It wouldn’t be easy. But it could have been easier.

A down-economy would historically benefit the challenger, as suggested in the oldest axiom in politics: People vote their wallet. For the middle, at least, that was pretty much it. Simple.

But that was a simpler time – a time pretty much before my own, I suppose. A glorious era when we could hate minorities without having any social programs from which they could benefit and we could tie them to. We could more authentically – more genuinely – hate them … for themselves.

A far more romantic time when Mexicans were lazy – not scurrying through desert brush and armed border patrols to find … work? Indeed, before things turned to shit, Mexicans would just snooze, play oversized guitars, and offer bargain basement prostitutes – even live animal sex shows with a girl and a poncho-draped donkey for the visiting American with more sophisticated tastes.

It was wonderful.

And Mexico – our friend – would additionally play host to Americans escaping religious persecution, not having been allowed to possess four or five simultaneous wives. But I only mention this as an unrelated, off-topic aside.

No, these magnificent times might not have compared to the true glory days, some one hundred years prior, when one could make blacks work, but still … many would cite the 1950s as America’s ‘Last Hurrah’ …

And it was in this twilight of America’s greatness that Mitt Romney would spend his formative years – the magical decade when all of the trees were just the right height. A time when couple-matching fisherman knit sweaters didn’t prompt one’s gag reflex – as it does today. Instead, Sears family portraits in coordinated uniforms were revered and openly displayed, propped proudly on the piano.

And if these department store images of the costumed litter could be accompanied by a framed portrait of a son in military dress uniform, great. Dead, so much the better. I mean, if you were going get be killed, the least you could do was to let your family turn you into a conversation piece while guests had cocktails around the perimeter of the piano that, oddly, no one knew how to play. And in the 1950s, this additionally offered the mother the opportunity to protectively clutch the younger son to her bosom as a touching display of somber anguish – eyes gazed in the distance – that could be witnessed by all present in a Baldwin baby grand social setting.

Oh, Madge,” said Kitty.

Yes, so many others had experienced this same, childhood existence – now only preserved in kinescope, with the bloomed highlights of a filmed cathode ray tube – as well as the bloomed highlights of romanticized recollection. Still, many would ultimately move on, go to college, read some Ginsberg, drop a tab of acid – and fuck.

But no. Not Mitt. Not even with the French girls.


Long hair was for faggots, it was reasoned by Mitt, as the deserving objects of hazing and harassment. Mere frat house amusement when one grew bored with drives in a convertible through town after every girl on campus had already seen the letter sewn to one’s sweater. Not that it really mattered, mind you. Mitt didn’t want to screw the town girls, anyway. Not really any girl. How, after all, would one even begin to explain the temple undergarments?

Moreover, what fantasies Mitt may have harbored belonged to Ann. She was 16. They had met in elementary school when, as a Cub Scout, by his own reflection, “I threw pebbles at her when she rode by on her horse.”

No shit. I’m not making this up.

He showered her in love. He pelted her with rocks. It worked. Ann was seemingly smitten with the abuse. For the local girls, any attention at all was attention appreciated – not to, in any way, be confused with the Republican rape platform, mind you. That would come some years later.

The two would marry. And the newly-formed Romneys would do so in the loving name of Jesus Christ, our Lord – who came from planet Kolob and had additionally once visited Detroit on his American tour.

But, as it turned out, it would be Mitt’s ongoing relationship with Kolob that would lay the foundation for the future candidate’s foreign policy experience. That, and being surrounded by a bunch of dirty foreigners when he was a Community Organizer at the Olympics.

That Was Then, This Is Now

In my own childhood, coming many years after Mitt’s, I recall be counseled on matters of social sophistication – something that I’ve always carried in my head to this day. I was told that true (social) sophistication meant having the ability to find myself in the most lavish dinner party at Sands Point – or the most rat-infested ghetto in the city – and to be equally at-ease … in either environment.

And more than that – tied to the same – self-assuredness meant not feeling the need to synthesize the customs or rituals of either group, Sands Point to ghetto.

…….. and then there’s Mitt Romney.

Unsophisticated. So much so that even the unsophisticated, themselves, see it. And while many may characterize it – cite it – as being “out of touch”, the awkward Romney presence is truly the embodiment of the unsophisticated,  as well as the uncultured – and knowing French doesn’t offset the breadth of one’s lack of understanding and the inability to communicate with those who speak yet other … “languages”.

