Elderly Girl's Patriotic Seduction Rescues the Republic from Romney

Funny story written by sylvia kronstadt

Friday, 7 September 2012


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It appears that Mitt and Barack are in a statistical "dead heat" (who dreamed up that vulgar term -- some necrophiliac?) (although "neck and neck" isn't any better -- way too intimate -- practically gay!) (and "horse race" really should be "whore's race." They're both turning tricks for money. It's a disgrace.)

Ann Romney, who seems scarier and more Stepford wifey than she used to, recently said in a network interview, "I believe in my heart that Mitt is going to save America."

That was when Elderly Girl knew that she must Save America herself. Seducing Mitt would certainly end his "run," which is really more of a skitter. She would be the Devil in a Blue Dress -- a la Monica Lewinsky -- and within minutes, it would be over. Pop Goes the Weasel for the Romney campaign.

Don't hate her because she's beautiful. Elderly Girl's plan to sway an election by exploiting her devastating allure isn't "fair," of course. Is anything in politics fair these days? Is anything in the economy fair? Is our planet fair, with the vast majority of its people living in unspeakable deprivation, anguish and hopelessness?

Is it fair that a blogger can write anything she wants (anything -- it's amazing), and present it to the whole wide world by merely pressing the "publish" button?

Of course not!

But would a Robber-Baron presidency be fair? For you, the little people -- the heart and soul of our country -- it would be a Tragedy of Epic Proportions.

So while you may be appalled at the thought of a politically motivated hormonal beguilement, you know in your hearts that we need to stop Mr. Romney -- that prissy, heartless, inauthentic loon -- by any means necessary.

Entrapping the Republican standard-bearer is not exactly a plum assignment, dear friends. If you think you're revolted, imagine how Elderly Girl -- our glowing and tender warrior of the sexes -- must feel. At the moment, she is doubled over, moaning, "Can't someone else defend our freedom, for a change?"


A Romney presidency would be great for Elderly Girl, of course, which makes her willingness to accept this unsavory assignment all the more noble. She is an inadvertent member of the "Top One Percent," who has managed to become fabulously wealthy without working a day in her life. She pays an even lower tax rate than Mitt does. She pays nothing! She gets a refund!

Men can be such helpless philanthropists when a lavishly desirable woman expresses a wish or a need (ie: "If only I had a yellow convertible Miata, I'd be the happiest girl alive," or "A little townhouse in Manhattan would be so convenient," or "I loved every single ensemble in the new Donna Karan collection. I really ought to own them all."

And then there they were, hanging in her walk-in closet.

In reality, she owns practically nothing, (although she did keep the Miata as a memento of the intellectual, blue-blooded U.S. senator who gave it to her in 1989) (whose identity she has protected, unlike Barbara Walters, who couldn't resist bragging about her fling with a married senator. Real classy, Barb.) Everything else has gone -- through her Anonymous Foundation -- to the homeless, the unemployed, the "working poor" (what a blood-curdling oxymoron) and the immigrants from Mexico, and everywhere else in the world, who expected (damn that Statue of Liberty!) open arms but find themselves either abused or ignored in this Land of Plenty.

Anyhoo, here she is, getting ready to gallop, yet again, to America's rescue -- a whole cavalry poured into one smokin' cocktail dress.


Before you get your knickers in a twist over the tawdriness of Elderly Girl's plan to bring down Mr. Romney, we should have mercy on you and make a disclosure right this minute: Elderly Girl will not touch Mitt, and he will not touch her. Nevertheless, through sheer will, connivance, patriotism and deliciousness, she will indeed seduce him.

You may find this interesting: For decades, Elderly Girl has been widely regarded as one of the greatest lovers of all time. And yet, she is a virgin. She has come to know all of you precious readers so well that she felt it was dishonest not to disclose this state of affairs, so to speak. Sex is absolutely irrelevant to seduction and -- in fact (and ironically!) -- sex would be a puny, paltry anticlimax to any elegantly designed seductive process.

Seduction is a complex and ancient art form that apparently is just too subtle for we brutish Americans. The lithe, undulating ballet of enticement has been cheapened by an unfortunate misperception that an affair consists of humping, grunting and tousled, sticky bedsheets. How unattractive! How unsanitary! We love animals, but we don't have to be animals.

