Written by Tawdry Soup
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Friday, 14 September 2012

image for Obama Toys With Idea of Bailing Out Romney
Romney Freaks Out. Again.

Somewhere, USA-On Monday, September 10, 2012, the robotic and vacuous Mitt Romney stumbled along the dusty campaign trail with his dumb-struck running mate, Paul Ryan. As Romney's black hair dye streamed down the back of his $150 Facconable shirt, and his $60,000 Oyster Perpetual Day-Date Platinum Rolex pinched the hairs on his arm inherited from one of his father's 50 wives, he wondered out loud, "You ain't gonna like this son, but Ima wunderin' just how much ass-whuppin' a couple of spoiled rotten little rich-pricks can take. And by a black guy at that!"

Ryan stared ahead. In his mind he could see the comfortable office and cushy House of Representatives' chair he left to follow Romney into this unfamiliar wilderness, where they were now thirsty, tired, and flat-out lost.

Suddenly, Ryan stopped walking, stood up straight and extended his hand in the air, pinching his thumb and forefinger together. He pointed them at Romney and said pointedly, "Look, we've got to get help." His big blue pound-puppy eyes peeked from beneath his jet-black widow's peak. As he spoke, he stabbed at the air with his tightly pinched thumb and forefinger. His gargantuan Adam's apple moved up and down, as if he was trying to swallow a giant piece of bubble gum over and over. "Face it," he worried, "Our strategy has been eaten by the wolves. Our once rich fields of ideas have crumbled to dust. Our shining visions of victory have turned into a burned-out mirage. We are beginning to look like a couple of bookends with nothing between us but thin air. Oh my God, I'm freaking out.."

Then Ryan's face went blank. His plate-sized blue orbs careened around his eye sockets for a few seconds, then settled into a fixed gaze toward the end of his nose, as if a butterfly had suddenly landed on it.

"What is it?" asked Romney.

"I can't figger," answered Ryan

"You what?"

"I can't figger. You know, think."

"Oh crap. Me either," Replied Romney

"Oh my God," screamed Ryan. "I am completely out of ideas. Not a constructive thought left in my head."

"Mine either," yelled Romney in a panic. "You know my great uncle had Alzheimer's, yes he did, everyone said he was senile, but I know it was Alzheimer's. Oh NO! What am I going to do? I've got bills to pay, mouths to feed, my hair, what will I do about my hair?....I'm freaking out, too!"

Ryan grabbed Romney by his wooden shoulders and shook him twice, before slapping him across the face and shouting, "Get yourself together, girlfriend!" They looked breathlessly at each other.

"Now think," demanded Ryan. "What the heck are we going to do?"

They staggered around in a circle for a bit, then Romney says, "I have a confession to make. I've been sandbagging. I haven't had an original idea since We Built That. And I didn't really think of that, Obama thought of it. That fucker's full of ideas."

Romney thought for a second, "Wait a minuuuuuttteee..."

"What?" asked Ryan.

"I'm thinking we might ask him a favor, replied Romney."

"Sit down, quick!" said Ryan, excitedly, "You've got an idea. Breathe slowly..slowwwly..now what is it, this idea of yours?"

"We'll ask for a bailout," announced Romney. "An intellectual bailout. So we don't sound so dumb, you know? I'll tell him we'll contribute a million dollars to his campaign, if he can send us 3 or 4 pithy comebacks."

Ryan pulled his smartphone from his pocket and dialed Obama's number for Romney. He caught Obama bathing in the comfort of a 5-star hotel with Joe Biden at his side.

Obama answered, "What the hell do you want?"


After Romney told him his great idea, and how he wanted to send the campaign a million bucks, Obama responded, "That is one fantastic idea, but why call me for help when you can think of such great ideas on your own? Transferring the data might be a problem, though." Obama thought for a second, and informed Romney there is only one way to transfer data this sensitive and pithy, so Romney and Ryan must follow exact White House presidential procedures.

Ryan and Romney both excitedly agreed to do whatever is necessary to fill themselves with the pithiness that maybe, just maybe, could match the pitch-perfect pithiness of the King of Pithiness, Barack Obama.

Obama instructed Romney to bend over and have Ryan put the phone on speaker and hold it to Romney's asshole to begin the data dump.

Romney didn't hesitate to get into position. Ryan held the speaker phone against Romney's asshole, and announced to Obama they were ready. Doing everything they could to keep from laughing, Obama and Biden started making whistling and old fax machine noises peppered with raspberries into the phone. Then, as instructed, Romney held the phone to Ryan's asshole, and they repeated the procedure.

When it was all over, Romney said he felt more alive than ever, and Ryan said he did too. They walked down the trail with a new bounce in their step, just waiting to use their new-found pithiness to send some bleeding-heart spiraling into the dustbin of history. Then Ryan's phone rang. He answered, "Boy Wonder, here."

It was Karl Rove. "Let me talk to that walking phone booth you call a running partner." Ryan handed the phone to Romney. "Hey Romney, this is Turd Blossom. Stop worrying about your polls. While you were out there jerking off with Eddie Munster, me, Netanyahu and one of your rich white-trash constituents bought the rights to a piece of crap movie chocked full of characters that look like they from the bible. We overdubbed it with a bunch of slanderous shit about towel-heads and their Mohatmagandi, or whatever the fuck he is."

Rove continued, "Now listen carefully you idiot, and don't fuck this up. To make this scheme work, you must do exactly as I tell you, and you cannot forget any of it." Romney studiously put the phone on speaker, gave it to Ryan, bent over and signaled for Ryan to hold the phone near his asshole.


You could hear Karl Rove clearly say, "When we send our shills into the streets of Egypt and Libya with this video, the shit's gonna hit the fan. You are to wait..I repeat...you are to wait UNTIL AFTER our guys move into the U.S. consulate in Benghazi, kill the American ambassador and burn the place down. THEN, AND ONLY THEN, are you to make a statement talking about how impotent Obama is in American foreign affairs and how he sleeps with the enemy. And from now on my code name is not Turd Blossom, it's Sam Basill-you can spell it any way you like. DO YOU GOT IT!?

"Uh yeah, I think so, I din't go to Harvard for nothing," replied Romney. Suddenly, Romney's old-man sphincter, groaning from the weight of all the information recently downloaded, and maybe a touch of a virus, blew out with enough force to knock Ryan's hand away. Ryan whipped back his arm like he had touched a rattlesnake and cried, "Damn, grandpa, give me some warning next time." Rove hollered, "What the hell was that?" "Uh, nothing, Karl, I mean Turd Blossom," replied Romney. "It's Sam fucking Bassil!" screamed Rove.

Ryan snapped the phone shut, put it in his pocket, smelled the back of his hand, a move that caused his Adam's apple to disappear into his throat, and gave Romney the biggest goober grin he could muster. Romney smacked his lips and gave Ryan a confused grimace. They took a mutual breath, then wandered down the campaign trail, directly into the setting sun.

After a while, Romney said, "I'm thinkin'...We might'ta got tricked." "By who?" asked Ryan.

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The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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