Mitt Romney wakes at 5 AM underneath navy blue billion-thread count sheets at a hotel that costs more per night than the average American family’s car. He rises, wandering downstairs to the hotel’s breakfast banquet in search of something to nibble on to curb the aching hunger for power in his belly when he spots a pristine, silver receptacle with the words “French Roast” engraved proudly on its side. Romney snatches it, tipping about two tablespoons of the devil’s liquid into a white China mug. He looks around for spies before downing the scalding, sinful concoction in one gulp. Five minutes later, overcome with guilt, Romney finds himself with his fingers down his throat in the hotel lobby’s men’s room, vomiting the vile potion into the sink. Looking up into the mirror, Romney finds he doesn’t recognize the man he’s become, and sobs.

It’s 10 AM and Mitt Romney feels dirty. He can still smell the sweat that oozed from his pores 12 hours prior like lava leaking down a cold, unchanging rock face. He opens his portable safe (patent pending) and removes $100,000 in cash, carefully laying each sheet on the bottom of his suite’s claw-foot porcelain tub before turning on the hot water. Mitt strips off his temple garment and adds his secret bath potion—the tears of Wisconsin union workers given to him by Paul Ryan as a special gift—to the water before slowly lowering his body into the steaming green sea.

Mitt Romney decides a lunch with his sweetheart is the only remedy for his abysmally low spirits, and orders a spread up on the hotel’s veranda that rivals Rosie O’Donnell’s thanksgiving feast. After biting into a delectable foie gras made from the youngest, cutest geese in France, Mitt puts his hand on Ann’s thigh and leans in to nuzzle his nose against her cold, eggshell cartilage. “Only winners deserve eskimo kisses, Willard,” she says before removing his hand from her appendage and turning away. The Romneys dive into the second argument they’ve ever had, in which Ann calls him a “nancyboy.”

Still reeling from his smackdown with Ann, Mitt Romney opens his Dell laptop at 4 PM to compose a letter he’ll display on the front page of his website. His fingers punish the silver keys as he outlines every last detail of his plan to create 12 million jobs if the people of America hadn’t been so freaking stupid to not elect him without any specifics. He finishes off his erratic rant with the signoff “SEE you miserable cock suckers on medicare? SEE you unemployed single bitches living off social security? SEE? I WAS RIGHT!!!” Mitt hits post, then hurls his computer out the hotel window before crumpling into a puddle on the floor, once again returning to the solace only weeping can bring.

By 7 PM, Mitt Romney charges into a private study in his hotel fortress and barks at the nearest butler to bring him a glass of warm milk. One-percent in hand, he reaches into his back pocket for his “little black book,” which contains the names of all his classmates at the Crankbrook School. Clutching a marble land line phone, he calls the ten students he bullied most brutally as a child and screams into the receiver, “Just so you know…you’re still totally gay!” or “Your father was a small-time lawyer, now you’re a small-time lawyer, and you’ll die a small-time lawyer!” and finally, “My birthday party was fancier than all the birthday parties, and you’re going to take that to your grave, you cheap bastard!” Mitt hangs up the final call and turns his attention to his new, custom-made dart board: a map of the U.S. with states highlighted in red and blue based on last night’s results. He screams in agony when he accidentally hits only red states, sits down in a massive leather wingback, and cries softly into his now lukewarm milk.

– Natalie Berkley

Photo by Chris Chan (Creative Commons)