Elderly Girl wishes her fellow Americans would learn to make love with their minds. You can't beat intellectual intercourse, and you don't have to worry that the excitement will fade (until you get Alzheimer's, that is. Perhaps at that point, coitus would be a reasonable option).


Seduction isn't something that requires consummation. It can be sculpted into an exotic and creative lifestyle, in which the urgency of desire is never quelled. Keeping legions of men in love with you decade after decade, without having to lie there and get pounded like a slab of poor-quality pork, is an achievement that requires the same meditative practice and aesthetic discipline that Elderly Girl famously brings to so many aspects of her life.

If Elderly Girl can impart one lesson to you today, sweet friends near and far, it is this: Psychology is everything. Not politics, not money and power, not beauty, not justice. Each of these cornerstones of life is experienced through the prism of psychology, and if you understand that, you can have -- and give -- anything you want. You can seduce 10,000 men (a rough approximation) without messing up your lipstick or your hair.


Elderly Girl solemnly prepares for her Ravish-Romney mission with 30 minutes of one-nostril breathing, a succession of extreme yoga poses, a champagne/rose-petal bubble bath and a powerhouse Green Smoothie.

Before you know it, she is suited up and prepared for duty, her many weapons appropriately proffered and moisturized. As you may recall, Elderly Girl triumphed over her addiction to perfume a year ago (http://kronstantinople.blogspot.com/2011/08/holy-sheet-elderly-girl-could-lie-here.html ), but she has since been informed that she emits a very endearing natural efflorescence from her pores, which is a cross between honeydew and verbena, with undertones of caramel, cashew and (Mitt's favorite:) lime jello.

She has never worn stilettos before, or even high heels -- they're torture devices, plain and simple, intended to get a man's attention. All you need to get a man's attention is to be Elderly Girl! But she has acquired a pair of Blahniks for this occasion and, much to her astonishment, she is able to strut around like a supermodel without even practicing.

It seems that everything comes naturally to Elderly Girl. The first time she sat down at a piano, she played the Goldberg Variations with her eyes closed, and without ever having heard them. Like the narrator in Walt Whitman's "Song of Myself," Elderly Girl "contains multitudes."

She's definitely not Mitt Romney's kind of woman (praise the Lord!), but she's been a genius at faking it since she reached puberty, way back in the middle of the last century. She'll do just fine. Don't worry your pretty little heads about it.


At last, the time has come.

If only you could see Elderly Girl in that blue dress -- OMG! She hasn't looked this hot since she got that United Nations humanitarian award in Geneva back in the '80s.

Elderly Girl corners Mitt in some quiet, out-of-the-way nook at an otherwise rather noisy fundraiser. He's getting a refreshing refill of Tropical Punch. Thank goodness, Elderly Girl remembered to bring her silver flask, filled with tequila. That stuff does wonders for your sense of irresistibility, and it imparts a slight Marilyn Monroe quality to one's voice. She doesn't actually drink it -- she gave up alcohol a long time ago -- but just having the flask with her makes her feel a little drunk, which is an excellent sensation, especially when you're about to slink up to a guy who is so profoundly unappealing.

"Your presentation tonight was so brilliant. I was very moved," Elderly Girl says, stepping closer.

"I'm the right man at the right time," Romney responds heartily, his grim face a totally unconvincing mask of virile good nature. You can tell by the way he moves that he's got something rammed up his something.

She locks her gaze on him, although of course his eyes are darting about at the ceiling, the fake palm trees, the light fixtures, the generic still-life and landscape paintings -- everything but her. There's a real tricky-Dickiness going on.


"Nothing raises my pulse like the actionable insights you described, and I have such respect for context-based disambiguation," Elderly Girl adds, tossing her hair, and twirling a glossy tendril in her fingers. "I hardly ever meet anyone who really gets it. You've made me feel less lonely tonight."

"Good, good, glad you liked it," he mutters, displaying his infamous, tight-jawed aversion to one-on-one interaction."You be sure and vote, OK? And tell your friends!" Then he grins that smirky, panicked Mitt grin.

"I would like to know you better, sir," Elderly Girl says softly, backing him farther into the corner, and focusing her beautiful, brilliant gaze on his face. "I am fascinated by the way you are able to leverage and synergize your corporate strategies into the political realm. It's a big part of your core competency, I feel." (She is such a liar -- it's delightful).

"Great to have you on board," he says. He is laughing nervously -- his all-purpose armor. His upper lip is moist. He's a bit jerky. "Try reading my books!"


