Sunday Fun or Twas the night before Mitt-mas

'Twas the night before Mitt-mas, and in a swing state We righties were meeting to gin up some hate. The flat-screens were hung from the rafters with care, To show every angle of Mitt’s perfect hair. The pundits were breathless, replaying the tape Of Akin who’d mentioned “legitimate rape.” While Mitt, with his programmers writing new code, Had just settled down into hibernate mode. When out on the trail, ol’ Tom Smith lit up Twitter, With words that were sure to make women-folk bitter. “From a father’s perspective it’s all the same thing If your daughter is raped or has sex with no ring.” For how you conceive shouldn’t matter at all But what happens next should be government’s call. A cluster of cells that can’t live on its own Should have the same rights as a man fully grown. Then after nine months when the baby arrives That’s when we’ll step back and get out of your lives. The baby needs health care? And schooling? And food? Stop asking for handouts—you’re being quite rude! No health care! No clean air! No safe water now! No rules to make sure that you don’t get “mad cow”! No fire or police who will come when you call! Now slash away! Slash away! Slash away all! If you can’t survive, why, that’s all your own fault. For we have decided it’s time to go Galt. Grab hold of your bootstraps and give some hard yanks, We have our priorities: tax cuts and tanks. Get lost in the twinkling of Paul Ryan’s eyes And then you’ll forget our campaign is all lies. “Obama cut Medicare! He’s such a jerk!” “He’s giving your money to those who don’t work!” Forget that it’s we who want seniors to pay Forget that we’re taking full coverage away. It’s merely an annual six grand to bear And hey!—we will still keep the name “Medicare”! Forget that it’s our plan that’s lacking detail, Forget that economists give us a “fail.” We cannot allow you to see all our cuts Because if you did you would know we are nuts! We cannot afford to campaign on the facts And worse is the stuff that our candidate lacks. He’s Gekko from Wall Street with none of the charm His permanent setting is “odious smarm.” Mitt’s boorish, elitist, insulting and rude: “These gas-station cookies do not look like food.” “Hey, losers, your rain ponchos look awfully cheap.” And “Who let the dogs out?” (Good lord, he’s a creep!) His money is parked in exotic locales And NASCAR team owners are some of his pals. And then there’s Rafalca, his wife’s dancing horse, A “business expense” on Mitt’s taxes, of course. He flip-flops, he waffles, he flexes, he bends, He says “corporations are people, my friends!” Unscripted exchanges he tries to avoid We work to protect him, our candidate droid. He won’t show his taxes—not ever, no way! He can’t let the peasants see he did not pay. He may yet reveal it—he is Mr. Gaffe— His "tell" is that horrible, fake, hollow laugh. But we’ll focus on race: "Born in Kenya, I hear!” And hope that our poll numbers somehow stay near. We’ll smear and we’ll lie, and we’ll even swift boat Then do what we can to suppress the Dem vote. So enjoy our finale, it’s going to be grand This great celebration of all things Ayn Rand! From here, where the palm trees are just the right height, "Happy Mitt-mas to all!" (And remember—Mitt’s white!) Borrowed shamelessly from here