The following is a brief bit of typically thoughtful prose composed in the aftermath of accidental comedy that was my nation's most recent Presidential election. Ah, the Mystery that is Democracy! As giggles subsided into gasps echoing down the bleak halls of recent history, I turned my literary attention to a true crisis in our time.

Yours in Confabulation, S. 2012

Cannabis Deprivation

Today, we have a President who has boldly sort'a proclaimed that he sort'a, kind'a smoked, uh, well, er, pot, actually choom or boo, in a time when our children need to hear this message. The ravages of Cannabis Depravation among our youth, particularly young, white males, is leading to a scourge of bad music and even physical deformities. The Lawrence Stanley Denton Foundation has well documented the instances of shrinking Hilarity Glands and overactive production of Seriousity neurotransmitters in the brains of weed starved kids. Another effect of the syndrome is formerly luxurious blond locks of hair turning white and falling out in clumps from the pates of previously handsome fellows in their late teens to early twenties.

In the most severe cases the Mary Jane malnourished are known to spontaneously grow wingtip shoes that cover their webbed feet, sprout uncomfortable worsted wool from their bodies in the form of poorly fitting and itchy suits and their faces blossom with horn-rimmed glasses that encrust their dilated eyes. They can eventually can be found prowling the streets of suburbia for days at a time accosting strangers with pleas that innocent, horrified citizens buy insurance from them. No. No. This is no joking matter. Yes. Yes. As the Revered St. Zimmerman said: "Everybody must get stoned!"

Indeed, it is difficult to overstate the immensity of the tragedy of Cannabis Deprivation Syndrome. Take the impact on just one community, Lavatown, NV. Once a thriving small city of suburban tracts surrounding the principle employer, The Lawrence Stanley Denton LavaLamp Factory, it is now a virtual ghost town. In the interest of full disclosure, The LSD estate endowed the research provided in this monogram through the good works of the Lawrence Stanley Denton Foundation, created as some small amends for the tragic proceeds of his cultural and financial empire and personal, willful abandonment of sanity while violating every law of god and man.

In any case, Lavatown, is largely abandoned. The LSD LavaLamp factory is shuttered and decaying, inhabited only by murders of crows and colonies of rabid bats that eat rampant beetles as big as small cars and gnaw on the skulls of hairless rats as large as cats. The streets of the once fair city are empty but for the clumps of white hair blowing like tumble weed in the desert wind. All of the grown ups have moved on, leaving their tidy homes for the safe shelter of dumpsters in Reno. They had no choice, of course. Their children were quite mad, prowling the streets with mom’s Pyrex mixing cups, knocking on doors that would never be answered, pleading “May I have a cup of choom? Will you buy insurance? Please vote for Willard “Mitt” Romney.”

In the early days of this catastrophe, The Centers for Unease Control (CfUC) proposed dumping large quantities of bong water into the local reservoir. The Bong Water Association, a major lobbying group, opposed this action and Congress refused to authorize Federal Agents to seize bongs except in the case of a Member of Congress of the opposing party getting caught actually huffing down a choker of kind bud. Thus, once again, our legislators found themselves in deadlock and reconciled to permit orgies in the offices of Senators with seniority to continue unabated, untaxed, and without interruption. However, it was stipulated that no more than three grams of the finest Peruvian cocaine, six magnums of expensive champagne, and four Thai trannies would be delivered between normal business hours (every ten minutes during two hour breaks between 1:PM and 4:PM). Otherwise, all the coke, hookers and booze was fine. But, no pot! “We have to draw the line somewhere!” proclaimed Senator Comedentures (R-AZ).

So, the CFuC turned to Plan B. Without explicit authorization, out of desperation, the Foggers, helicopter born bombs of a super-double-secret mixture of MDMA, 2Cb, and NO2 were deployed over the entire D. C. area. Alas, the only thing accomplished toward staunching the advance of the plague of Zombie Insurance Kids for Romney was the melting of their already quashed egos. Yes, already lacking any self-esteem or self-regard, the ego loss had no effect. The brave folks who executed this extraordinary and perilous mission did, however, come home to giggle quite a lot and hug everybody.