"I've read every word you've ever written," Elderly Girl murmurs, leaning in. "It's striking to experience in 'real time' the modularization of mission-critical data into interoperable work-flow solutions." She removes the maraschino cherry from her drink and strokes it soothingly along her collar bone. It's gotten hot in this part of the room.

"Your outcome-based leadership will bring a robust paradigm shift to the White House," she adds. "I have no doubt that your style will be comprehensive, exclusive, benchmarked, high-impact and integrated" (not racially, of course, but integrated nonetheless).

"Your grasp of functionality and granularity is rare," Mitt quips. "Nice visiting with you. Now off I go, ready to put the fund-raising hat back on!"

Elderly Girl stands her ground. She is a breathtakingly well-engineered levee, and he is a gray, restless ocean that is too puny to heave its way past.


"What really enchants me is the way you commoditize and monetize human beings, rendering them as mere 'wetware.' I get so thirsty just saying that word...am I being silly, or kind of endearing?" Elderly Girl continues, pretending to be in a lighthearted mood.

Mitt squints pensively, his lips clamped shut.

"It's prudent not to regard the teeming hordes of workers as sentient beings, don't you find?" Elderly Girl persists. "It makes 'deleting' them ever so much easier!" She can feel one of her spanking moods coming on. She has no doubt that Mitt would secretly thrill to a few whacks down there.

Mitt's eyes are still shifting around desperately, and he keeps looking down at the Tropical Punch as if it might contain an escape hatch. The photo-op version of his reasonably handsome face is deflating. Never has Elderly Girl seen him look quite this ineffectual.


Dread, panic and a deep-seated lack of confidence have taken over. This, as Elderly Girl has known all along, is his true face. It is the face of a man who is terrified that he is going to be found out.

He has fabricated a public face -- of competence, decisiveness and moral tumescence -- that may well be the most fragile mask in the history of American politics. You can readily see right through it to the awkward, unsure boy who lurks behind. If he weren't running for president or shutting factories down, we could afford to feel compassion for him.

All he really has is his dubious "business expertise." He feels naked without his P&L printouts, his ROI breakdowns, his flow charts, bar charts, pie charts, multidimensional graphs and his "nuanced" projections with lots of contingency plans attached. In his world, people are there to be "tasked," not intimatized (Elderly Girl made this word up to complement all that peacocky MBA verbiage). He doesn't want to know about your weekend, your sports team, your hopes for the future. Do your job and stay out of his way. People are mere cogs, as even his best friends and colleagues have noted. He is "the One Mighty and Strong," and they are there to be used.


At last, he seems to give up hope that he can readily escape from the flaming inferno of brilliant irresistibility and force majeure that is Elderly Girl.

"Say, do you ever watch 'Extreme Home Makeover'?" he asks, in a pathetic attempt to neutralize her pointed observations about his stone-heartedness. "People helping people. That's what this country is all about, instead of crying for government aid every time some little thing goes wrong."

"What about 'Extreme Corporate Takeover'?" Elderly Girl hits it back over the net. "You could be the host, like Donald Trump. Doesn't that sound way more fun than being president? You could employ your 'rough order of magnitude' calculation to determine the winner bloodlessly. Or whatever -- maybe there should be blood -- I don't care."

"And have you ever seen those Allstate commercials?" Mitt continues, trying to ignore someone who cannot be ignored. "We need more black guys like him. Serious, no-nonsense, dressed appropriately. Nothing is more reassuring than an appropriately dressed black man."

Elderly Girl moves in, forcing him back even father into the dimly lit corner. She can feel his heat and smell his Brut. His labored exhalations make her eyelashes flutter.


"Did it ever occur to you how 'profit' and 'prophet' are entwined semantically? Did you ever realize that the term 'Power Point' has such spiritual and anatomical resonance? Did you know that when you share your religious 'testimony,' you are using the Latin root for testicles?"

Poor Mr. Romney. His giggling is taking on a frantic tone. "Oh my stars, that's funny...I'll keep it in mind if I have to do Letterman! I promise to make you and America proud," he nods, attempting to squeeze past her. "But really, we should keep our little chat on a plane that is pleasing unto the Lord."

