High in his mountain fastness of Castle Romney, hewn from the very living rock of the Utah Alps, Willard Jackasticus Mittonium Lannister Romney, Lord of the Robo-men, must make a decision. It was time to buy a new jillion-dollar dancing horse pick a running mate for the increasingly bizarre performance art piece that is Romney 2012, LLC.
Cold mountain light filtered through the stained-glass windows of the Hall of Judgement, casting an eerie glow on the stack of candidate portfolios scattered on the gleaming marble floor and covering the top of the antique desk old Zebulon Romney once used to sign crooked deals. Wikipedia would tell you this desk was once used to sign the Treaty of Versailles, but that is not true. The Versailles desk is actually in the basement rumpus room, behind the antique popcorn maker, next to the air-hockey table. Mitt bought the Versailles desk at an antique shop in Paris, when he was dodging the draft ministering to French heathens back in the Sixties.
The desk in the Hall of Judgement came from a whore house in Poison Water, Nevada, which Zebulon Romney’s older brother Levi acquired during the Whore House Boom in the Nevada territory in the 1850s. Later, after he screwed Levi Romney out of his whore house and tainted-meat businesses, Zebulon Romney had the hideous desk lugged by mules up Romney Mountain to the fortress being hacked out of the rock by unhappy Irish railroad workers. Now, Willard Romney sat at this desk. He pulled a head shot out of one of the folders. An 8×10 of Tim Pawlenty leered at him. Romney sighed.
“Rinse!” Romney cried out. Rinse Pubis, the smarmy eunuch who is the chairman of the GOP, slithered into the cavernous hall. “What is your bidding, Mighty One?” the odious little chairman asked.
“Bring in the next one of those people. I want to finish this up. And bring me a seltzer. It’s dry in here.”
“With lemon, my lord?” Pubis asked.
“Of course, with lemon, do you want me to get scurvy for Pete’s sake? Now, scurry.” Romney sighed again.
“As you wish, lord of the earth.” He slinks out, returning a moment later with a frosty glass on a silver tray. The tray had been a wedding gift from an Austrian archduke to Romney’s grandfather, Rutherford Romney. Rutherford Romney had made a fortune selling tainted beef to the Austrians during World War I. “A frosty beverage to slake your mighty thirst, immortal one,” Pubis crooned, entering the hall with creepy silence. “The next candidate awaits your pleasure, O jewel of governors.”
Romney slurped happily on seltzer. “Send him in.” The great hall doors opened, and a guard in garish and faintly silly House Romney livery escorted Tim Pawlenty over to Romney’s desk. Romney looked up with some irritation. “Yes?” he snapped. “I’m busy picking out a VP. Important future-president business. What do you want?”
Pawlenty smiled. “I’m your next candidate!” he chirped.
Romney scowled. “Who are you?”
“Tim Pawlenty!” Tim Pawlenty cried. “The old T-Paw!”
Romney looked baffled. “Are you sure you’re even on my list?”
“Sure, old buddy!” Pawlenty said. “Right there! That’s the old T-Paw!” He pointed at the 8×10 photo on Romney’s desk.
“I see. Well, let’s begin.” Romney wrote PAWLENTY on the top of a page in a legal pad. and pulled a small tray of paint chips out of his desk drawer. The chips are various shades of white. “Did you pee in a cup already?” he asked.
“Sure did!” Pawlenty set a piping hot Romney2012 travel mug full of urine down on Romney’s desk. Romney recoiled. “Lords of Kobol!” he shrieked. “I don’t want your wastes! You were supposed to give that to the lab people in the other room!” Pawlenty picked up the cup. Romney glared at him. “Roll up your sleeve.” Pawlenty rolled up his sleeve, and Romney began holding up paint chips against Pawlenty’s pasty arm. “Well,” Romney mused. “You ARE pretty white, I’ll give you that. A good hue. Can’t decide if you are closer to Eider Down or Frost.” He scrutinized two of the chips. “I’ll put you down for Frost.” He scribbled on the legal pad. “So,” he asked Pawlenty. “Have you ever run for anything?”
“Run for anything?” Pawlenty looked stunned. “I was governor of Minnesota! I ran for president!”
Romney stared. “President? When?”
“WHEN? This time! I ran in the primaries! Old T-Paw gave you a run for your money in Iowa!”
Romney looked thoughtful. “I assure you I have no recollection of this.”
Pawlenty’s eyes filled with tears. “God!” he yelled. “Why does no one REMEMBER me? I was a GOOD governor! Not like people say! That bridge collapse could have happened to ANY ONE!”
Romney became alarmed at the weeping wreck disintegrating before his eyes. “Rinse!” he yelled. Rinse Pubis appeared immediately, as if by creepy magic. “How may I serve, governor of governors?” he crooned.
“Rinse! Is this person really this governor here on my list?” Romney asked. Pawlenty made snorty honking noises and wiped his eyes with his Golden Gophers sweat shirt. Pubis narrowed his eyes. “I must confess that I do not know the gentleman, but he did possess credentials sufficient to get past your door wardens. If you wish, I shall upbraid your door wardens with harsh language.”
