Jeremy is a right-wing prick, Captain Slow is a hippie, Mitt and May would not be compatible.
Obama has the steel ball and one motorcycle defender guarding his flank. Romney only has one player - a skater - still on his feet, and the corporation has ruled no substitutions are allowable. Bodies and smoking motorcycles litter the banked wooden track.
The game is tied, and on the next lap around the rink, Obama should be able to stuff if into the vacuum megaphone goal-thingy.
The crowd is just starting to chant “Bronc-a-than! Bronc-a-than! Bronc-a-than!”
The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Republican Nine that day;
The score stood four to two, with but one more week to play,
And then when Bachman died at first and Newt did the same,
A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.
A straggling few got up to go, whining in deep despair.
Pubbies clung to that hope of which only they seemed to share
They thought, if only Romney could get a whack at Barry -
They'd put up even money with all the states they would carry.
But Christie preceded Romney, as did also Ryan, he of Paul,
And the former was a pudding and the latter was a pol;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Romney's getting to the bat.
But Chris let fly a tribute, to the puzzlement of all,
And Ryan, the much despised, responded to the vitriol in the hall;
And when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred,
There was Ryan safe at second and Christie a-hugging third.
Then from 5,000 throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Mittens, mighty Mittens, was advancing to the bat.
There was ease in Romney's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was sweat on Romney’s lip and a smirk on Romney’s face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Romney at the bat.
Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed back his oh so perfect locks;
Five thousand tongues applauded when he showed his magic socks.
Then while Barack Obama ground the ball into his glove,
Cluelessness gleamed in Casey's eye, a prayer rose to up above.
And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Romney stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the righty batsman the ball unheeded sped-
"That ain't my style," sayeth the Mittster. "Strike one," the umpire said.
From the benches, white with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on the mighty Jersey shore.
"Kill him! Kill the liberal!" shouted someone on the stand;
And it's likely they'd a-killed him had not Romney raised his hand.
With a smile of Christian charity great Mitty's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two."
"Fraud!" cried the maddened fundies, and FOX answered fraud;
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his ground game strain,
And they knew Mitt Romney wouldn't let that ball go by again.
The cool is gone from Mitten's lip, so many people he hates;
He pounds with cruel violence his ads upon the states.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Mitten's blow.
Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in Pubville — mighty Romney has struck out.Obama is huffing and puffing. His eyes are closed. His muscles are taut. His breathing is labored. “Yeah, oh yeah, ooooh, yeah …”
Romney face is a mask of concentration. His brow is furrowed. He’s holding his breath. He’s hunched over. “Come on, come on, please …”
Obama reaches for the bag of Chip’s Ahoy.
What? You never played Ookie Cookie?
Obama has a 5 and a six. Romney is the dealer with a 3 showing. Obama doubles down.
Romney has five cards in his hand; Obama, only one. It’s Romney’s turn.
Romney plays a yellow Skip card, immediately followed by a green Draw Two! However, Obama’s new cards turn out to be a regular Wild Card and a Draw Four Wild Card…
Black:
d8-d1 +
White:
a1-a2
Black:
f5-e6 +
White:
a2-a3?
Black:
b7-b5!
(mate in 3—left as an exercise for the electorate)
Brilliant.
Romney discovers that he’s actually playing Fizzbin. He asks Obama what the odds are of getting a Royal Fizzbin when he can’t turn up a second card, being Tuesday. Obama replies, “Astronomical. Please proceed, Governor.”
Romney is left with only his aircraft carrier. The number of places it could fit on the board is greatly diminished.
Meanwhile, Obama still has his aircraft carrier, battleship, sub and destroyer undiscovered.
This is why Romney is stressing naval expansion in his campaign.
At this point, all Romney can do is spin for millionaire tycoons.
It’s the eighth end of a cold game with slow ice. The Second for the Rightie Whities has laid down two guards, but their Skip hasn’t been holding the broom steady on the tee line. And that rock in the back of the house is primed for a full-on takeout.
Does no one here curl?
Bravo! Bravo!
Obama is holding Full Colors, but Rombuck could still end the game by punching him in the face.
Nope, otherwise I’d be pestering them for a seat in the car!
<nitpick>and 24 Hours of Daytona isn’t NASCAR</nitpick>
Post #68.
Ah, thanks. That just proves that no one notices us; not ESPN, not cute jock chicks…
Four more beers! Four more beers!
I noticed your post.