it a few weeks, whereupon both its ten-year editor and its “politics” section went Hoffa. And a Georgia paper printed one about cross-torching Klanizona’s SB 1070… whereupon my peachtree liebenstraum went Hoffa, too. (Go figure.) Whoops.
Meanwhile, our “change agent,” Barack, has busied himself spit-polishing the Ratpublicans’ pinkie rings and ponying up his papers and whatnot, the red states’ve elected a pack of moon-howling loons, and the mission-critical national debt ceiling’s been turned into a political lever Archimedes would’ve loved (were it not being wielded like Jeff Dahmer’s fondue fork by said moon-howling loons).
Anyways, I’ve felt like Flounder, right after Dean Wormer expelled the Deltas. I haven’t been quite that blotto, and I haven’t yacked, but you get the idea. I’ve been pretty much hopeless.
But then I thought about things. Respectably, I remembered Michigan in ’00, when we progressives voted McCain the winner in the Ratpublican primary, just to give Dubya (and his water-hauler, the porcine, economy-wrecking Fat John Engler) a Pele-style bicycle-boot in the nards. Probably less respectably, I also thought about Larry Kroger’s gridiron tryst with Mayor DePasto’s daughter, but that’s neither here nor there. But fun’s fun, man. To paraphrase Janis, we get it while we can.
Now, I’m no Egyptian street vendor (though they gross more than the unemployed in Missouri), but when it comes to likely-futile and probably-stupid gestures, I hearken back to Otter’s speech at the frat house… and I figure I’m just the guy to do it.
So in the spirit of the message on the Delta Tau Chi unauthorized parade float, here comes a multipart series on what we progressive faux-Tienanmenistas need to bring to the tavern about the gaggle of brownshirts gearing up to expend millions of dollars (no doubt cadged from square-state collection plates nationwide) in their various attempts to snatch the nuclear football away from Barry Hussein.
Let’s start with my fellow Michigan refugee (before unemployment hit three jillion): Mitt Romney.
And, hey, just what kind of name is “Mitt,” anyway? That’s something into which one flings horsehide at high velocity, isn’t it? Hm… Maybe the name works just fine. Gonna ponder that….
First, I gotta say that whenever I see Mitty’s smarmy-rich mug, all I can think about is a dog. Seamus. See, Seamus was the Romney clan’s Irish Setter. Back in Boston in ’83, Pere Romney decided to stuff poor Seamus into a crate, strap it atop the grocery getter, rig up a little windshield for his non-coach passenger, and then point the hood ornament at Ontario & drop the hammer.
Predictably, the roof and windows of the Romneymobile wound up being slathered with the former contents of Seamus’ innards. I am not making this up. The dog really did that. So did Seamus.
Spectacular bit of stunt-driving, that. Joey Chitwood would’ve been impressed. Heck, I’d have bought a ticket, if it’d come with earplugs to keep me from experiencing the full-throated death-cry of an Irish Setter for hours on end. I’ll betcha $10 that Mitt’s toddler-hauler had cars pulling over in front of it (and deer running for the woods) clear to the other side of Buffalo.
And let’s not forget –this wasn’t a brief “oops.” The slog from Beantown to the Canuck side of Lake Huron is twelve hours long, baby. And Romney’s Chevy Caprice Estate came equipped with a 454-cubic-inch V-8. It drank go-juice like I slug sangria at Hooters. Mitty must’ve stopped to gas up (and gaze at that crate) like, five times. I’m dying to know: what’d he say to Seamus, at those moments when the kids were inside the truck stops shagging Mountain Dews?
“Sorry, Seamus, but we alpha males with opposable thumbs gotta make the decisions in this life… and, say, who’s been feeding you corn?”
Chuuu-rist. This mope, who’s responsible for blowing out Seamus’ intestines (and presumably, the poor thing’s vocal chords, too) -- who had his political rump handed to him in ’08 by the crotchetiest Republigeezer since Barry Goldwater (also an Arizonan… coincidence? I think not) -- wants to be Prezzdent?
Hell, at least Mitty was pro-choice back when he tried to give Teddy Kennedy the Kopechne treatment. And at least he enacted what -- he’ll now call -- “Obamacare” for the good people of Massachusetts.
But we progressives need a chain-driven country-scaring nutbag to win this mashup. So, in the Reepub primary parade?
Mitt should ride on the roof.