On September 12, 2012, Secret President of The World, Cheney V.4x, was informed of the unsanctioned and failed mission that he had sanctioned. He then made the most difficult decision of his life since he had to figure out if he wanted pickle relish on his hot dog, and mustard as well as ketchup. He ordered the “nukeyurl bombin’ of Lamptown.” “Do Belize, too. I’m sick of those whiners and I don’t care if they’re bilingual. I am too. Si, comprendo par lez voose!?!”; he continued. “Oh, do New York City, too! Pronto!!! Enough with that Jew bastard Mayor. Don’t tell Obama that Bloomass and The City are smoke. You don’t have to. Okay! You’ve got your fuckin’ orders.”

Twelve minutes and fourteen seconds after the order went out to Secret Military Command, fourteen million souls were no more casting a shadow upon liberty and All that is Right. Of those relieved of their corporeal baggage were some four-thousand and sixteen zombified Insurance and Romney election workers. A grateful nation bowed its head into a pile of radioactive ashes raining from a dark sky to give thanks to The Secret President and good riddance to Belize, that odious City of New York, its Jew bastard three-term Mayor, and noisy kids who smoked flowers.

Hic Finis Est, © Solomon 5/26/2012

An Election Autopsy…

Willard "Mitt" Romney

Dear Friends,

It’s been a few weeks since the recent Presidential election. Now that we’ve had a chance to observe the aftermath, it is time to perform the autopsy on the Romney/Ryan/Rove campaign. What have we learned?

Well, most obviously, the GOP gets its revenge in losing by eating its own. Sure, they gave old Dick Nixon another shot at the prize, but we saw how that turned out in the blaze of deliberate, plain stupid and public self immolation of his career and reputation. They shan't repeat that sort of error. Yes, no sooner was Mittens sent to rut in humiliating defeat by a skinny black guy with bigs ear and a funny name, a lousy economy limping too slowly into recovery, the longest war in our nation’s history wheezing to an indecisive end at the hands of folks who make bombs out of camel dung and kerosene, Romney started to plead that he was just misunderstood and Obama outbid him for the approval of Americans. Then the PigFest® began.

Swiftly his own people were upon him, gnawing at his skull, shredding his carcass with their angry beaks until his viscera lay in the hot sun hanging over the merciless, dusty Desert of Losers. The flesh between his ribs has become dried jerky and the vultures plucked his pearly whites from slack jaws. His eyeballs and liver, of course, were saved as appetizers for the Big Donors, but more on that in a moment.

As to Ryan? He is finished. This freakish product of a Star Trek transporter accident that melded the corporeal forms of Eddie Munster, Eddie Haskell and the pathological, wounded mind of a child terrified by the knowledge of his own mortality while loathing all of those who represent the prospect of Birth that inevitably begets Death, everyone his senior or possessing a vagina. Paul knows that he is on The List. He’s lying low in his secret bunker. He’s reading comic books with a flash light under the bed covers. He is fervently praying that Mother, the Great Teat of The Grand Old Party, will not crash his own party and grind his flesh to paste under her elephantine hooves for his very poor grades in civics class and A.P. Pandering to numb skulls.

Paul "Puppy" Ryan

Then there is the matter of Karl Rove. I will now join with my good friends on the other side of the aisle and help toss the fat punk's carcass into the frier before throwing the bones boiled and shorn of flesh into the dumpster. The most admirable and reliable behavior amongst these thugs is how they detest the aroma of a loser, the stink of defeat, and will swiftly abandon their own after getting nothing but derision for the three billion spent trying unsuccessfully to buy a nation.

Karl "Porky" Rove

Qui Fueunt Sed Nunc Ad Astra, G.O.P.

SCS

Attention: Voters in the United States of America!

