So. There’s an elephant in the room, folks, and it’s name is Mitt Romney. If you want to gain a keen insight as to how a wealthy, privileged, rich American asshole views the rest of the world, take a good gander at Herr Rommel. For months now, the Republican Presidential front runner has given we Americans that snotty-nosed rich prick attitude wherein he, and his ever so lovely wife, call us “you people”.
“You people don’t need any more of my financial or tax records,” and, “You people just don’t understand how business actually works,” or my personal favorite, “I just don’t care about you poor people.” Mitt Romney has been stomping around America and talking down his snooty nose at us as common people. Now, he’s taken his blue blooded act on the road.
When Gram was reading the paper this morning at breakfast, she came to the story of the Mittster telling London, and all of England, that, “You people don’t know how to run an Olympics.”
“What tha fuck is that silly asserholie doin’?” Gram asked the table full of gathered Johnsons. “A man wants ta be President cain’t be sayin’ silly shit like that.”
“He’s just speaking his mind, Gram,” said my mother, “the British can’t even keep their promise to protect our athletes from the Muslim terrorists. Somebody should be saying something.”
Gram gave Mother a look that was only a notch below the Evil Eye. “When are you gonna forgit yer a assholie fuckball again? You say some a tha stupidest shit I ever heard.”
“Well,” Mother started to answer, “I, ah, well I think these are quite tasty pancakes, Mooner. What did you say you did differently?”
“I added buckwheat today is your answer, Mother. ‘Now,’ should answer you, Gram.”
Lucidity is a transient concept at best and totally homeless when combined with dementia.
Some of my blogger buddies jump started my thoughts and gave me the idea of how to keep up with Mother as her memory worsens and she starts to wonder off.
“Hey, everyone, I had an idea how to keep track of Mother when she starts wandering off the Reservation. I’mma take her over to Dr. Mays and get him to plant one of those ID/GPS chips in her neck like I got for the dogs. Then we can track her on Google when she goes missing.” Some of my ideas are classic genius.
“Oh, fuck alla that Oedipus shit, Mooner. Put one a them shockie collars on her and lectrify tha fences,” was Gram’s better idea. “Hell, give me a clicker fer tha collar an I’ll keep up with her.”
My mother gasped and clutched her throat at the spot where chip and collar would meet. “Why I never! You people are treating me like an animal. How dare you!”
The vet’s office scheduled us for next Tuesday at 10 am and the electrician will be out to juice up the fences Wednesday. Then I’m off to Santa Fe Friday. It’ll just be the dogs, the fucking cat and me this trip. I can’t be worrying about mother wandering off in a strange town while I’m working. It’s hard enough for me to focus my ADHD-addled brain without trying to keep up with her.
Which brings me back to Mitt Romney. Let me try to say this with an economy of words when I say, “Mitt Romney is not Presidential. He can’t park his own ego long enough to let the engine cool before he says something really stupid. Strong leaders are required to be diplomatic and you, Herr Schmidt Rommel, are not diplomatic in any fashion of the word.”
If you can believe recent polls, America could possibly elect this effete and totally snobbish asshole to our Presidency.
Holy… Fucking… Shit!
Ugh, and manana, y’all.