The Secret Life of Mitty Romney
General Boykin’s voice sounded high and shrill as if fighting back the urge to cry or run…or both.
“Your report, General Boykin,” Mitty drawled, sounding as confident and nonplussed as Sheriff Joe at a pressconference. He knew already what the report said. Little people, as the Seven Habits of Highly Successful People, pointed out needed a sense of accomplishment to function at even the most basic level and, if it didn’t cost you anything, why deny them that.
“As we suspected, Obama did NOT kill bin Laden properly and he has come back as the head of Zombie al Qaeda,” Boykin stammered. “And the homosexuals in our Armed Forces have all deserted! Sir! The situation is hopeless!” Hopeless. How many times had Mitty heard those words during his time at Bain? Hundreds? Thousands? And every time his response was the same: When life gives you bankruptcy, have the government pay for bankruptcy-ade and pocket the rest for profit.
He looked Boykin straight in the eye, not only because that was his way, but because of a fresh and growing urine stain spreading across the front of the General’s dress trousers. Even as far back as 2009, Mitty knew the truth: the man who usurped the White House was not a man but the Anti-Christ the silver plates warned of.
Mitty felt no need to harden himself to give the command. He’d been hard since the day he first put on the magic underwear.
“General Boykin,” Romney said gravely, “bring me the suitcase and get the Soviet president on the phone.”
“Y-yes, sir,” Boykin groveled, turning on his heel and almost slipping in the puddle of urine at his feet.
Romney leaned back in his chair, silently praising Heavenly Father for the coming nuclear apocalypse and hearing the moist footsteps of the general as he marched down the hall… ta-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa…
Mrs. Romney’s shrill bleating shook him awake.
“Are you going to sit dreaming away in that car elevator all day long?!” She shook her head in disgust. “Bain Capital, indeed! More like the bane of my existence! Get out of that car this instant. Those people want to know what they should shred next and I’m not going to do everything around here, mister!”
Mitty sighed, nodded, shook the sleep from his eyes and slid out of the car. He recoiled slight as Ann raised her hand to him and scurried off under her scornful gaze. He slowed his pace as he strolled the well-manicured path to the guest cottage, marveling at the Mexicans skill with a hedge trimmer. For some reason no one could even come close to the Mexicans when it came to lawn care. And how clever he had been to pay for skin lightening and plastic surgery! Not only did they almost look white and therefore not suspicious as illegals, but also he’d convinced them that they needed to pick up 80% of the cost of the procedures! So, although he was out $5k per Mexican, he paid them about a dollar a day once their paycheck was docked and they couldn’t be hired anywhere else since they didn’t look Mexican!
He chuckled to himself as he leaned on the fence of the dressage course, watching Ann’s horse, Rafalca, getting put through her paces and enjoying the rhythmic sound of its hooves on the soil… ta-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa…
Donald Trump’s voice sounded high and shrill as if fighting back the urge to cry or run…or both.
“What’s the situation, Donny?,” Romney drawled sounding as confident and nonplussed as Rick Santorum coddling a still born baby. Trump had been a disappointment as Secretary of the Treasury. He’d expected the Grecian redecorating complete with fountains and marble columns but the red velvet…that was a little much. And his tendency to overstep his bounds (flying of to get into a fist fight with the Soviet president, for instance), while admirable, left a sour taste in many people’s mouths. The slot machines in Social Security offices and other government buildings did seem to be raking in the dough. “We give them the check,” Trump trumpeted, “ and they give it back us before they even leave the building!”
“Ron Paul took the board of the Federal Reserve hostage and barricaded himself into my goddamn office. And if there is even a nick in one of those marble column, just one nick, he’s gonna wish that -“
“That’s enough, Donald,” Mitty said, laying a hand on his shoulder. “First, let’s get everyone out alive.”
Mitty rapped smartly on the door to Trump’s office causing a rat-like squeak from inside.
“IT’S THE JEWS,” Ron Paul shrieked. “I KNEW THEY’D BECOMING AFTER ME SOME DAY! I KNEW! DIDN’T I TELL YOU? DIDN’T I TRY TO TELL THE WORLD!!!???”
“Ron,” Mitty said in an authoritative yet friendly voice, “It’s the President, Ron. You need to let those board trustees go.”
“I CAN’T! THEY’RE MY ONLY DEFENSE AGAINST THE JEWS TRYING TO DESTROY ME! AND THE BLACKS! THE BLACKS AND THE JEWS! THEY SENSE MY POWER AND – “
Mitty looked at Trump and shook his head, circling his finger around his ear and making a crazy face.
“Ron,” he jovial called out, “I understand what you’re saying. Those hooked-nosed hebes can’t be trusted. If they can kill our Lord and Savior, they’re capable of anything. That’s why I’ve had all the Jews removed from Washington.”
Trump’s face reflected the shock and horror of what sounded like unrepentant anti-Semitism. But Romney winked at him and made the “shhhh” sign.
Paul’s voice lowered slightly.
“All of them,” he asked hopefully.
“Every last one, Ron.”
“B-but what about the blacks? They’re almost as bad!”
“You don’t have to tell me that, Ron. Why do you think we kept those jungle savages out of the church until 1969?”
Trump grinned over at Mitty, but Mitty’s face looked etched in stone.
“Don’t you worry about the blacks, Ron. I’ve got my people working on it.”
Paul sounded unconvinced and began to drum his fingers on Trump’s desk… ta-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa…
Mitty’s elbow slid off the fence railing, nearly causing his giant chin which had been resting in it, crashing into the railing. He stumbled back trying to get his bearings as he faced his wife.
“Oh. Hello, dear! I was just…just…”
“I know what you were doing Mitty Romney and it had nothing to do with supervising the shredding which must be completed by the close of business today which, I might remind you, is now only forty five minutes away!”
She stared him down like Tony Perkins at an Abercrombie and Fitch store until, cowed and contrite, he continued on to the guest house where several young Mormon campaign staffers sat quizzing each other on the Book of Mormon.
“Governor Romney!” they chirped, springing to attention.
“Brothers,” he responded absently.
“Sir, we’ve organized the documents into different categories. Taxes, Bain, your governorship, the Olympics and a pile for everything else.”
Mitty shrugged indifferently.
“Shall we turn on the shredder, sir,” they asked nervously, sensing his ambivalence but understanding the gravity of the task at hand. You didn’t cross Mrs. Romney.
“I guess,” Mitty yawned, stretching his hands over his head.
Caleb, the older of the two, flipped the switch, setting gears of the industrial shredder into motion… ta-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa…
“At last we meet, President Romney,” the man in the dull, drab, olive uniform resplendent with medals greeted him with a threatening formality. “I am Leader of Soviet Union.”