The GOP Presidential Candidates Walk Into A Bar…

One Friday night, sometime soon, you find yourself in Iowa. Don’t ask how or why; you’re just in Iowa. Now, as anyone that’s ever been to Iowa, or read about Iowa, or is even vaguely familiar with Iowa knows, the only thing to do in Iowa is drink. You leave your hotel and cross the street, wandering your way to a local bar. The bouncer checks your ID and lets you in, and you discover all the GOP Presidential Candidates are drinking there. You sidle up to the bar, order a drink from the bartender, and start checking out the crowd.

Mitt Romney is a few seats down, buying the most expensive liquor they have and handing out free shots to everyone that will spend more than five seconds with him. There’s a decent sized group around him, but you can’t help but notice that everyone has this look that says “Yeah, I’ll drink on Mitt’s tab and hang out with him, but I’d rather be pretty much anywhere else.”

Rick Perry is glassy eyed and double fisting Bud Lights. He’s managed to surround himself with a decent sized group as well, but you notice no one ever takes their eyes off their drink. You’re pretty sure that Rick Perry keeps trying to slip everyone something, but you can’t prove it and neither can they. He just has this look that says “I may or may not have more than one kind of date rape drug in my pocket.”

Herman Cain is out on the dance floor, surrounded by a throng of admirers. He’s poppin’, he’s lockin’, he’s breakdancing, he’s crumping, and you’re pretty sure he does the Dougie and the Cabbage Patch at one point, but he is sweating up a storm and looks like he’s about to pass out. The crowd is cheering him on now, but you know at the end of the night he’s just gonna be a dehydrated mess no one wants to be seen with.

Michele Bachmann is off in the corner, drinking what can generously be described as a martini. It’s pink, frothy, has at least seven kinds of fruit garnishes in it, and is being served in an oversized novelty glass. Her clique appears to be composed entirely of bitches and closet cases.

Newt Gingrich is off to the side, strangely dressed in a Members Only jacket. His drink is a bourbon on the rocks. Every time his wife gets up to get a drink or go to the bathroom, Newt hits on everything in sight. Newt’s entire crew fits at a single table.

Ron Paul is in the corner, surrounded by a group of small but dedicated supporters. He buys his whiskeys one at a time, and only pays with cash. Unfortunately, Ron only brought like $20, so his supporters keep having to buy his drinks for him.

Rick Santorum is conspicuously absent, as is Jon Huntsman. You wander outside to the patio and see Rick Santorum on the streetcorner in a windbreaker, shouting bible verses at people through a megaphone. There is a crowd around him, but they’re mainly there to see what he says next, rather than to lend any actual support.

You decide that this bar isn’t really your scene, so you decide to wander around for a bit. You go across the street to another bar, and discover this is where all the former prospective candidates are drinking. Chris Christie is here. So is Haley Barbour. They’re both minding their own business. Sarah Palin is here too; she’s hitting on everyone at the bar to see who will buy you a drink, because Sarah Palin doesn’t buy her own drinks.

You turn around and walk out, having had enough and deciding you’re a little hungry. You wander down the street to the local Meixcan place, and find Rush Limbaugh in line next to you. He orders a pair of the Extra Grande Burritos with everything on them, and spends the entire time complaining about the Lazy Mexicans making them. He takes his burritos, pays for them, doesn’t leave a tip, and takes up a whole booth. He proceeds to demolish both burritos, makes a huge mess, and then complains about the mess to the manager before leaving.

Now thoroughly unappetized, you get out of line and decide to take a cab home. You hail a cabbie, and ten minutes later you’re home.

Unbeknownst to you, President Obama has been there all evening. He was the police officer, holding up traffic so you could cross the street. He was the bouncer, checking IDs at the bar. He was the bartender, serving everyone quickly and efficiently. He was the janitor at the Mexican place, cleaning up after Rush’s mess. And he was the cabbie, getting you home quickly and safely without ripping you off.

You climb into bed, and as you drift off to sleep you think “Wow, what a long, strange Primary season it’s going to be.”

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