Dear Friends,

This man is a dangerous, unprincipled, compulsive liar and a religious fanatic He believes that it is his destiny to usher in a "New Jerusalem on Earth" to create a global theocracy administered by the priests of The Church of Latter Day Saints (Mormons). This mission will be accomplished following an apocalypse in the ancient Holy Land. Thus it was foretold to crazy Joe Smith by an angel named Maroni and supposedly from another planet while the extraterrestrial angel was vacationing in the woods of upstate New York.

Willard "Mitt" Romney

We cannot allow this lunatic have his hands on nuclear weapons. Let me make it really plain: we do not want this bozo to have his finger on the button that will provide him with what he believes are God given tools to invoke Armageddon. If you doubt this, do your own research on The Church o' LDS.

I should finally add, I don't personally give a damn what anybody believes. I'm an atheist and all religions seem pretty whacky to me. From animists to onion heads in saffron robes, any stripe of Christian, the several of Islam, folks that pray to elephant headed fat guys, the several flavors of Jews that I grew up with… the entire spectrum. All I'm saying is that it is not a good idea to give a deceitful yokel who is looking forward to the end of The World the means to pull off such a stunt.  

Res Ipsa Loquitor,

SCS 

Mitt the Undead…

Dear Friends,

Editor’s Note: As we left off in our last post, the Romneys had quite a situation on their hands. Young Willard “Mitt” Romney was a corpse, nice hair cut chewed off, brain devoured by the insane beast Santorum. Little Ricky was now in the hands of “The Law’, sequestered and out of touch with his handlers and the press in a secure location in the bowels of a secret Federal prison below one of many cloud hidden mountains hollowed by centuries of coal mining in the wilds of Montana. Per Executive Order sDC143593.B-45045.a539G he would likely not be heard from until a Marshal Court convenes at US Base Alpha Omega in Senegal in 2013, if ever. There is a history of military planes mysteriously disappearing en-route to undisclosed locations, all hands lost over the vast mid-Atlantic.

Of course, the Romney family was not entirely unprepared for the demise of young Willard, er, Mitt, his skull gnawed, his scalp ingurgitated by the demon possessed Catholic cannibal Santorum. They had seen their plans to arm The Church of Latter Day Saints with atomic weapons thwarted more than once before. It was old George’s 1968 campaign for the Republican Party Nomination against The Devil Nixon, that Quaker snake in the grass, that yanked the football out of their hands. Then, as Willard, er, Mitt, competed with John McCain in 2008 for his own nomination, the foreign born and Episcopalian menace cheated the elders yet again from their true destiny as the most powerful and ruthless rulers of The World.

This time, nothing would stand in their way. The clan leaned back and stared at their great progenitor, Parley P. Pratt. He was the wily great-great-great grandfather of Mitt, and his life and demise stood today as yesterday as a beacon of hope against hope and perverse cunning in the face of doom. The inspirational tale is inscribed in the margins of the old family bible, or as it secretly known among The Select, “The Great Book of Hoohah”.

While returning from a horseback missionary trip to the southern United States in 1857, Parley was being tracked by one Hector McLean, he the legal husband of one of Pratt's then fourteen wives, Eleanor McLean. Pratt had met Eleanor in California, where Pratt was presiding over a church mission. In San Francisco, Eleanor had joined the LDS Church and had also had her oldest sons baptized before running off to Salt Lake City with the not so right Reverend Pratt. 


Hector’s belly was swollen with murderous rage at his now former wife’s conversion and elopement, termed a “Celestial Marriage” with Parley and his harem. Oh, there was also the small issue of Pratt kidnapping Hector’s kids.

Now, things did not end well for Parley. Eventually he got shot up good by Hector and took a full two and half days to die in agony, slowly bleeding to death amidst much praying and wailing by the righteous of his community, as there was no doctor within two hundred miles. Still, he made it two years between stealing the wife and getting caught up with in Utah. In the meanwhile, he had sired about a gross of young Pratts and therein lies the inspiration for the Romney Mob’s grand plan. Always have a backup!

