Short Imagined Monologues
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Mitt Romney’s Haircut Will Not Be Denied.
I know some folks derive a kind of sick enjoyment from the quadrennial pageant of televised intelligence-abatement that is the United States presidential election, but it’s time to stop the charade. There is no primary. There is no general. There is only this: I am Mitt Romney’s haircut. This is my year, and I will not be denied.
Everything about me is presidential. You may not even know why, but you’ve all thought it, and that’s no accident. I’ve been designed precisely for this moment. I’m a hybrid of every classic American presidential hairstyle since the 1930s. Roosevelt’s fatherly gray temples. Kennedy’s insouciant bouffant. Reagan’s lethal, revolutionary amalgam of feathering and pomade. Think about it this way: what if you could trade in your shitty, 8-year-old Ford Probe for a car that somehow combined the classic flair of a ‘59 Cadillac and the raw authority of a ’68 Mustang? Now imagine ramming that Caddi-stang right through the front doors of the fucking White House. Get the picture? That’s pretty much exactly what I’ll be doing on top of Mitt Romney’s face on November 6, 2012.
The yammering simpletons who comprise our political class have busied themselves for the past year or so earnestly handicapping the Republican primaries, as if they’d actually been contested. I’d like to say something magnanimous about my competition, but come the hell on. Newt Gingrich looks like he’s wearing a bowl of boxed mashed potatoes on top of his fat watermelon face. Rick Perry parts his greasy mop in the middle, like a mental patient. Rick Santorum probably walks into his barber shop and says, “Give me the Bob Saget.” I could go on and on. Those hapless losers might as well be completely bald, like Donald fucking Trump.
Sometimes Mitt will do a book signing, or a county fair, or some other mind-numbing germfest where the people stink of pancake batter and try to tell him racist jokes. These are the events where we don’t get to wear a tie, and have to pretend we don’t fly private. Those times, I’ll let a lock fall loose, right in the front, over the right brow. That way, people think, “Hey, Romney’s hanging loose!” Bingo, genius. I’m still in full control. The president needs a human touch.
Now, Barack Obama may be the incumbent, but it’s only fair to point out that he’s at a severe disadvantage. It was a cheap victory, him taking old man John McCain and his pathetic Giuliani comb-over to the woodshed. In 2012 he’s up against the greatest ivy league/pompadour hybrid ever seen in American politics. And for this epic battle, the president has equipped himself with a buzz cut? I understand, his options are limited. But let’s at least make it interesting. Hit me with a fade, a high-and-tight, a flat-top.
Twenty years from now, I’ll be sitting on top of Mitt’s face, delicately sprinkling in a bit more gray as the two of us eyeball the sunset from the porch of our multi-billion dollar retirement estate. As much as I love to win, I’d hate to look back, reflecting on two long terms, and think, “That was too easy.”
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