Drat! Foiled again! Our very own superhero Mormon Man Mit (he recently downsized his name) Romney has been bested for about the hundredth time by his nemesis and archenemy Junior Jon, current governor and ambassador-to-be.
“I’ve been working my ass off to be Mr. Republican big shot, and then President Obamajama goes and ordains Governor Fancy Pants ambassador, and suddenly everybody is talking about him instead of me.”
Mit and I were enjoying a nightcap the day Huntsman got the ambassadorial nod, and Mit had been hitting the bottle pretty hard. Unfortunately, my former missionary companion has never given up his predilection for bourbon and Coke, and bad bourbon at that—Early Times, the rotgut of undergraduates. Try as I might—I give him a fifth of Jack Daniel’s every Christmas—I couldn’t get the self-made billionaire to move up a class in the alcohol department.
“Slow down, Elder Romney,” I said, using the term of affection from our mis sionary days in Paris, France.
“I would have wiped the floor with him in 2012,” Mit said, taking a healthy slug from the bottle, followed by a Coke chaser. “And, if it came to pass that the Lord didn’t see fit for me to rule our country at that time, then no one could deny me the crown in 2016.”
Mit was growing red in the face, fueled by Huntsman envy burning in his bosom and Early Times scorching his gut.
“Now, of course, Ambassador Fancy Pants will come back from China, and they’ll hand him the presidency on a silver platter, just like everything in his life has been handed to him. It’s not fair, I tell you! It’s not fair!”
I could see that the mercurial Mormon man was perilously close to succumbing entirely to the self-pity that always succeeded his fits of rage. I had to find a way to buck up his spirits.
“Look at it this way. Out of sight, out of mind. People will forget all about Junior Jon. Just keep plugging along, gathering your conservative chits while you may, and the crown will be placed on your very large head.”
“I just don’t know,” said Mit, sighing like an expiring balloon. “I sure wish I didn’t have to cloak myself as the Conservative savior every damned day. My whole body aches from squeezing my limbs into the off-the-rack right-wing men’s wear they lay out on my bed every morning.”
“I have to say, though, that your Bill O’Reilly facial isometrics are starting to pay off. And the Sean Hannity sneer is coming along nicely.”
Mit didn’t seem to appreciate my compliment.
“I’m a lot better-looking than either of those guys,” Mit said somewhat petulantly. “I must admit, however, that I like the cut of Sean’s jib. I understand his appeal. But I just don’t get why folks become weak in the knees when Junior Jon cocks his eyebrow. He reminds me of some snooty English toff leaning against the mantelpiece in his silk smoking jacket, like in those old movies. ‘I say, old boy,’ he drawls, ‘could I interest you in a spot of tea?’ I tell you, I can’t stand it!”
My former missionary companion drained his drink, and then proceeded to rattle and crunch the residual ice in his powerful jaws.
“Listen,” I said, “you need to find something to top Junior Jon’s China gig, you know, go one-up on him. How about getting the Church to call you to the Council of the Twelve? If you are an Apostle, it will prove you are the baddest Mormon around.”
Mit glared at me with contempt, a look he had obviously picked up from Bill O’Reilly, or maybe Dick Cheney.
“You’ve lived too long in Utah, Elder,” he said.
“Maybe you should take up some regular-guy kind of hobby. After all, Huntsman rides motorcycles and plays the guitar.”
“But how does he get away with it? I take off my shirt at the beach and everyone laughs at me.”
“Well, maybe you shouldn’t wax your chest. Any way, despite his aristocratic demeanor, the governor somehow strikes people as authentic. He’s not a phony.”
“Are you saying I’m a phony?”
“I’ve got it! Get a buzz cut like Glenn Beck.”
“Never! Maybe I could get Madame Sarkozy to put in a good word for me with the Democrat Socialist administration. Ambassador to France would be pretty neat.”
“But your French is not as good as Junior’s Chinese.”
“As we used to say in Paris, go put a beret inside your bum.”
Fri., Aug. 29, 4:30-5:30 p.m. / Free