See, after taking a whopping mess o’ ass whippin’ from the treacherous Nixon Monster, old George did not slink off to merely lick his wounds whilst enjoying the boobie prize of being appointed his new boss’ Secretary of Housing and Urban Development. No, he set his staff busy organizing a secret plan at the behest of his true overlords back at The Tabernacle. Romney had sired a son back in 1947. Yes! Willard “Mitt” Romney would be cloned in a secret installation powered by mystically inspired technology deep in the bowels of the most Holy of Holies, far underground and secreted from spying eyes by the Great Salt Lake. There the clone had gestated for the past sixty-five years, naked in an artificial womb, fed a nutrient slurry by tubes drilled into his skull, waiting for the day he might be called upon should disaster again strike The Romney Mob and their Mormon Mafia. That day had come!!!

Now, the Mitt V.2x was physically identical to the V.1 model in physiognomy and stature, indeed in every obvious detail, except… well, the creature had spent six decades submerged in a giant tube of formaldehyde and peroxide perfused gelatinous aspic (six tons were allegedly hoisted by the Romney Mob from the old Meyerson & Lipschitz Gefilte Company back in 1947, but the charges were never proven). Thus his complexion was rather sallow. But, artificial tanning lotion gave the new model a “good enough” tangerine look for the campaign upcoming in Florida’s primary. There were also those vacant skull plugs for the nutrient broth that had to be piped into his skull. Those could be plugged up with Nutty Putty®, so that was not a major problem unless his brain started to a’fever.

More of an issue was the fact that the “New Mitt” had never eaten solid food in his entire six-plus decades. Doctors for the Double Secret Tabernacle Celestial Medical Cooperative knew that this would ensure that their creation would be entirely incontinent and prone to shitting his pants in the face of all the corn dogs, blueberry pancakes, cheese grits, peppered mac n’ cheese, raw oysters, fried grasshoppers and various other regional delicacies that must be consumed on the campaign trail. Thus he was equipped with a state of the art and scientifically designed odor-neutralizing full body diaper. From neck to ankles, cuff to collar this brand new Republican front-runner would be swathed in yummy, fragrant warmth. Both the candidate and his electorate would be protected for up to one full month from poop and urine flowing effulgently from the Mitt V.2x Artificial Candidate Alimentary System®. However, this solution presented yet another challenge to getting the newly minted man out on the road.

You see, the full body diaper was rather bulky. The New Mitt looked like the Michelin Man once the dang thing started to expand all full of Contained-fragrance/Fragrance-Enhanced® potentially presidential excrement. The top Mormon Costume Engineers, the guys (they’re all guys) who design the vestments and sacred underwear for the lady folk to sew, they got to work on Double-double Super Secret Project X-M2 (The New Body). It produced, after an intense two weeks without sleep in their underground lair a very stylish set of XXX-L farmer’s overalls. The Elders deemed them perfect for the upcoming Romney campaign stops throughout southern and western states, and the Romney Mob Board of Misdirectors approved the final design for production.

Yet again, however, a roadblock to getting their new man into action loomed. The human-like, though handsome blob that emerged from the gelatin tank had never spoken nor even learned to speak in his nutrient rich but soundless incubation. This situation was addressed with the implantation of a small digital chip, modified from a talking greeting card purchased at the local Piggly Wiggly®. He could now say, “Hello. I am Mitt Romney. I am Mitt Romney. I hope that you will vote for me. I hope that you will vote for me.” over and over and just flawlessly.

Still, he had also not learned to walk, use a pen to write, nor understand that a pen was, indeed, to write with. They went through a gross of Bic® pens as Mitt V.2X chewed and sucked on them, occasionally stabbing himself or his tutors in the face with the sharp end. As a result, the entire project was delayed for two additional weeks as the candidate was fitted with a glass eye and crowns on his front teeth. Eventually, in exasperation, the team went back to the drawing board.

