Our Long National Nightmare Is Over: Mitt And Ann Romney Get Their Car Elevator
Egg Romney woke up to a new and strange feeling. Could it be? She wiggled her toes, grazed her fingers on the 1000-count sheets,interwoven with threads of gold. For once, the gosh darn sheets weren't abrading her ultrasensitive skin. Why, they almost felt soft!
Egg Romney wrinkled her little princess nose. She smelled something good, wafting up from the kitchen of their miserable 3,000-square-foot beach shack. As if one could escape a scent in a ramshackle cottage like this one. But today she didn't so much mind -- an odd feeling in itself. What could be the matter with her? She felt ... happy! And then Egg Romney remembered: the California Coastal Commission had finally come to their idiot senses and given them approval to raze this sad little hovel and build a more suitable home, a modest 12,000-square-foot one, right there on the beach in La Jolla.
Egg Romney rose like a goddess from the perfectly undisturbed bedclothes -- she never moved while she slept, her arms crossed upon her breast. And of course Mittens, her Mittens, would not dream of disturbing her in her wing of this dump. She wrapped herself in her favorite fisheagle shirt -- no pants -- and floated down the stairs to the kitchen.
"HONEY!" said Mitt, her devoted husband who was currently burning her breakfast, with love. "YOUR HOLY BEAVER'S HANGING OUT!" He rushed to cover her wanton vagina, but in a terrible irony, all he had at hand were oven mitts. Mitt's mitt covered her magnificent '70s-style bush, which was, frankly, magnificent.
Mitt really didn't know what to do at that point. All he knew was he was terrified.
But some animal urge in Egg Romney took over. This ... happiness had left her feeling alive, carnal, bestial! She wanted to roll, naked, in pancake batter. She wanted to douse her hair in ketchup. She wanted some things that were pretty weird, we guess, because maybe she wasn't used to this "doin' it," and she was kind of doing it wrong. But mostly, after the hair ketchup, she wanted Mitt's thingy in her babybox, and SHE. WANTED. IT. NOW.
She yowled. She scratched. She grabbed him by his bespoke suit lapels (the casual one he always made pancakes in) and threw him up against a Travertine wall. They did it in the pancake batter, which her doting Mitt, in his terrible ineptness, had splashed all over the platinum countertop. And then Mitt cried and cried and cried and cried, and then he wandered down to the beach to yell at a hippie.
Egg Romney wandered, satisfied, to the subzero refrigerator and grabbed herself some ketchup. It was a new life, one where Egg Romney finally gets what she wants, and she was going to live it to the fullest. As she massaged the ketchup through her tresses, Egg's face cracked. And at long last, she smiled.
Rebecca Schoenkopf is the owner, publisher, and editrix of Wonkette. She is a nice lady, SHUT UP YUH HUH. She is very tired with this fucking nonsense all of the time, and it would be terrific if you sent money to keep this bitch afloat. She is on maternity leave until 2033.