As Romney and Obama battle it out tonight in one of the most heated and sterile environments known to anyone who’s not a lab technician, spare a thought for those good folks for whom the words ‘it coulda been me’ never rang less true.
Let’s take a peak at what Romney’s fallen comrades are up to this evening.
Michele Bachmann and her lovely wife Markiss Evergreen Bachmann plan a quiet evening at home, testing HPV inoculations on carrots and cloning eyelashes in their laboratory of crazy. Later, they might swap make-up tips and try on wedding dresses.
Rick Perry will be watching the debate at his local saloon bar. He is practising his full-on, Texan-rodeo holler of “That fella steam-irons his chaps, FACT!” every time Romney opens his mouth. Rick is currently high.
At least Rick is getting out of the house. Pity poor Ron Paul. Locked in the attic by his duplicitous son Rand, he sits shivering in his too-big jacket, listening to the mournful cries of his bedraggled band of followers in the yard outside as Rand picks them off, one by one. “End the Fed!” they cry. Then, “Ouch.” None of Carol’s fine French Puff Muffins* for you tonight, Ron.
And what of Newt Gingrich and the lovely Callista? Now out of restraints, Newt is busy in his shed with no time to waste on debates. His mountain-shaped models are coming along just fine, thank you. “All Callista needs,” he muses, “is a jumpsuit and visor and she’s good to go. Her hair was BORN to be in space.” Newt isn’t bitter. He sees further than the power than might have been his. He sees beyond.
Ahh Rick Santorum. He almost came from behind. This evening he will preach a sermon of peace and love to his children, then repair to the barn and lie on a bed of shale, awaiting the call from the RNC. He will forgive their mistake, and accept the nomination with good grace.
Meanwhile Herman Cain is gettin’ busy pouring the cocktails and dimming the lights. “Only one debate counts tonight,” he grins, “ribbed or regular?“
*I got the Ron Paul Family Cookbook!