There was sufficient room in Mitt’s sacred overalls to conceal a mechanized armature, a wearable robotic skeleton, developed by Top Secret Super-Duper Secret Mechanized War of The Angels Team Yoo-Hoo. Visionary scientists worked in the sub-sub-sub basement lab below the cave beneath the Tabernacle’s lower basement sub-floor. Again striving relentlessly without sleep in total darkness but for the light of Divine Inspiration, their prototype was refitted for rapid deployment in support of the Mitt V.2x campaign. With this complex device and remote robotic control, the faux man could manipulate, albeit crudely, writing implements and be of no danger to himself nor others when handling such things as forks and corkscrews. The only thing missing was the walking module.

Now, here’s the brilliant part! With the extra-extra-extra large denim hick outfit he was starting to look the part of a real conservative candidate with appeal in cowboy, cotton and petrochemical states. The team solved the problem with the Nutty-Putty oozing out of the holes in his head by duct taping a straw hat down just over his ears. That nicely completed the ensemble. What was needed now was to garner the attention of the youth vote, you know, the hep crowd.  A remote controlled skate board would not only solve the walking problem and get him out to meet and greet and mechanically shake the hands of regular folks who had no money, but really get the attention of those chicks who dig rebels on skinny rubber wheels. Some of them are old enough to vote, even.

Stay Tuned…

Little Ricky Santorum…

I walk into my office HQ for Anton Saurian, Private Dick, at the usual hour. It’s the crack of noon. I toss my fedora across the room to land, as always, precisely upon the noggin of my prized antique bust of Lady Columbia poised atop the file cabinet to the rear of Ms Gillary’s desk and my petite but ample assistant pours me the customary lunch of chilled gin with hemp garnish from the holy Dewar Flask of the Hell Bent Sacrament. I barely begin to cleanse my sinuses with its rank yet zesty perfume, feel the giddy yet pernicious warmth of its flavor tumble toward my gullet, as she plops the dossier upon my desk. I light a cigarette and regard her with cold dispassion belying the tension in my loins.

I know this is not going to be good news. Gillary glares at me with that concerned mommy look and her pose, like that of a 19^th Century Prussian Field Marshall standing for a portrait, demands that I give the work immediate attention. Well, I do love a woman in uniform, but could do without that battle steed in the picture. Whatever. I quaff my treacherous confection, suck hot gas into my lungs, and open the file. Might as well get to it, whatever IT is.

Dag’nam’itt! It’s a pile of hurt for a former associate in a certain business that needs no further discussion. He is now a guest of the Governor, under arrest and in the custody of the Sheriff while awaiting his day in court later this afternoon. Before I even dig into this pile of poop, I can see that things are not looking good for my old acquaintance and apparently new client, Little Ricky Santorum. At the top of this steaming mess of pooty is the mug shot. Little Ricky looks like hell.

Beneath the license plate upon his chest bearing the banner “Inmate: 200114” I can see that his trademark sleeveless sweater vest is in tatters. He was always a snappy, if conservative dresser. He is beat up pretty good, too. The boys downtown must’a had a good time with him. More troubling, though, is the lady’s wig, a sort’a Monroe kind’a job, and the lip stick smeared across his kisser. His mascara is run. He must’a been bawlin’ like a baby under the relentless rain of fists hammerin’ at his mug before they drug his tarted up carcass into the lock-up. He’s also gained a lot’a of weight since I last saw him and sports quite a set of falsies.

None of this makes any sense. Ricky always kept in fine trim. He is a kind’a health nut and I know his Missus cooked healthy. The deal with the make-up, the wig is also odd. Yeah, he’s a pretty boy, alright, but not a flamer. He might get a beer or a few in him and spout off about what he called the “gay menace.” I give it no never mind at the time, but he does seem kind’a preoccupied with what other fellows might be up to behind closed doors. Then again, he has fourteen kids with Mrs. Santorum and likes to mention how big his John Thompson is. So, I figure him for a real man and this thing with his appearance going all to shit and showing up dressed like Jane Mansfield just doesn’t square with my previous impressions.

