Mighty New Hampshire has spoken! Every four years, a week or so after the ethanol-addled pig-men of Iowa go into their foul, waste-strewn pens (or “caucuses,”) and choose an Over-Pig to represent them at the presidential conventions, the flinty maple-miners of New Hampshire meet in their ice-caves and maple-warrens to have their say.
Willard “10k” Romney and sweater fetishist Dick Santorum had humiliated the rest of the pack in the bleak hog farms and shit-lagoons of Iowa. Michelle Bachmann had been abandoned in the snow and left to perish in the wolf-infested barrens. The rest limped or slithered to New Hampshire, burning with humiliation and a desire for revenge (except for the undead 3000-year-old wraith stoners call Ron Paul, who is beyond petty human emotions like humiliation).
Yesterday, thirty-nine percent of New Hampshiroids said, “Oh, Willard. If we vote for you, will you go away? You’ve been pestering us for years.” Willard “10k” Romney’s emotional processing software interpreted this as a win. Wearing the most lifelike of human-skin masks, Romney initiated victory-speech protocols. Using a series of realistic gestures and grimaces, Romney vowed to crush the rest of the candidates in upcoming South Carolina. He managed to finish the speech without any gaffes about feeding his dog caviar, or his enjoyment of firing people; truly a tribute to the debugging skills of his handlers.
Terrifying undead specter and Texas Congressman Ron Paul came in a pointless second. Doomed to walk the land until the gold stolen from the Temple of Osiris is returned, Congressman Paul vowed to pursue Romney with all the fervor with which he once fought the unholy betrayer-of-gods Akhenaten. “We’re nipping at his heels!” he croaked, in his perky, horrifying way. Waving festive red-white-and-blue bongs, his followers chanted Phish lyrics and threw confetti and Cheetos in the air. Paul waved at them with a skeletal hand, and spoke ominous staves about gold and Austrians.
Mitt Romney impersonator and former leader of the Fantastic Four Jon Huntsman came in third. Huntsman, an elitist super-scientist best know for inventions such as the Fantasticar as well as his stint as governor of Utah, had blown off the Iowa pig-men and staked his campaign on a decent showing in New Hampshire. Banking on New Hampshirite’s superstitious dread of the the planet-destroying Galactus, Huntsman portrayed himself as the only candidate ready to protect America from space-borne super-threats. Despite a disappointing showing, Huntsman promised his dozens of supporters he would bring his baffling comic-book message to South Carolina.
Loathsome space-beast Newton Leroy Gingrich, his jowls glistening with rage-froth and maple syrup, lumbered from town to town, denouncing Romney as a perfidious leftist AND a job-destroying vulture capitalist–as bad as two Gordon Geckos wrapped in a Stalin. The disgraced former House Speaker came in fourth, with almost ten percent. Filling his maw with shrimp-and-grits, he vowed to fight on in South Carolina, where the miasmic swamps are more conducive to his particular kind of evil.
Santorum was just behind or basically tied with Gingrich, depending on how you crunch the numbers. His hideous synthetic sweaters were offensive to the weavers and goat-herds of New Hampshire’s craggy uplands, and he seemed a lot dumber than Huntsman to the Galactus-wary cosmopolitans of the lowlands. He is now cloaked in the stench of failure. For the love of God, do not google him.
Of the still-living candidates, Texas comedian and hair-tonic huckster Rick Perry came in last. Ninety-nine percent of the New Hampshirians apparently said, “Please go home, Rick Perry. You are sickening our livestock and frightening our maple trees.” One percent, Rick. You got one percent. Ninety-nine percent of New Hampshire doesn’t want you to be president. God doesn’t want you to be president, either. He was just funning you. Time to go back to Austin and sign some medieval legislation before Newt Gingrich garrotes you in your sleep.