Beyond that – if there is a ‘beyond’ – it’s not so much that Mitt Romney is wooden. Rather, the wood itself is seemingly fake – like the adhesive shelf paper that’s available in ‘Walnut’. Cheap loudspeaker enclosures from the 1970s. The woodgrained Formica coordinates used in budget motels. Like that. So no, he’s not wooden. He’s a photo-etched laminate.

In truth, there have been times when I’ve almost felt bad for Romney. It’s as if, at times, he really wants to connect with people – so very much, in earnest – BUT …… he just doesn’t … know how. And the strained effort to synthesize a connection … just makes it worse.

Love those grits. Love those cars. Love that organ music.

Yes, siree.

RUMORS SWIRLED that one of Romney's sons had been actually
fathered by the late singer, Freddie Mercury
after previous
speculation had been abondoned, realizing that Russell Brand would
have been too young in the timeline.

But it’s this very lack of connection that served Romney so well in the past – only now biting him in the ass as he has to come ‘in contact’ with the … expendables. Previously, his inability to connect allowed Mitt to flourish, seeing people as mere ‘over-stocks’ that needed to be liquidated. Blown out. Written off …. Deducted. Discarded parts in a capital investment Chop Shop. Keep the leather seats and the VDO gauges. Sell the rest … as scrap.

Now Romney has to take that junkyard stage with a stiff and uncomfortable walk that makes Jack Webb look carefree-swish – and mechanically teeter at the microphone like C3P0 in ‘Star Wars’. And it is here – before the forgotten, he has to inveigle the parts in the salvage yard that – not ‘who’ – he had previously dismissed as …. ‘unsalvageable’.

For several months Romney promised to bring his experience at Bain Capital to the presidency. I’m sure he would. At least he’d try. But rather recently, his own campaign advisors have now advised that the subject of Bain be “deemphasized” – now that people better understand that Romney & Company made much of their money by pulling the gold dental work and wedding rings of the corpses that they, themselves, created ... or “leveraged”. Not my word. Theirs.

But make no mistake. By all accounts, what Romney did, he did very well. The problem: He may not know how to do it … any other way. And underperforming states can’t be moved offshore. But they could be – in many ways – abandoned.

Still, there is a caveat to this neo-conservative nirvana. If Romney is successful in his bid for the presidency, the Republicans might have two years with him – into the midterm. After that, it becomes anyone’s guess – except Romney’s. It won’t be his guess. It will be his calculation.

For since leaving Bain Capital, Romney’s chief investment … has been himself. That’s the new goal, looking for the best return. And in maintaining the quality of that investment, wanting continued returns, the neo-conservatives may end up being the new … “expendables”. The difference is, they would have had every warning … but just didn’t listen, turning their heads – even forging justifications for what use to be far more moderate views from their chosen candidate. And not just regarding one view. Or two or three. Or four or five.

All of them.

So it wouldn’t be like they would be the victims of an unexpected sucker punch. Rather, they’d be the victim of themselves … as suckers. The victims of their own – in the literal sense of the term ..… ‘blind hatred’.

As for me, despite my snarky sarcasm and mere recreational ridicule (it’s my hobby), I don’t think Mitt Romney is a bad man. I don’t. He has been – in the literal sense of the word – an ‘inconsiderate’ man. And like most inconsiderate people, he doesn’t even realize it. He does it without ill-intention. He does it without evil – truly. He does it, instead – as the inconsiderate do … without thinking. Or rather, to be more fair and accurate, the ‘thinking’ is in … the calculation.

It makes it all more the strange that he’s run – or has been victim to – one of the most awkward campaigns as I’ve witnessed (ignoring third-tier candidates who have always run for the presidency). From his spokespeople who specialize in ‘misspeak’, to one of the oddest, amateurish rollouts of a running mate as I’ve ever seen …. on a non-news day weekend where far more people would buzz about the closing ceremony at the London Olympics.

Romney had actually sharpened his skills during the primary season, becoming a better debater and more deft candidate – if an awkward gambler, placing $10,000 bets on a frat house whim. But since that time, the Romney campaign has been, to the greater extent, bush league (no former presidential pun intended).

Awkward. Odd. Wince-provoking.

MITT & ANN ROMNEY: Joined together by a mutual passion for lack of passion.

But who knows? The pathological hatred that has permeated much of America may carry the day for him, in any event.

Me? … I find little comfort in electing someone who has a sizeable amount of cash, without imagination – with no interests, no passions, no hobbies, no known pastimes – and simply wants to be President because he’s bored … and has nothing else … to do.

– Joseph –

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