It gets worse, though, as I dig into the documents. He’s arrested for being involved in a “disturbance” in an alley behind the Cat-Cat club on Market Street. A kitchen worker at the joint is sent out to empty trash in the dumpster. He’s shocked to find a blond, supposed woman in a miniskirt and fishnet stockings apparently asleep or passed out cradling a male corpse who is seemingly scalped in her blood soaked arms. She turns out to be he; my pal Ricky. The deceased man is subsequently identified as one Willard Mitt Romney (born March 12, 1947), reported missing from his campaign for the Republican primary for President of the United States the night prior. DNA testing of the contents of Ricky’s stomach are currently underway to determine if they contain Mr. Romney’s hair cut.

Now, it gets even more worse. Roused from his perhaps inebriated slumber, Ricky assaults the officers summoned to the dumpster by the club’s owner, the well respected Manuel Castro de Garcia. Santorum is seen on police video raving about Cactchoolics, Moomest perspecuctions, Chewish anti-papist plotters and Oberbombers as he takes repeated taser hits and the massive application of mace, seeming to be energized by the experience. Finally, in a frothing fit of what appears to be continued howling in Esperanto, he is brought to his knees although this is not visually recorded as an officer mashes the alleged assailant’s face into the cruiser windshield in front of the camera. There is, however, a sound that indicates that Ricky is being beaten thoroughly with a trash can or trash cans on his head and shoulders.

Well, I got’ta go. Little Ricky is down at the station and I’ll give the punk a look-see for myself. I suppose that then I’ll then head over to the mansion and see how the Missus is fairing. The coppers likely have been in touch with her, and if they haven’t she may have noticed her missing underwear or the VISA bills for those high heels she never bought. I know her brood of shitty brats, and I’ll wager they don’t even notice that dad hasn’t called home or are grateful for the circumstance. As for that Romney clan, they’re on their own, I reckon.  That mob knows what to do in these tight spots. The patient execution of wrath by the courts may satisfy them to balance the account with the loss of their beautiful prince and his high priced scalp. Maybe not. Yes, they do know what to do…

Hic Finis Est,

S

Romney's Golden Nose

Dear Friends,

More news on the tragic hair gel poisoning of Presidential candidate Mitt Romney. This follows his recovery from the emergency nosectomy and full body depilation. The following report was filed by Normand Pudvacker of the AP just this afternoon.

Kludge Ergo Foo,

S

From Columbia, South Carolina

Former Governor Mitt Romney was last evening near death, bald over his entire body and without a nose was immersed in a bathtub full of ice and Nair® . As doctors struggled to save him, a Jewish Rabbi was summoned to Columbia’s Our Lady of Blind Hope Hospital from Ox Pit South Carolina, some one-hundred and twelve miles away, to deliver last rights. Rabbi Edelmensch was the closest thing that the hospital administration could find for a Mormon minister. The kindly nuns administering to Mr. Romney’s care provided the Rabbi with some hastily scribbled words for the departed. As the candidate was heavily sedated, he never knew the difference.

Amazingly, at four-thirty this morning, Romney rallied and regained consciousness with surprising vigor. Dr. Professor Yogi Vinnie Bum Raisin, the candidate’s political and personal care assistant was instantly summoned from the campaign’s rented penthouse headquarters and promptly put down his hookah to make his way to the hospital. (See sidebar story: Mysterious Fire at Romney Headquarters Probed.)

By cell phone while in transit to Blind Hope, the Dr. Professor was informed of his client’s noseless and hairless condition. Given the hour he knew there was no opportunity to acquire a toupee for former Governor Romney, but the campaign’s tour stretch limo provided a fine swatch of lush, black shag carpeting. Deftly removing a one foot portion with the switchblade that Rum Raisin reliably kept in his left boot, a fairly suitable rug was fashioned for Romney’s now smooth and shiny pate. The Piggly Wiggly up the street from the hospital was open, and luckily had penny nails on sale, as well as a serviceable, if not ideal, rubber mallet from the automotive section.

