Dear Mr. Romney,
Well, this is awkward.
How is Ann? And how is her horse? Well, I trust. And all your various sons, Grup and whatnot, all in good health? I’m glad to hear it.
Look, I remember making fun of your name. I called you “Mittens” — I did! I remember saying that you look like Christopher Lee’s Dracula. I even remember, in my folly, snarking that your logo brought to mind The Man Inside by Tobias Fünke. In those halcyon days of my political youth a couple of years ago, I groused about that terrible thing you did when you wanted people in your state to have healthcare. It seemed terrible; I forget why.
God forgive us, I complained that you were boring.
Oh, Mr. Romney, do I even have to say it? Fine, I’ll say it.
Please, come back. Please, please, ride in on an unnaturally stiff white charger, glance at us with those unnervingly hooded eye sockets, flash your terrifying undead grin, and tell us that even now, at the eleventh hour, you’re willing to be our president. Be our grown-up. Be our savior.
I’ll vote for you. Ohhh, will I vote for you. I’ll go door to door for you. I’ll make phone calls, I’ll pass out stickers, I’ll set up folding chairs at the Moose Lodge so we can all just gather and chant your name. You don’t even have to show up! We’ll be happy just to think that you might. Mr. Romeny, I’ll falsify birth certificates. I’ll dabble in necromancy and raise my dead ancestors so they can vote for you.
I’ve never been more serious in my entire life. I remember when we said you were “Too establishment.” Now it feels like I was pettishly complaining, “The foundation of my house is too darn strong!” — and then, when I opened the curtains, I saw a murderous, howling tornado bearing down on my front yard.
Have I mentioned that you kind of look like Superman? Oh lord, I think we even made fun of your hair. Your hair.
But it’s great hair. It’s the best hair. It’s the hair that we desperately need right now. This is your moment, Mr. Romney, and you know it.
Binders Full of the Damned