Tuesday, March 6, 2012

Rick Santorum: A Week in the Life of the Righteous One*

Monday:  Listen!  Listen carefully...you might just hear the whisper of a voice coming over the Midwestern breezes, past the Pittsburgh steel mills.  What, you can’t hear it?  Well I promise you, it’s there.  It’s the voice of God, and he’s telling you to vote for me, Rick Santorum!  These days I don’t even have to refer to myself in the third person because people have stopped confusing me with Tim Palwenty and the angry guy at the corner who’s counting down to the end of the world.

I’ve got a big week ahead of me before the next primary.  I’ve got to go around the country doing interviews, talking about God, my kids, my working class background, how phoney Obama is, and why I want to nuke Iran.

Tuesday:  I wake up and assemble my extensive brood around me.  I’ve got lots of kids.  You should have lots of kids too.  And if they’re old enough, they should vote for me.  My wife cooks me a big breakfast, and I prepare for tonight’s debate.  I close my eyes and concentrate.  “Rick, dear”, my wife interrupts me.  “You’re grinding your teeth again.  Try to think happy thoughts”.  So I picture putting Barack Obama on a plane and sending him back to Kenya where he came from.  Or launching a couple of missiles at Iran.  I breathe a bit more easily.

On the debate stage, I notice that I’m grinding my teeth again, and I do my best to turn my snarl into a smile for the audience.  Newt, Mitt and Ron are on the stage.  Newt’s not a bad guy, but he’s been divorced, so he should probably be roasting in Hell.  The thought of Mitt, that lily-livered, liberal, commie pinko from Massachusetts or New York or California or wherever, makes me grind my teeth even harder.  And whenever Ron Paul starts talking about peace instead of war, my hands clench and unclench...the guy makes me want to rip his head off.

I’m not angry, really.  I’m filled with divinely-inspired love for my neighbour.  As long as my neighbour isn’t a Muslim environmentalist, a birth-control using liberal working woman, or some fascist, elitist, socialist non-believer.

Wednesday:  I’m being interviewed after giving a speech about why my concern for the working class means that we should lower taxes on millionaires.  I look at the reporter’s nametag.  He’s not from FOX, which means that he’s probably some Islamofascist environmentalist who believes in the planet and gravity and fossils and all the rest of that garbage that the mainstream godless media and the communist teachers unions force-feed our kids with splintery spoons at Stasi-run schools every day.

The thought of it!  It makes me angry!  My wife comes up and pats my shoulder and I realise that I was screaming.  I release the reporter’s collar and put him back down, ruffling his hair to show that I didn’t mean anything by it.  That’s what happens when you’re passionate!  You do things you might conceivably later regret.  What kind of things?  Well, it’s like if I got so passionate in the Oval Office one day thinking about liberal baby killers, and nuked Pakistan and India and China and Korea and France and England and the Soviet Union all at once.  Later I might think, “Rick, you shouldn’t have done that kind of thing, England’s our ally!”  But what we want is a man of passion, not some elitist, educated thinker!

What?  The Soviet Union isn’t a country anymore.  Of course it isn’t, you liberal moron!  It’s an Empire!  An Evil Empire!

Thursday:  I go in for a dentist appointment in the morning.  “Rick, you been grinding your teeth again?”  “Of course not!” I snap, guiltily.  “You’ve gotta stop that”, he says gently.  “We can’t have a Commander in Chief with dentures”.

Some unpatriotic hack asks me today why none of my former colleagues in the Senate are endorsing me.  Obviously it’s because they’ve strayed from the path of truth and righteousness.  And because they lack passion.  Are you laughing at me?  Because if you are I might just rip your head off in a paroxysm of brotherly love.  Besides, who’s more important?  That sell-out Olympia Snowe or God?

Someone else asks me about immigrants, and I’m reminded of my dentist’s advice.  “I’m the son of Italian immigrants!” I announce.  “And I have lots of kids.  I love America!  But”, and I’m pretty sure my expression changes, “if Rick Santorum’s President, anyone coming over the border better be wearing Kevlar!”

Friday:  Somebody in the audience at my speech this morning, where I’ve been talking about my kids and the filth that liberals put on television, asks me about gays.  I shiver.  Don’t get me wrong...I have gay friends and all.  But they’re going to Hell.  I mean if we let them marry, why not people and horses?  Or horses and dogs?  Dogs and chickens?!  Chickens and chinchillas??!!  Chinchillas and Blue-Footed Boobys, for God’s sake???!!!  WHERE WILL IT ALL END????!!!! The audience is deathly silent, and I realise that I’ve been screaming into my mic.  A little old lady in the front of the audience takes her fingers gingerly away from her ears and bursts into rapturous applause.

Saturday:  A heckler at my speech on the subject of driving a stake through the heart of the Environmental Protection Agency holds up two pictures which purport to show shrinking glaciers in Canada or some other country run by hippies and communists and Islamofascists who love birth control.  “That”, I roar into the microphone, “is Obama’s political science project!”  Wild cheers from the audience.  “You know how some KGB-trained teacher is at this very moment teaching your child about gravity and fossils so that they can do some government-sponsored elitist science project?  Well just like that, Obama sits in the Oval Office all day and photo-shops glaciers to make it look like global warming is real!  It’s his political science project, so that he can make the price of gas go up and make you ride on the bus with some homeless guy, or worse still, a train!!”

There’s a moment’s silence while the audience ponders the significance of my pronouncement, then a horrified gasp (I think it was the train that did it), and then they break into deafening applause, and the heckler sits down, stumped.  I almost wish he would have kept coming so I could have ripped his arms out of their sockets and told him to go to Canada and wait in line for ten years before some bureaucrat in Toronto or wherever the capital is sews them back on using a used needle that some government-sponsored drug-addict dropped on the street and the umbilical cord of a poor child that was ripped from its mother’s womb and fed to polar bears in some sick socialist eugenics project!  AAAARRGGGHHHH!!!!

Sunday:  The whole family goes to Church, including my extensive brood.  I’ve got lots of kids.  Did I mention that?  We should all have lots of kids.  These fascist environmentalists are worried that we’re overpopulating the globe.  They talk about ‘birth control’, which is a fancy way of saying they like to kill babies.  I mean seriously, if God didn’t want our wives to stay at home and raise scores of little Santorums, don’t you think He would have created birth control before he even got started on the water and trees? 

This stuff is basic, people!  Basic!!  I don’t know why you’re all staring at me like that.  Get to work...we’ve gotta make Rick Santorum the next President of the United States!

* I am not Rick Santorum, and would make no claim to even having begun to plumb the depths of his bigotry.

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