"Mitzi, Mitzi -- you're such a scamp," Elderly Girl scolds, delighted to have come up with another nickname for him. "Is your campaign on that 'pleasing-unto-the-Lord' plane? Or is it the rain in Spain that's mainly in your plane?" She can't resist discombobulating Romney with this rhyme, even thought it is surely one of stupidest remarks she's ever made. Come to think of it, she has never made a stupid remark before. She decides on the spot never to do it again.

"Oh my gad, look at the clock!" Romney cries, although there is no clock anywhere. "I can tell you have more to say, but I need to move around out there. I guess I'm more of an action guy than a talker."


"It's very astute of you to 'keep your kimono closed'," Elderly Girl says, tossing out another bizarre phrase she learned at Harvard Business School. "I suppose it helps you manage marketplace variability and complexity -- and align financial-sector strategies with the processes of governance -- while keeping your foes helplessly in the dark."

"Say, are you looking for a job?" Romney says, as if a solution to his current problem has just materialized in his head. "I have lots of contacts who would feel blessed to bring a sharp-as-a-tack gal like yourself into their ranks. Oh my crud, they would be happy as hogs if I sent you their way."

"Willard," Elderly Girl says, using his given name. "Mitt. Mittens. I've always been partial to mittens. The word itself makes me feel warm and cuddly. Don't you love being our nation's Mittens man?"

"C'mon now, don't be like that, Miss Girl -- or may I call you Elderly? Let's play fair," he squirms.

"Come on yourself, Mittens -- enough of the disintermediation," she whispers, loving the feel of that MBA crap on her tongue. "Aren't we just 'boiling the ocean' at this point? You're the 'long-pole item' here. I don't think we need to waste any more of our valuable time 'peeling the onion.' Let's ramp this thing up, drill down, and close the loop. We're all adults here."

Mitt Romney is breathing deeply, and his skin is getting sort of rosy, and his eyes aren't darting anymore. They're off in some invisible distance, as if the most majestic vision of Heaven he's ever seen is splayed before him. His eyes roll backward, and then they close.

For a Time -- or is it an Eternity? -- the world stands still.

Then, like a fever, he breaks.

Willard Mitt Romney falls to his knees, as radiance floods his face.

"You...complete...me!" he stammers, referencing the barely tolerable Hollywood movie "Jerry McGuire." Never has his visage been wracked with such pure feeling.

Immediately, he returns to reality.

"Oops!" he cries. "Oh my heck! Don't quote me on that, OK?"

Still on his knees, in a prayerful pose, he reaches up and touches the hem of Elderly Girl's devilish blue dress.


At this point, Elderly Girl is feeling guilty. Things weren't supposed to go this far. Her task was to create a substantial embarrassment -- just enough to screw up his campaign -- not a total humiliation.

It is now that the videographers, who have been hidden behind various curtains, chairs and palms, swoop in -- as if this were one of those cringe-inducing ambush interviews.

Well, OK, that's exactly what it is. The whole thing has been streamed live on the Internet and is undoubtedly going viral already.


"It's over," Mitt murmurs, covering his face with his hands.

"Get up, Mr. Romney," Elderly Girl says gently. "And man up, too, if you can figure out how. You are a hopelessly egotistical, terrified mess."

"My tough love could have saved America! You don't build a strong nation by coddling the weak. To the winners go the spoils -- that's what freedom is all about!" Mitt sputters, brushing off his trousers.

"Well then, enjoy your spoils, Mr. Master of the Universe," Elderly Girl says. She is on shaky ground here, since she is very likely the most spoiled lady on the planet.

"She blinded me with science!" he cries out, to no one in particular.

The camera guys are so sweet -- they burst into song: "She's poetry in motion. She turned her tender eyes to me. As deep as any ocean. As sweet as any harmony. She blinded me with science! She blinded me -- with science!!" (Thomas Dolby, 1982)

Just before Elderly Girl sashays into the sunset, with her legendary pouty lips, and her silver and gold hair billowing behind her (and a heart-shaped rump that is more yummy than ever, thanks to a new regimen of 200 squats a day), she turns and remarks, "People say you're impossible to love, Mr. Romney. For me, you're impossible to hate. You just make me feel sad. Your little 'oops' just now, when the tortured, hotshot jargon of the corporate world overwhelmed your defenses, is the only moment of authenticity I've seen since you appeared on the national stage."

America did not live happily ever after. Not by a long shot! But we lived without our Mittens, and God said, "It is good, relatively speaking."

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

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