Oh, Nooooo . . .

Calhoun’s Can(n)ons for May 31, 2012

            No, Mitt, No. You don’t know what you’ve done. You’ve still got time to get away. Look, I know why you went to Las Vegas.  You needed the money.  It’s politics.  You gotta get that 50.1%, so do what you have to do, say what you have to say, but you don’t understand.  You’re a nice guy.  I know you’re trying to look tough, Bomb Iran! Bomb Syria! Bomb Everybody!  But that just tells me you’ve been listening to poor old grumpy John McCain too long.  Conservatives love that kinda stuff.  They’re always playing Crazy Dare Me with one another.   

            But that isn’t you. You’ve led a sheltered, privileged life.  The Golden Boy. Thinks he can get away with anything. That’s why you don’t understand what you’ve done.  You’re like the handsome high school football captain who, as a prank, just invited the school’s Ugly Girl to the Prom.  You all know who she is, that tubby body, that bad skin, those lips, the goofy laugh, the pasty face, the hair . . . the terrible hair.

            You gave her a shining moment in the spotlight, the cameras rolling, the music playing, it was all her dreams coming true, to be up there with you, Mitt.  Gorgeous, beautiful, popular you! 

            And now you’ll never get rid of her!

            From now on every time you turn around, there’ll she be, at your elbow, at your knee, in your face.  It’ll be, Yooo hooo! Mitt, Mitt, why haven’t you called me.  You never write, you never text.  Don’t you love me, Mit? Huh? Huh?  Can I come to your house and hang out? OMG! OMG! You’re soooo cool.

            Yet there you were in Vegas with Donald Trump, your big plane snugged up next to his big plane. You stood on stage with him, all huggy-huggy, kissey-kissey.  Which caused conservative columnist George Will to observe, “The cost of appearing with this bloviating ignoramus is obvious, it seems to me.  Donald Trump is redundant evidence that if your net worth is high enough, your I.Q. can be very low and you can still intrude into American politics.” 

            You’re palling around with an ignoramus, Mitt, one of the original Meister Birthers. I know you think you can use him as a cat’s paw to keep the race-baiting dog whistle music going while keeping your own hands clean  – Obama’s not an American, he’s not One of Us, he’s a Muslim, maybe even one of those Hawaiians, but he’s not a citizen.  He shouldn’t even be president.  

            But you don’t use La Donald, Mitt.  He uses you.  And you’ll never get rid of him now.  It’s like that vampire movie “Let the Right One In.” You let him in.  And now he’ll never go away.  All through the campaign, there he’ll be, waddling up on stage to grab the mic from you, elbowing you out of the way so he can announce an upcoming episode of “The Apprentice.”  Making you sheepishly play second banana for his traveling clown show: “Who is this guy? Presidential candidate, my ass. Get him outta here.  You’re fired.”   

            And you’ll just have to smile that sick smile and shuffle and tug on your forelock and do nothing because now he’s got you, lock, stock and fatuous barrel.  Like clockwork, at every news cycle, you’ll try to craft some swell presidential sounding bites and they’ll be trumped by Trump barging into the day’s top stories with more ugly, crazy-ass crap to keep the base riled up and Trump’s mug on TV – “Where’s the Congressional Investigation into Obama’s school records? Did he even go to Harvard?  People are saying he’s got horns.  I’ve got people investigating this and you won’t believe what they’ve found. It’s huge, Huuuuuge!”

            And the press will eat it up.  They’ll unceremoniously shove you aside to cover La Donald.  They know TV.  They know he’s the next American Idol, not you, because that’s where the ratings are, Baby Cakes. 

            Even if you win the White House and you’re sitting in the Oval Office that first evening contemplating your great fortune, you’ll hear the scritch-scritch on the window pane and there he’ll be, peering in.  Those lips, that skin . . . that hair.  And in a split second he’ll be scuttling across the ceiling, orange comb-over flying, hissing dangerously at you, “I’m a smart guy, Mitt.  You shudda invited me to the Inaugural Ball.  That was huge, HUUUUGE. I’m not feeling the love, Mitty Baby.  C’mere.  Let me bite your neck.”

            Sure, you thought you could dabble with La Trump.  Take his money then kick him to the curb.  But you don’t curb-kick The Donald.  He curb-kicks you.  That’s what you don’t understand.  Lay down with dawgs, git up with fleas.  But in this case, Mitt, you’ll get up with long, ginger colored hair strands all over your nice suit. 

            That’s not dignified, Mitt.  That’s not presidential. It’s embarrassing.  Plus, it’ll make one of your many wives ask you where you've spent the night. (I’m not sayin’, I’m just sayin’ lots of people are sayin,’ is all.) Not good, Mitt.  Not good.

            And worse yet, your willingness to cozy up to and pal around with and attempt to play the fool with this fool does not speak well of your character.

            Or maybe it does. Maybe that’s the problem.

            Which is why I say, Don‘t do it, Mitt.  Step away before it’s too late, before everybody else starts to notice.