From the shit-lagoons of Iowa, to the maple warrens of New Hampshire, to the dark merman-infested swamps of Florida, we come now to the End Times. After thirty-nine Republican frontrunners, from the Eye of Moron to vile space-beast Newt Gingrich; from pizza-comedian Herman Cain to Texas governor Nathan Bedford Forrest Gump, after three hundred and fifty-seven GOP candidate debates, and one vice-presidential debate, we arrived at the third and final presidential debate. This was the last question in the presidential job interview. Time to close the deal.
For Willard Mittonicum Jackasticus Lannister Romney, the frantic, jacked-up Lord of the Robo-men, this event was his last big chance to recapture the high of his not-sucking in the Denver debate. Oh, what a sweet high that was! Partially it was the thrill of victory, but mostly it was the Red Bull and No-Doz GOP chairman Rinse Pubis had been sneaking into the governor’s lemonade.
For the last five days he had eaten nothing but donuts and No-Doz, while listening to jazz on his Walkman and talking excitedly with street people. “I really like jazz! I used to not get it but I totally get it now! Yes, yes! Job creators! Bamako is the capital of Mali!” he would jabber. Cyrus Romney, old Zebulon Romney’s younger brother would jabber like that when he nipped into the Mehoona Restorative Tonic that the Romneys sold in the Nevada whorehouses during the railroad boom. Red Bull is essentially Mehoona Restorative Tonic with less cocaine and benzene and more corn syrup. The sweaty Nixonian paranoia the brew had induced in Romney was not an ideal mental state for a presidential debate.
This debate was held on the campus of Mudflats State College, in Boca Raton, home of the Fightin’ Manatees. The school mascot, Marty the Manatee, warmed up the crowd with his comical antics. The crowd roared with laughter at his trademark routine of pretending to have clumsy sexual congress with the University of Miami stork. Republicans in particular enjoyed the sight of one big plushy college animal mascot jovially force-impregnating another. Debate host Bob Sheiffer came out, and shared ribald tales of his days covering the Taft administration. Meanwhile, backstage, Romney was having a major freak out. His hyper-stimulated organic components were interfering with his robotic enhancements. Wild-eyed, he shrieked at Rinse Pubis, “We can’t go out there! This is MANATEE COUNTRY! MANATEES, YOU FOOL!”
“There, there, my president-to-be,” the unctuous GOP chairman cooed, as he slipped ground-up quaaludes in Romney’s water glass. He had grabbed a shoebox full from the crate of George W. Bush’s 70s-era drugs in the basement of Republican headquarters. “We are quite safe from those dreadful sea cows. Now remember, if you get stuck, just mention Mali. It makes you look smart, in command of the facts. Now go, Savior of the Olympics!”
Shifty-eyed and squinting, Romney shambled out. He and the president shook hands. Obama leaned in close and whispered, “Imma whip your ass. Again.” Romney muttered back, “I think…you eat poo!” So many zingers, and they had all failed him.
Bob Sheiffer explained the rules. I’ll ignore them, as the candidates will. This is the kind of debate where they all sit at a little table, no podiums. This is good for Romney, because he’s a little shaky. Also, there are no questions from the audience, which Romney appreciates because he doesn’t like the little people. Bob Sheiffer opens by inviting Romney to jabber about Libya.
“Hahaha!” Romney responds inappropriately. “It’s great to be here in South Florida! I love Florida, and it’s lush canopy of electoral votes. Thanks for having me! Thanks, Bob, for hosting. Thanks, Matty the Manatee for your zany antics! Folks, Libya is a mess. It was a paradise on earth before Obama screwed it up by apologizing for America. He ruins everything he touches. Like the economy. He is a monster in human form. A Jimmy Carter, if you will. I will restore America. Go after bad guys! A military so strong no one would dare challenge us! Never apologize! Never apologize! Job creators! Job creators!”
Obama stared at him. “The 80s called. They want their foreign policy back. Look, this is crazy. You want the foreign policy of the 80s, social policy of the 50s, and the economic policy of the 20s. That’s a mess. Every opinion you’ve had is wrong.”
Bob Sheiffer asks a question about China or somesuch crap, and the Lord of the Robomen ignores it and does a clumsy segue to talking about the deficit, and this really good Chinese take-out place in Boston that he enjoyed eating at when he was governor, even though he could afford a fancier place, because that’s the kind of budget-balancing man-of-the-people he is. Obama tells Bob Sheiffer that Romney is full of crap. “Look,” the president says, “Etchy McSketchington here once praised George W. Bush as a good economic steward, and said Cheney was good on foreign policy. If we’d listened to him, Detroit would be a post-apocalyptic hell-hole, and all the auto workers would have been eaten by wolves. Romney is just wrong and reckless.”
“That’s not right” Romney shouted. “I’m a car guy! I grew up in Detroit! My dad owned a car company!”
Obama shook his head. “Your dad owned a crappy car company. The Gremlin was a piece of shit. Just like all of your ideas. Shit Romney.”
Romney gave Obama a sweaty crazed Nixonian stare. He had HATED it when other kids at St. Albans School for Exceptionally Wealthy Boys had called him “Shit Romney.” He had gotten so angry once he had had one of his servants beat up one of Thurston Howell’s servants. He had laughed when Howell’s father had been lost at sea, and young Thurston had to leave school because his family was going broke. Laugh at HIM, would they? He was so lost in hate-reverie that he missed Bob Shieffer’s next question. Something something military something. This seemed like as good a time as any to unload the talking points he had memorized about the navy.