Pawlenty snort-honked again. “Aw, c’mon, Rinse! It’s old T-Paw! You gotta remember me! We were on Meet the Press a bunch of times!”
Pubis glared at Pawlenty, and made a gesture to the door guards. Romney looked hard at Pawlenty. “Wait just a darned minute–I DO remember you! Iowa state fair! You choked on a corn dog!” Romney hopped up and down, miming choking on a corn dog. “Rick Perry laughed so hard he peed himself a little!”
Tim Pawlenty burst into tears again. “Oh, yes!” Romney said, “You were the dope who got outsmarted by whatshername, that crazy lady!”
“Representative Michele Bachmann, my lord,” Pubis interjected.
“Right, Bachmann! What a crazydrawers!” Romney laughed. “What was it I said I wanted in a VP, Rinse?”
“Smart, but not too smart. Smarter than Bachmann, dumber than Gingrich, my liege,” Pubis cooed.
“Right, right, smarter than Bachmann,” Romney said. “Sorry Tom, but that rules you out. Besides…Minnesota? It’s Liberaltopia! You’re not going to help me win your state. You really bring nothing to the table. I have no real reason to acquire you.”
Pawlenty wiped his snotty hands on his Golden Gopher sweat pants. His eyes filled with hot salty tears of rage. “It’s TIM, dammit!” he yelled. “I’M TIM FUCKING PAWLENTY, and that’s really rich, coming from YOU, you old fraud! Like you’re going to win MASSACHUSETTS, YOU DUMBASS!”
Pubis gasped. Romney’s eyes narrowed in anger, the way they always did when people mentioned which state Romney had governed. Guards rushed forward and grabbed Pawlenty roughly. “My urine!” Pawlenty shrieked as the pee-cup disgorged its contents on his Golden Gophers track suit. Guards dragged the pathetic former governor out. After a mild pummeling, he was thrust into the trunk of a town car and dumped at the entrance to Zebulon Regional Airport. By the time he was stuffed in the trunk, his cell phone already has a text-message that begins “thank you for your interest in the vice-president position…” Later that day, the urine-soaked disgrace would be arrested for vagrancy at the airport check-in counter. The hilarious ensuing mug shot would ultimately doom his chances in 2016. None of this matters to Romney. He’s already forgotten Pawlenty’s name.
Romney listens to the wise counsel of the GOP chairman.
“So, who’s next?” Romney asked Rinse Pubis.
“Rob Portman, Senator from Ohio,” Pubis replied.
A maid entered, in the saucy uniform of a House Romney maid, and began cleaning up Pawlenty’s pee. Guards escorted Rob Portman to the desk. Romney arranged his paint chips in festive patterns, and wrote PORTMAN on the top of his legal pad. Then he doodled little hangmen in the time it took for Portman to cross the enormous room.
“So, Portman. You are in the House of Lords?” Romney asked.
“The Senate, mightiness. The Senate,” Pubis whispered.
“Right, right, the Senate. I always make that mist—er, that is, I…right. The Senate.” Romney said. “So, tell me a little about yourself.”
Portman opened his mouth, and a chokey gaspy sound came out. Romney glared at Rinse Pubis. “What’s wrong with THIS one?”
Pubis frowned. “Ah. I was afraid of this,” he said. “It is the enchantment, lord, the enchantment. The protective charm.” More gabbly non-words projected out of Portman’s word hole. His eyes grew wide with panic, and he made very un-presidential flappity motions with his arms.
“If you will look at the file,” Pubis said, pointing at the portfolio on Romney’s desk, “you will see that Mr. Portman here was in the Administration of The President Who Must Not Be Named.”
“Who? Nixon?” Romney looked puzzled. “Boy, my dad sure hated Nixon. Sweaty little jerk. He smelled bad. Like onions. So sweaty. Had to shake his hand once. Disgusting, disgusting.”
“No, governor of governors, not Nixon. If it were merely Nixon…but, alas.” Pubis shook his head sadly.
Romney looked at Portman’s file. Portman hopped up and down on one foot, making noises like a turkey in respiratory distress. “Ooooh,” Romney said. “He worked for The Dummy. Good heavens, he worked in The Dummy’s Budget Office! Sloppy, sloppy.”
“Yes,” Pubis cooed sadly. “As you recall, O light of the West, your mightiest mages cast a charm of surpassing strength that this former president might not be named in your presence. It is well known that the Dark One who currently profanes the Throne of Reagan would like nothing better than to blame you for the, ah, actions of The Nameless One.”
“Well, sure,” Romney said, gesturing at Portman, who was now jumping up and down on both feet, “but does that mean he’s going to gabble like that the whole time? We can’t have him chortling like a baboon when he goes up against Biden, for Pete’s sake. Biden’ll eat him like taffy. Get rid of him.”
Pubis made a gesture, and the guards hustled Portman off to the urine-scented trunk of the town car.
“Oh boy. Who’s next?” Romney asked.
Pubis handed Romney Paul Ryan’s file. Romney tore the Portman page out of his legal pad and wadded it up. He scrawled RYAN on the top of a new page. Pubis pulled Ryan’s photo from the file. “Behold his countenance!” he said.
