I received a call from failed Republican presidential candidate and former Libtardchusetts governor Mitt Romney earlier today, asking me to meet him in the city for a late lunch at Gramercy Tavern. Said he wanted my advice on his recent return to public life after months spent licking his wounds and lashing underlings at his top-secret, heavily fortified base of operations in La Jolla.
As I told him, I’m not generally given to being seen in public with losers, teetotalers, or believers in magic underpants, much less the toxic combination of all three he presents. That said, I was willing to make an exception this one time solely on the strength of his business acumen, which I admire tremendously. Truth be told, his shenanigans at Bain served as the template for my own wildly successful company, Carver Consolidated Capital (C3), so I do feel somewhat indebted to him.
Anyhow, I showed up at the Gramercy at the appointed hour and was immediately seated at our table, which had been reserved under the name Obamaphone. Romney, sporting the worst fake mustache I’ve ever witnessed, arrived as I was placing my drink order. I cannot overstate how preposterous the guise looked. It was literally an oversized, mustache-shaped piece of cardboard.
“…pitcher of Old Fashioneds,” I said to the waiter. “And put an extra floater of your finest bourbon on it. Couple pints should make the nut. Ah, Mitt, just in time. What’ll you have?”
Mitt’s eyes opened wide. “Uh… Señor Mitt? Me es know no Señor Mitt. Me am your happy gardener, Hector.”
“Right,” I said. “Hector. Well, what’ll it be, Hector?”
“Un very large-o glass-o of milk-o, por favor. Mucho frio, gracias.”
I attempted to hide my disgust at his choice of beverage by rubbing my eyes, and frankly don’t care if I was successful. Mitt leaned across the table.
“Listen, Oz,” he said, whispering. “Do me a favor and call me Hector while we’re here. I’m trying to keep a low profile.”
“Then perhaps the cardboard mustache wasn’t the best choice of fashion accessory.”
“Ha,” Mitt said, smiling broadly. “Good one. C’mon, this thing set me back fifty grand.”
“Fifty—! Are you out of your mind?”
“What?” he said, rubbing at the mustache self-consciously. “You don’t think it looks good?”
“It looks like an oversized, mustache-shaped piece of cardboard. What’s it fastened with, tape?”
“Yeah, it is,” he said, still rubbing the mustache while his eyes flickered furtively back and forth. “Alright, thanks for the heads up. I’ll talk to my connection about it.”
Luckily, the waiter chose that moment to return with our drinks. “Pitcher of Old Fashioneds for you, sir,” he said, delivering my Bacchus-sized bounty of booze. Then, after handing Mitt his milk: “And for you, uh, señor. A glass of our coldest milk.”
“Gracias,” Mitt said.
“De nada. Are you gentlemen ready to order?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “I’m going to start off with two servings of—”
“Hey, hey, hey,” Mitt said testily, turning toward the waiter. “Uh, lee-sen up Queen Mary. My great Americano friend and I just got here. Why don’t you stop with the andele andele and give us a few minutes to relax-o, huh?”
The waiter flashed an admittedly justified look of anger, which I didn’t care about, but I was hungry. “Uh, actually Mitt — Hector — I am a bit famished. Let me go ahead and order a few things, then you can place yours whenever you’re ready.”
“Alright, fine,” he said, crossing his arms petulantly. “Whatever.”
“Excellent,” I said before proceeding with my order. When I was finished, I favored the waiter with a winning smile which I hoped conveyed the message, “I know this guy’s a huge asshole and please don’t rub your balls on my food, thanks.” If not, then the C-note I slipped him when I returned my menu doubtlessly spoke for itself.
Just to be clear, I don’t have a problem with men of power abusing the poor and middle class. Hell, a day doesn’t go by where I don’t gleefully engage in the same sort of behavior. But I do draw the line when it comes to those who have a hand in preparing my food behind closed doors.
So, long story short: Mitt asked me some rather stupid questions, I gave him stupid answers that seemed to please him regardless, he paid me a handsome consulting fee which I plan on blowing at the track, and we went our separate ways with vague promises to catch up again at some unspecified date and time. Oh, and he inexplicably pissed himself about halfway through the meeting. Also, his ill-advised choice of cheddar onion soup all but destroyed his fake mustache. All in all, a pretty typical Mitt Romney encounter.
Well, it’s been a long day and I feel a rather large and obnoxious bowel movement coming on, so I must bid you adieu. As always, thanks for stopping by.