But to the GOP's dismay, all the heartthrobs have left the building. Donald Trump flirted extensively this spring, but then ran away with his true love, reality television, that tramp. Ms. Popular Transfer Student, Sarah Palin, dragged out her coquettish tease so long even the most bewitched of beaus lost interest. On the rebound, blushing and gushing, Michele Bachmann accepted a corsage, but shortly after was discovered cheating with a corn dog, and jittery suitors fell out of love faster than a college girl with Justin Bieber.
After extended entreaties, Rick Perry triumphantly waltzed in to the fanfare of a conquering quarterback, and was immediately voted Homecoming King. No more calls, we have a winner. For about a week. Then, the Texas governor unraveled like a badly knitted letter-sweater caught in a threshing machine. A series of threshing machines. Seven to ten.
Even he admits he may have stumbled in debate class. Yeah. "Stumbled" being a polite way of saying, "Dug a hole deep enough to hide at least half of those very threshers of which earlier we spoke." The more the cheerleaders saw of Captain Haircut, the more the bloom vamoosed the rose. Zero to 60 in 5.6.
With the dance but a couple months away, conservatives are franticly whining and pining for a savior to rise from these streets, turning their attention east to woo another governor, Chris Christie of New Jersey. They're Crazy for Christie. The right Mr. Right. Too big to fail. Flattered, Christie toned down his persistent "not interested" to a titillating "let's wait and see." Oooh. Shivers.
Heh. The fuckers got bupkis and they know it.