Mitt.V.2x and His Rise and Demise…

Dear Friends,

As we left Mitt V.2x, he was ready to join the campaign in the guise of Mitt V.1. Nobody should be the wiser, or so it is supposed. There were, admittedly, some kinks to work out, but things seemed to be sailing smoothly until a stop at A.B. Won Pat International Airport, Island of Guam for a little meet and greet with the local League of Women Voters prior to the upcoming Republican primary, now an apparent cinch. Little Ricky was out of the race and likely headed toward an anguished end after thorough debriefing on that cannibalism incident. Word has it that “Uncle Dick” himself, fresh from his deal with getting a working heart from that kid dead in the mysterious car wreck mix-up, was going to personally supervise. Anyhow, Newt is the only remaining trouble spot, though surprises can always pop up on the trail to The White House. Options have to remain open. ~ Ed. Note.

Mitt.V.2x is now on wheels and ready to roll. He is poised at the edge of the runway after being debarked from his private jet, having been borne prostrate and in servo-lock mode by his manservants before greeting the press waiting on the tarmac. Once made erect and placed on his robo-motorized skateboard, he was activated with an injection by Doctor Wellbody: 120mg of WhooHooYeah® (Adrenochrome HCL), a fine product from the good folks at Phiztter Pharm® (a wholly owned subsidiary of Bain Capital, Inc®). Administered directly to the base of his skull and into the brain stem of the marginally mutant replicate human, the effect was immediate and electrifying.

Apparently extensive company funded and FDA approved field tests of the medication on cloned human beings of perhaps inbred genetic inheritance from generations of polygamous sires of a common and deeply weird great-great-great grandfather had not been conducted. Who knew that the fervently enthusiastic banjo playing genes of old Parley P. Pratt would suddenly engage and their impulses emerge with such gusto as the inanimate Mitt clone sprang to life with the giddy zest of a good ol’ time picker. Mitt seized the plinky-plink meskeeter-box from a young Biff Puddfusser. There Biff was, the son of steely eyed Rear Admiral Puddfusser (thrice decorated former quartermaster of the USS Brigham Young) in shock in the front row of the Yellow Hollow Pacific High School Blue Grass band as the stately handsome and likely Republican candidate for President of these United states come over on a CREDO Model 7 Board® to swipe his instrument in a swoop with a whoosh.

Next thing you know, Mitt.V.2x is wranglin’ with those silvery strings, liquid notes are a’flying as a crazy drizzle of mercury from some heavenly cloud wreathed like it was smiled upon by god’aw’mighty. And, he’s a’yoddlin’ like what’all!!! “Yo-dee-lae-hee-hoo-hee-ha-ha-ha!!!” It was grand, alright!

Then the drug wore off. Mitt.V.2x got stiff as a board, turned all greenish, the Nutty Putty plugs in his head popped out of his fevered skull. His brain was boilin’. The straw cowboy hat flew off his skull like a skillet top on firecracker. The speech program chip melted back to its “normal” or default state and Wiilard, er, Mitt.V.2x could only be heard to gasp and murmur as he drooled to repeat again and again, “I am Mitt Romney. Please vote for me. I am Mitt Romney. Please vote for me.” Next, the projectile vomiting and profound flatulence started. Must have been those Micronesian spicy wild boar hot dogs with Cycad relish that set off his ill-trained sphincters and tender digestive glands.

The entire crowd, the ROTC cadets, Reserve troops and their officers of the Joint Force Headquarters-Guam at Fort Juan Muna, that little band, all their teachers from Freaklin HS, even the cops and Secret Service guys run for cover. But, the candidate is frozen stiff as a toad under a rock in February up in Wasilla, AK, near where you can see Siberia (that’s in Russia, y’know) on a clear day.

Next, a fearsome gust of ocean wind came up. It was all downhill from here for Mitt V.2x… indeed it is! His undead frame slowly animates under the meteorological pressure of tropical breezes and slowly, then more swiftly, he rolls and accelerates on his rubber wheels along the sloping grade of the runway toward a providently placed gap in the fence. Disaster is averted as the fake Mitt skid-addles just so fine into the marshy rift between old and indigenous farmer Hector Hoothefukahwey’s place and the airport runway strip. Fortunately for the phony Romney, Hoothefukahwey was nearby, slopping his hogs, as he heard a “splursh” sound, some subsequent gurgling and ran to investigate what all was going on at the edge of his small farm.

He discovers a man lashed to a skateboard, dressed in a nice pair of overalls but with holes in his head. The apparent corpse is as firm and upright as a plank of Ifil, the official state tree of Guam. The tall and handsome greenish creature startled Mr. Hoothefukahwey in saying: “I am Mitt Romney. Please vote for me. I am Mitt Romney. Please vote for me.”

