Magic Underpants: The Mitt Romney Story

Experience “trickle-down” like you never have before!

Obama always threw the best parties in town. Liberal with the booze and democratic with the music, it was the perfect place to get socialized, but America wasn’t having much fun. She felt like she’d been here for four years now, and though the energy was still high, Obama’s party hadn’t quite lived up to expectations. It didn’t help that she had just come from G.W.’s party, and so threw up pretty early into the night, and Obama had to spend most of his time cleaning up the mess. GM got pretty sick too, and a lot of other people had go home early, even a couple guys who everyone swore were too big to fail. America suspected the unregulated punch bowl.

But even still, now that she was back on her feet and mostly recovered, America couldn’t help but feel a bit out of place at Obama’s party, and the music was giving her a headache. Setting her drink down, she went to look for some place quiet where she could rest for a while.

After turning down a few halls, she found a small guest room, mostly insulated from the constant music. Assuming it to be empty, she flipped on the lights.

And there, on the bed, she saw him: his hair perfectly coiffed, his smile rigid and semi-lifelike, his tight temple garments highlighting his impressive fiscal policy.

“Oh, Governor Romney, I’m sorry, I thought this room was empty,” America stammered.

“Please, no need to be so formal. Call me Mitt,” said Romney as he gestured America to come sit with him. “What brings you here?”

“Oh, nothing. I was just getting a little tired of Obama’s party, and looking for a place too cool down.”

“Mm,” Romney nodded, “I know the feeling. You know I’m planning my own party soon? Much more tasteful and conservative. I think it’ll be a grand old party. I’d like it if you were there with me.” America only now realized how close Romney had gotten to her. This close up, he almost looked human. “You know America, I’ve got binders full of women, but I always had eyes for you.”

“Oh Mitt you’re joking with me.”

“I actually like jokes as well as things that are sort of fun. But right now I want something a little more spontaneous.”

America watched in stunned silence as Romney pulled out his fiscal policies. She had seen Obama’s stimulus package before, but this was something completely different. She was a little afraid it might hurt her. “Oh Mitt, your tax cuts are so… so big!”

“That’s just the 1%, babe.”

“But, don’t you think we need a safety net?”

“Nonsense, my dear. A friend told me that your body has a way of shutting that whole thing down.”

And thus, with some reluctance, America let Romney take her.

The End

-Dolphintail Espinoza

Why I’m Voting for Obama: Five Haikus

I’d give him the head of state.

I’m no political scientist. I have never peered over the edge of the fiscal cliff; my knowledge of U.S. foreign policy in Afghanistan is hazier than the only night I’ve ever been to the Deuce; and I picture the inner workings of the White House as strikingly similar to the Department of Mysteries in Harry Potter.

I am, however, a sucker for cool people doing cool shit. So SUCK IT, political ideologues – this election day, I’m gonna vote for Obama because he is both a PILF and the epitome of badass. Never mind that I believe in his straightforward adherence to old-fashioned democratic ideals – as in, equality in everything from universal health care  and marriage to freedom of choice – or his defense of national parks, or the respect he commands internationally. That shit pales in comparison to his killer dirt-off-your-shoulder. The Obamas, ESPECIALLY Barack, are rad. Just like, super cool. Honestly, even if Obama was all, “Let’s just put Sasha and Malia and the dog in charge while I go surfing in Honolulu and smoke some weed,” I’d vote for him anyway. A cool president is worth a million jobs in the manufacturing sector.

You know what else is worth a million jobs in the manufacturing sector? Amateur poetry. And everyone knows that the best form of amateur poetry comes in snack-size haikus – traditional short-form Japanese poems that follow a 5-7-5 syllabic pattern. So without further ado, I present an artistic homage to my favorite prez’ campaign in a manner that’s about as political as a toy poodle.

On Michelle’s super-toned arms
Graceful, burnished, buff
Those arms could lift our nation.
Can I vote for them?

On Barack’s Rad Music Taste
Let’s contrast your tunes
– Kanye, Bruce, Aretha – Mitt’s:
Toby Fucking Keith.

On the fact that he has a puppy named in accordance with said music taste:
You’re the First Dog, the
Second Bo, the third chillest
White House resident.

On Weapons of Choice
In a real battle,
Your horses and bayonets
Would smash Mitt’s Big Bird.

On the book he wrote/dedicated to his daughters WHILE BEING A PRESIDENT
You wrote a FUCKING
KID’S BOOK about national
Heroes. Marriage me, plz.

Now that you’ve learned a little more about America’s favorite chiller firsthand – and gotten a little lesson in poetic brilliance along the way – I challenge you to come up with a haiku of your own about Mr. Barack! Challenge yourself and make it politically relevant. Better yet, make it dope.

Rock out with ur barack out,
Gwyneth