Mitt Romney is going to be the GOP nominee for president. That’s just how it is. You don’t have to like it, but much like the sun will come up tomorrow and shine down on your morning boner (or the feminine equivalent—areola spasms? I’ve never met a human woman) Mitt Romney will go up against Barack H. Obama in a profoundly boring battle of the milquetoast Nancy-boys.
Let’s take a looksy-doodle at whom Romney will effortlessly vanquish on his leisurely stroll to the top of the Republican ticket:
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Rick Perry proved himself to be woefully unprepared for the national spotlight for (AND I’M BEING GENEROUS HERE) maybe 75 reasons. He’ll breathe a sigh of relief when he blow-dries his beautiful hair in privacy at his newly re-named hunting lodge, Negrohead. (Please—change takes time. He’s doing the best he can, which is really, really not good at all.)
Then there’s Minnesota’s Michele Bachmann, who glows incandescent with pulsing hatred for reality’s most basic qualities and was probably dismissed by the Republican establishment when they had a pow-wow and figured out there was a legitimate risk she would literally physically explode when her husband Marcus buckled under the stress of being the first first husband and was caught sucking a 22-year-old aide’s tasty cock under the table at the 2013 White House Correspondent’s Association dinner. (In his defense, the aide, Craig Greene, was a nasty little flirt who could probably put his cute little big dick wherever he wanted.)
Herman Cain on the other hand, is fantastic. At making pizza and being an asshole. His infamous “9-9-9” economic plan for the United States could charitably be described as being as effective as using a hammer to peel a carrot, except in this case, the carrot is people like you and me who scream and get hurt when hit with a hammer.
Ron Paul is fun to have around. He’s got some legitimately great and refreshing ideas and others that are fascinatingly bad, but I’m afraid if I go into any detailed criticism of him, his insane son, Senator Rand Paul of Kentucky, might send a supporter to stomp on my head. Just kidding, he’d have them stomp on the head of a middle-aged woman who defended me because A) that’s how his supporters roll and B) he knows if he sent them directly to me, I’D FUCKING ATOMIZE THEM. JK! Namaste, all the way.
Finally, we’ve got Newt Gingrich. Seriously, we’ve still got Newt Gingrich. In 2011 we are still subjected to Newt F. Gingrich. (The “F” stands for “Are you shitting me? Get off my TV!”) Newt is as likely to be president as the left rear hubcap on your neighbor Randy’s light blue Buick Le Sabre. I had to get specific with that example so you could envision just how hard Newt Gingrich will NOT get the nomination. Is a majestic bald eagle going to land in your lap right now and tell you there’s a big bag of gold ingots buried under the geraniums in front of Randy’s house? No. Similarly, Newt is not going to get the nomination. In fact, if the nomination were a physical thing, he would be simultaneously shot by Rick Perry and Dick Cheney if he even approached it.
So unless Romney shows up at the next debate wearing a goldfish bowl filled with clown diarrhea around his neck, you can expect to watch 50 percent of voters dutifully convince themselves that “He’s their man!” in 2012.
My name is Rob Delaney and I approve this message.
Previously – I Fuck Food