Of course, Hoothefukahwey understands that he is presented with perhaps both an opportunity and a burden, here. He opts for the former. “Can ya slop the hogs?” The reply, “I am Mitt Romney. Please vote for me.” The wise farmer takes that for a yes. This specimen is fit to slop the hogs alright and likely will work for vittles and a stay in the barn. Hoothefukahwey has such accommodations in the stall next to the old barrel where Bossie’s noggin is cornin’ to make the head cheese. Hoothefukahwey’s a generous man so he fixes a fresh pile of straw a’top the manure and sets up the “presidential candidate” on his skateboard for a night’s rest before turning in himself. He carelessly leaves the wick on the kerosene lamp on the sill still lit before heading in to get some few hours of dreamless slumber ‘till the sun comes up.

Hoothefukahwey awakes before dawn to a horrible fire in and out and around the barn. Pigs are running every which way. His prize and only goat, Eulie, is perched with all fours atop the slender fence post by the corner of the barn as flames lick her ankles and she bleats terribly. Through the smoggy, cindered smoke of the dung fed pyre, Hoothefukahwey can see the silhouette of a large man erect and with an odd emerald glistening goop slathering from his ears, bubbling, frothing and seemingly with a life or energy of its own. This figure is apparently immune to the scorching flames engulfing his limbs. The strange man again slowly murmurs the phrase “I am Mitt Romney. Please vote for me. I am Mitt Romney. Please vote for me…” over and over as the conflagration consumes his fancy-pants overalls and his skin peels away from the undying body in rags of flesh burning in its own fat.

As the sun finally rises over farmer Hoothefukahwey’s small slice of island paradise, now a smoldering wreck reeking of pork renderings and sizzled excrement, his hovel a pile of ashes, his livestock barbecue, the corpse of the stranger that came to him with so much promise of low-cost labor still looming upon his skateboard, standing tall, quietly, gently, reasonably pleading “I am Mitt Romney. Please vote for me. I am Mitt Romney. Please vote for me.”

“By the gods Puntan and Fu’una, by all the gods of The Chamorro!”, weeps poor farmer Hector Hoothefukahwey, “Take this beast from my life! He has laid waste to all that I have owned, taken my livelihood, my pigs, my only goat, and my home. And, he won’t shut the fuck up!!!”

The Mitt.V.2x continues to intone “I am Mitt Romney. Please vote for me. I am Mitt Romney. Please vote for me.” Hoothefukahwey can only weep.

Hic Finis Est,

S

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

The Continuing Crisis in America Politics…

Dear Friends,

It was with sadness that today the Republican National Committee announced an unprecedented shake up in the race toward the nomination of their Presidential candidate. This comes with the demise of the leader of the PAC and the astonishing disappearance of one fellow contender and the apparently self-inflicted seclusion of another.

The body of former Governor Mitt Romney was discovered in a trench roadside of Interstate Highway 580, just outside of Reno, Nevada nearby the popular Mustang Ranch & Bordello. His 2011 Chevy Suburban was upended and aflame, and the corpse was found some few yards away from the wreck. Nevada State Troopers reporting to the scene discovered the candidate apparently deceased, and his abdomen torn open. Subsequent examination by the Coroner’s Office revealed that his liver had gone missing. However, his hair was perfect.

At the time of the tragic wreck, neighbors in a trailer park adjacent to the scene of the suspicious incident made several and repeated calls to 911 reporting the sound of a collision and reported seeing a Cadillac Escalade or similar vehicle piloted by an unknown driver fleeing the scene. It appeared to have contained, in addition to the male driver, as many as a dozen occupants including a woman and perhaps ten or more children. The vehicle bore no license plates but did sport a Santorum for President in 2012 bumper sticker.

Meanwhile, a Mrs. Petunia Philomathia of Lot 114 Dusty Meadows Park independently made several calls pleading for help from the Washoe County Regional Animal Control Unit. She reported seeing a very large, black, bat-like creature with a human-like head crested in white as it was hovering over the horizon at what would have been the scene of the fatality involving candidate Romney. In her account, the flying beast was carrying in its jaws what appeared to be the entrails of prey. Following repeatedly being told by authorities to sleep it off, the calls ended with one final sobbing plea. We have sought Mrs. Philomathia out for comment, but found her trailer home abandoned. Police are now investigating her disappearance.

Today, we learn that Romney is dead, large pieces of his viscera gone missing, Rick Santorum and his family of twelve have disappeared, although they have been reportedly spotted by security cameras at the Laogog International Airport Ice Cream Bar. Newt Gingrich is refusing to take calls from the press. He is said by his aides to be recuperating from an intestinal disorder arising from the over-consumption of fatty organ meats, but is expected back on the campaign trail on Halloween Night for a vampire-theme gala fundraiser.

So, where does this leave the Republican Party? Ron Paul is sidelined with loose dentures, Irritable Bowel Syndrome and latent, blithering craziness. Donald Trump threatens to throw his hat into the ring, but is said to be demanding a better hair cut, all the atom bombs up front, and seventy-six virgins, all blonde, upon sealing the deal. The Republicans are having a tough time finding even one virgin in the party above majority age. The Donald has responded that he is willing to accept anything they got in terms of virgins. Thus negotiations continue in the face of a possible brokered convention. The front runner, according to Carl Rove, is an unnamed, corpulent, misogynist, homophobic racist with an expected lifespan of about three months after a supposed election before he succumbs to exploding heart disease or a near fatal stroke that sends him into dementia and possibly launching nukes at Grand Luxembourg.