Now, with only hours to spare before a previously scheduled press conference, the media ablaze with rumors of Romney’s condition and potential need to drop out of the race, a new nose was required. Rum Raisin made a few calls to medical colleagues, both on the eastern seaboard of the USA, and as far away as Pyongyang, North Korea. No suitable transplant donor could be found. His final call was to Mr. Sikh's Custom Jewelry Shoppe on Magnolia Terrace. The proprietor was a longtime associate of Rum Raisin and could be entrusted to provide a splendid nose of gold on an emergency basis, and he would keep his yap shut about who came up with the cash for it. Thus it was swiftly back to the Piggly Wiggly to fetch a bungee cord to affix the new nose to the presidential hopeful’s puss.

Everything seemed to be coming together very smoothly for the campaign by 4PM today. The candidate was reinvigorated in overcoming the tragedy of addiction to hair gel. As Rum Raisin offered to slather a handful of Redken® Certified Hypoallergenic and Non Addictive Smoothing Mousse upon the shag about to be hammered on to Romney’s skull, he declined and stated that his aides should simply hammer away.  Bellowed Romney, “My hair gel days are over! Today I have a new life and a fine, fine new nose!!!” With that, the head nailing done, the golden nose was bungeed to Mitt’s head and, after a few adjustments to get the thing on straight and right side up, the exuberant presidential contender expressed his thanks to all the good folks at Blind Hope Hospital and to his own staff. He will appear to the public via television, radio and Facebook® at 8PM EDT, this evening.

Reported by Normand Pudvacker of the AP; 1/19/12

Mitt Romney's Bad Habit…

Dear Friends,

The following is fresh off the AP Wire. Dateline Columbia, S.C. and reported by Melton Tirebiter, Tuesday 17th of January, 2012.

S

Candidate for the Republican party’s nominee in the 2012 race for President of The United States, Mitt Romney, was stricken ill while at a campaign fundraiser and primary race rally in Columbia, S.C. As the former Governor of Massachusetts lay suddenly incapacitated on the floor behind the dais, his personal holistic medical assistant, Dr. Professor Yogi Vinnie Bum Raisin, rushed from the auditorium to Romney’s aid as his patient lay apparently choking on his own vomit.

The candidate’s tongue was seen to enlarge and extend from his mouth heavenward as it turned a luxuriant shade of purple. Dr. Professor Yogi Vinnie Bum Raisin applied a silver spoon obtained from the head table to restrain the groaning tongue and then aspirate the candidate in a procedure know as the “French Kiss of Life.” Upon his first exuberant inhalation, Romney was then observed to writhe and suffer further symptoms. Large tufts of vibrantly orange hair emerged from under the cuffs of his pants and shirt. The hair on his well trimmed head suddenly grew six inches in three seconds. It then turned paisley with a day-glo sheen in the background color. He began to sweat profusely as he was taken by emergency ambulance to the nearest hospital, Our Lady of Blind Hope.

As he was removed from the auditorium he was heard to mutter “Hrrrmph-nonnnn-quaff-nah-nonnnn.” At this time there is no word on the meaning of this message from his bewildered but hopeful campaign staff.

Once in the Emergency Operating Room, it was immediately clear that Romney was suffering from Aveda Hair Gel poisoning. His nostrils were utterly clogged with cement hard clots of the stuff. Again, there was no comment from the staff as to their man’s addiction to his wife’s hair products. Nonetheless, having failed to dislodge the gunk from his proboscis with surgical tongs, an emergency Nosectomy was performed. The patient was then placed in a cooling bath of nepilatory Nair and ice-cubes from the local Piggly Wiggly to lower his seething body temperature and remove all unsightly body hair, as well as every other follicle on his hide.

Surgeons, joined by Professor Yogi Vinnie Bum Raisin have declared the procedures a total success. Campaign spokeswoman, Nancy Spankmy, vows that the presently noseless and hairless candidate, Romney, will be back on the campaign trail in days. His new slogan, she predicts, will be “Flumph’n ush Conumfha. Romphee in Fwo-Fhousand un Twelfe. I Shtansh fner da Noshelesh!”

From Colombia S.C. Melton Tirebiter