“The president has been traveling around apologizing for America while our military is falling apart! No apologies! Our navy is the smallest it’s been since 1916! If we fought the Battle of Jutland today we would LOSE!”
Bob Sheiffer and Barack Obama stared at each other. “There’s so much wrong with that I’m not sure where to begin, Bob. Nothing Governor Romney said is true. This apology thing he’s all hopped up about–it’s the biggest whopper of the campaign. Now. If you want to compare trips abroad…” He paused, and fixed Romney with a steely gaze. Romney wet himself a little. “I didn’t step on my own dick and stagger across Europe like Jerry Lewis in Cinderfella,smacking myself with a cream pie every time somebody asked me a foreign policy question. That was all Governor Romney. As to the navy…look. Romney doesn’t understand how a navy works. We don’t have as many battleships. We also don’t have as many horses and bayonets. We have these new things called aircraft carriers. Ships that go underwater, called submarines. Shit that flies. Lots of things were different in 1916. Your grandfather was living in an America-hating compound in Mexico banging a bunch of wives. Things are different. Our navy today could kick 1916’s ass.”
Bob Sheiffer closed out the evening by asking a bunch of random questions.
“Who would win in a fight, a merman or a manatee? Mr. President?” Bob Sheiffer asked.
“Merman,” the president answered.
“Mr. Romney, your response,” Bob Sheiffer said.
“Well, the president is wrong about this, as he is in so many things. Exploded the deficit. Clearly, a merman, a strong, capable man of the sea, if you will, would win such a contest, not the soft, blubbery, apologizing-for-America manatee that the president prefers.”
Bob Sheiffer and the president rolled their eyes.
“Governor Romney is simply not being truthful. I said merman,” the president sighed.
“No, Mr. President, you said manatee. Many times. Apologizing for America.”
Bob Sheiffer cleared his throat. “Governor Romney, you do know we record this event, don’t you? The words that you say, we can check them?”
Romney nodded. “Job creators! Never apologize! French is the official language of Mali!” he shouted.
“All right gentlemen, let’s wrap this up. What is the greatest future threat to out nation? Mr. President?”
“Abroad?” Obama said. “Terrorism. Domestically? The fact that one of the major political parties is run by dumbasses like that.” He gestured to Romney, who was loudly crunching on a mouthful of No-Doz.
“Fair enough,” Bob Shieffer said. “Governor?”
Romney stared into the camera. “IRAN MUST NOT BE ALLOWED TO HAVE MUSTARD GASSES!” he shouted.
“Ok, then,” Bob Shieffer said, cutting off Romney’s mike. “I think our work is done here. Thank you gentlemen.”
After the debate, Romney wandered around the river walk in Boca Raton with a coffee can full of No-Doz and a stack of foreign policy flash cards. “The capital of Senegal is Dakar!” he shouted. He was capering down the seawall like Emilio Lizardo shouting random facts and tossing flash cards at the waves when they found him.
“Goddamn,” Richard “Shoeless Dick” Santorum said, emerging from the shadows. “You’re a mess, Richie Rich.”
“You sure are,” Shoeless Dick’s companion said. He was a wretched scarecrow of a man, who exuded a powerful stench. His huge feet were crusted with dirt, like a grotesque parody of shoes. “Remember me?”
Romney squinted. “No. Have we met?” He tossed a card into the waves.
“We sure have! I’m Barefoot Tim!” the vile hobo exclaimed.
Santorum rolled his eyes. “Goddamn,” he said. “I know you like to, uh, embrace the persona, Tim, but that’s not how it works. You can’t force a nickname. It comes organically. No one calls you Barefoot Tim. People might call you Hobo Tim, if you play your cards right. You’re lucky they aren’t calling you Shitty-stink-ass Tim.” He turned to Romney. “This is Tim Pawlenty.”
Pawlenty held out a filthy hand. “Hi!” he said. “You probably called me T-Paw!”
Santorum shook his head. “Dude, nobody called you T-Paw.”
Romney handed Pawlenty a card rather than shake his filthy hand. Pawlenty looked at the card. “Looky here Dick! Angola’s main export is bauxite! Say, what the hell is bauxite, anyway?”
“It’s some crap you use to make boxes, dumbass,” Santorum replied.
“So, what brings you gentlemen here?” Romney asked, tossing more cards off the seawall.
“Funny you should ask. I got a signal on the hobo network that there was a Hobo In Distress. Imagine my surprise when I get down here and see that it’s you.”
“I’m not a hobo,” Romney replied, scratching himself absentmindedly. He tossed back a handful of No-Doz and scowled.
“Man, you’re wearing a $5000 suit that smells like pee, shouting at the ocean,” Santorum noted.
“Doesn’t make me a hobo,” Romney said.
“Well, it does suggest that maybe you aren’t right in the head. Ok. Well, good luck. Take care of yourself, Richie Rich.” Santorum and Pawlenty walked away, leaving Romney to shout random fact about Mali to the waves.
“Hey,” Pawlenty said. “You didn’t give him one of your shirts.” Santorum had a bunch of “2016, BITCHES!” t-shirts in his hobo bindle. Santorum shrugged. “He doesn’t deserve one of my shirts. C’mon. Let’s hitch back to Iowa. We need to get busy. The Iowa caucuses are just 37 months away.”
The election is in a week and a half. The 2016 campaign starts in two weeks.