“Gosh! That’s a good looking young fella! He looks like Potsie from Happy Days! A good looking fella!” Romney exclaimed.
“Indeed, mighty one,” Pubis purred. “His urine is pure as a mountain spring. One could bathe babies in it.”
“Good, good, good. Well, bring him in, Rinse.” Pubis gestured at the guards, who brought Ryan in.
“Behold his countenance!” the GOP chairman cried.
“Let’s get the preliminaries over with,” Romney said. “Roll up your sleeve.” He held paint chips up to Ryan’s pale arm. “Somewhere between Sugar Sand and Moroccan Ivory. Excellent, excellent. I’m very impressed with your urine by the way. Top notch.”
“Thank you, sir,” Ryan replied. “Purity is the cornerstone of chastity.”
Romney nodded, jotted notes on his legal pad, then pulled pages out of Ryan’s file. “So, young fella,” Romney said. “Quite a resume you have here. Drove the Wienermobile. I do love a good wiener. On the short-list to play Wesley Crusher on Star Trek: The Next Generation. Nice to see you have short-list experience. Never watch that show myself, but my boy Tagg assures me it’s fine television entertainment. Young Republicans Club. Member of Congress. Catholic. Hm, Catholic–that’s the one with the popes, right?”
“Yes, sir. Popes,” Ryan replied.
“Ah,” said Romney. “My people don’t have popes. We have—some other thing. Anyway, you take this job, you’ll listen to me, not some whacky pope.”
“Understood, sir.”
Romney leafed through the file. “Says here you’re a virgin.”
“I’m saving my chastity for Ayn Rand and Christ, sir.”
“Well, I’m sure they appreciate that. Tell me some other things about yourself.”
“I believe that cat food provides all the nutrition that our elders need. The more we cut taxes, the more nutritious the cat food becomes.”
“Very true,” Romney said, rubbing his hands together. “You know, you have very nice hair. Lustrous. Supple. Nice hair is important.”
“Thank you sir. I enjoy your hair as well.”
“What a polite young man you are. You know, Reagan had great hair. Carter’s hair was like old barn straw. Brittle. Not presidential. Good head of hair you have, though.”
“Thank you again, sir. Every morning, when I prepare my grandmother’s cat food, I save the cat food juice and use it as a hair emollient. The rich omega 3s give my hair luster and strength.”
Romney laughed. Even Rinse Pubis, who had not laughed since the Supreme Court ruled in Bush v Gore, permitted himself a smile. “Smart, good hair, AND frugal! A great combination!” Romney said.
“I believe only through thrift, tax cuts, and seafood byproduct diets can we fix the deficit,” Ryan said earnestly.
“By the Lords of Kobol, I’m sold!” Romney exclaimed. “I’ve made my choice!”
“The governor of Louisiana awaits in the antechamber, lord of the Olympians,” Pubis reminded Romney.
“That little brown fella?” Romney asked, “well, tell him to get lost. There’s already a brown fella on the ballot. If we had a brown fella too, voters might get confused. I’ve made my choice. I like the cut of this Ryan kid’s jib! It’s Romney Ryan, boys! Romney Ryan! Seltzers for all! Say, kid, do you like battleships?”
Ryan nodded. “Yes, sir. Their big hard guns remind me of our brave troops, and also my vow of chastity.”
Romney laughed. “Well that’s great! Let’s make the big announcement on a battleship! Rinse, get rid of Governor Whatshisname and go buy me a battleship! Then after the what-have-you, we can sell the ship for scrap! I love selling things for scrap!”
Rinse Pubis bowed. “Your wisdom is a beacon to all of us, savior of the Olympics. I shall dispatch the swarthy governor, and consign his spicy turgid urine to the waste receptacle. I have already taken the liberty of procuring the USS Wisconsin, for it is ever my desire to anticipate your needs.” Pubis did not explain that the Wisconsin was only available for rent. There would be time enough later to buy some other random hulk to scrap if Romney really wanted a good-luck scrapping. He had also rented the Superdome, the city of Cincinnati, and bought the craphole where the Minnesota Twins play, just in case Romney had gone with someone else on the shortlist. He would have to cancel those rentals, and he could make a tidy profit selling the Twins to Orlando, or some other dumb swing-state city. Pubis made a gesture to the guards, who knew the routine by now and proceeded to give Bobby Jindal a brisk and efficient beating with their Romney 2012 truncheons on their way to the subterranean garage where attendants were busily Febreezing the Pawlenty pee smell out of the town car trunk.
The big Romney Ryan battleship number had pretty good choreography.
Two thousand miles away, in a dusty hobo camp outside a Des Moines freight yard, a shoeless former senator was heating up stew made out of stolen corn and USDA-condemned chickens in a trash can, and sipping on a Big Gulp cup full of gin and Sprite when his cheap disposable cell phone chirped. A text message! “Goddamn, look at this, boys!” Shoeless Dick Santorum cried out to the assembled hobos. He held up the phone. “Thank you for your interest in the vice-president position! Unfortunately, blah blah blah! Oh, shit, it’s on, now, Willard! Wesley Freakin’ Crusher can’t save you! Twenty sixteen, bitches!”
