[...] The current Willard, of course, is opposed to mandates because he is the nominee of a party full of crazy people. [...]
I'm Mitt Romney, bitches, and I'm all you got left.
Stop sweating me, okay? It's time for my nap. Tell Kristol to shut up or I'll look under the lawn chairs until I find enough loose change to buy that little magazine of his and sell it to the publisher of Biker Mamas for a 200-percent profit. Let Kristol go cover Bike Week in Laconia next summer if he wants to run his yap. And Murdoch? He doesn't like me? Tell you what: How about I get in there and revoke that tin citizenship medal that he's got and let him go back to selling titty magazines to sheep farmers in Queensland. He's over here because people like me allow him to be over here. Goddamn immigrant. I hope the senile old fool is tapping my phone, because I won't have to shout at him that,
I'm Mitt Romney, bitches, and I'm all you got left.
In case you haven't noticed, they're still all coming to me. I've been running them through the obstacle course up here all week. Jindal's parking cars, and Pawlenty's almost got the entire pool cleaned out, and Portman mixes a fine dark-and-stormy for the cocktail hour every day. Ann's got Portman cleaning out the stalls. Fine man with a shovel, that Portman, but, Jesus H. Christ Come To Arkansas, he's boring. Ayotte was around this afternoon, but she has to be back on the pole by 8:00 because I promised one of the kids — Tagg, or Tripp, or Tybalt, or Queequeg or whatever the hell his name is — a show for his friends tonight. They will do anything just to be the person I get to send to the funerals of the presidents of countries I could buy for what I've spent on alfalfa for that damn horse, because, well:
I'm Mitt Romney, bitches, and I'm all you got left.
Go. Did I mention 'liquid alert'?
You know, if you listened to the teabaggers and Jesus freaks during the primaries, you would have thought the Mittster's flaws were too big to overlook. Now, they're all in the tank for him.
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