Mittens Romney Joins the 47 Percent

Mitt Romney walks onto train

 MITTENS ROMNEY

Excuse me ladies and gentlemen. My name is Mitt. You folks can call me Mittens. My apologies for disturbing you on the subway this Wednesday morning. No, I am not a bum. I wear red power ties with a double Windsor knot every day. But running a failed political campaign is expensive.

People say I can’t relate to America. But look at me now! I’m asking for handouts... I mean contributions... just like the rest of the 47 percent. Folks, I understand your struggle now that I’m riding the subway for the first time in my life.

Romney wipes a single tear rolling down cheek.

Folks, I know desperation. I'll take anything today. American Express, Visa, Mastercard... hell I'll even take debit. I've fallen on some hard times America. I might... I might just have to become a CEO again.

But no one knows the real Mittens. People think I have no beliefs. No true opinions. No soul. I've got soul. I once had dreams before this cruel calloused campaign. In my youth, I sought to find the spotlight on a Telenovela. 

Unfortunately, you can’t be afraid of minorities if you want to be a star on a Spanish language soap opera. Crushed dreams I tell you. 

So please, if you can find it in the goodness of your heart to give me a few thousand dollars, I will forever remember your kindness. I promise you it’ll go exactly where I tell you it’s going. I am not a liar like those guys on the streets who carry those signs "Need money for Weed." Want to know a secret? They are not even buying weed. I know. Once I tried to sell them a nug of the finest Oxfordion kush. But they just scoffed at me. Those liars are using your money to buy food. Shameless.

Me on the other hand, I am just your average person, who wears red power ties with double Windsor knots every day... and needs a few thousand dollars for a cab ride. Thank you and God Bless... Joseph Smith.

Blackout

Could I love someone who loves pineapple on pizza?

Could I love someone who loves pineapple on pizza?

By: Francesca Ratner

Could I love someone,

Who loves pineapple on pizza?

Even if he's fun,

And buys it with his own Visa?

We could go for walks,

Watch the bright sunset on the beach,

We'd hold hands and talk –

All that's within our scope and reach.

He's almost perfect,

With warm, gazing eyes and kind smile.

But there's one defect

That would linger all the while.

Never together

Could we sit down and truly share,

Not now or ever,

A slice of pizza as a pair.

He'd want yellow fruit,

And I'd demand my sausage meat.

It might start dispute.

No more would he seem great and sweet.

We could, I suppose,

Then split a much larger pizza,

He and I'd propose,

And still put it on his Visa.

And would it matter,

If we shared the same silly slice?

We could get the bigger platter.

It might work so nice.

But cheese melts and spreads

On half my salty, spicy part.

Sweet, gross taste I dread

Slowly invades, closes my heart.

It simply can't work.

He's too into pineapple mess.

I've got my meat quirk.

It won't lead to true happiness.