In a related story, Rush Limbaugh is now facing arrest in Papua, New Guinea, having been apprehended for the abduction of a fourteen year old transexual and subsequent hostage taking at the famed House of Fun By The Beach. He is said to be barricaded with the boy, or girl, whatever, inside his bungalow and heavily armed, massively stoned on Oxycodone®, and threatening to fire his sponsors if they don’t agree with him about every rancid, nutty thought that crosses his fevered mind. Local police continue to negotiate with him, offering more and stronger drugs if he’ll just get off the radio and shut up.

We will bring you further developments as the come in.

Res Ipsa Loquitor,

S

As to the February 23rd Republican blabberfest, er, primary debate… to a man, those pompous idiots seemed deeply insecure in their own masculinity, afraid of women, black and brown people of either sex, and cowards in the face of love. It's difficult for me to figure out which was the most odious of the sordid lot.

Whatever. If Santorum does get the nomination, I'm looking forward to Obama finally becoming fed up with the ghastly tactics of his Republican rivals. He finally does the angry black dude-thing and just punches the runt in the snoot during a live TV debate. It'll be like that scene where Eddy Haskell finally pushes Beaver Cleaver a tad to far and winds up with a bloody nose. The President will then loom over the little creep, fists clenched, and shouts down like Moses from on top of the mountain, "Hey, punk! I am the President of these United States. When I stand, everybody stands in my presence. Get your skinny ass off the floor!!!"

Itty-bitty Ricky then crawls with what alacrity his jellified limbs can summon. He is sobbing, snot and tears and shame running down his squirrel-like and busted mug as he scrambles, weeping, off to the wings of the stage where he wails for G-d in High Heaven to rescue him from the Black Demon sent on the Black Throated Wind swirling out of ancient nights in the Arabian desert. No help is forthcoming. Off camera the audience can hear the merciless pounding of our President's heels upon the punk's neck and wretched cries for mercy for the doomed. Then there is silence.

The President returns to his podium. He straightens his tie. There is the merest blemish of sweat glinting upon his brow. He smiles broadly and addresses a grateful nation. He asks, quite calmly: "Do you have any questions?"

Res Ipsa Loquitur,

S

The recent signing of the National Defense Authorization Act by President Obama was an act of shameless cowardice by a man sworn to defend the constitution. Yet he is approving a law that affords the state the right to indefinitely detain without trial any citizen accused of pretty well anything. The ongoing dark comedy and menace of the Republican race for their party’s presidential nomination, the evil lies, distortions, and outright contempt for simple human decency displayed by self-proclaimed patriots who would sell their mother’s, sister’s and brother’s rights in exchange for the consideration of multi-billionaire profiteers have together caused me to fall into desperation and gloom.

Still, I cannot give up all hope. We are a great nation that has, in its darkest hours, redeemed itself. We are a resourceful people. We are a nation born of deep exasperation with the cunning soul of a stowaway rat fleeing a sinking ship and the agitation of an electrified key riding the tail of Ben Franklin’s kite in the midst of a railing storm on a gloom benighted dusk… or was it a dawn? Truly, we are a nation of improvisers and clowns. Who better to turn to but Nobody’s Fool, Wavy Gravy!

Some years ago, my friend Wavy proposed Nobody for President. The campaign, of course, went nowhere. Yet, today we must again take up the gauntlet. Let’s start with a few apt bumper stickers that can be multi-purposed in this go-go-go age of the Internet as campaign slogans and tag lines for ads in the upcoming come-from-behind ride to the top of the steaming, fetid heap of rancid poop that is the present field of candidates for sale. With a tip of the banged up old bowler hat, a squeeze of the big, red schnoz, and in the proud tradition of hack comedians stealing their jokes, here we go!

• Nobody Cares About You!
• Nobody’s Going to Raise Your Taxes!
• Nobody Will Fight for Your Rights!
• Nobody Loves You!
• Nobody Has Your Back!
• Nobody Has Your Interests in Mind!
• Nobody Has a Real Plan!
• Nobody Will Keep a Promise!
• Nobody is on Your Side!
• Nobody Will Keep Our Environment Safe!
• Nobody Will Protect Your Secrets!
• Nobody’s Business is Our Business!
• Nobody Knows the Trouble You Seen!
• Nobody Wins, Nobody Loses!
• Nobody Looks to the Future!
• Nobody Tells It Like It Is!

Okay, you get the gist. Feel free to comment and add your own suggestions. Nobody is counting on you to get this campaign rolling. Get on the bandwagon! Lend your weird shoulder to the wheel. Send money, cash only. Cup cakes and other goods for the bake sale are welcomed. The staff at Nobody’s HQ also enjoy kielbasa boiled in beer for those all night telethons. Of course, just plain beer would be fine, also.

Send donations and foodstuffs to Nobody for President HQ, 2001 Miracle Mile, Whoopsulanti, MI, 01140, CO/Porgy Tirebiter, Esq.

Kludge Ergo Foo,

S

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