Campaign Love Bites
Ron Paul to Carol Paul
Happy Valentine’s Day, Pumpkin!
The First Amendment protects my right to talk crazy, so here I go.
You know I have delivered more than 4,000 babies, which means I’ve been privy to well over 4,000 vjj’s, but yours still does it for me, Grandma. You may not be the hot, Barbie/Stepford Wife the other dolts have, you may wear floral housecoats to black-tie events, but no one—and I mean no one—rocks a “Ron Paul Revolution” hoodie the way you do.
I thought my life peaked when I first met you, during the Industrial Revolution, when we bartered for gold, but that pales in comparison with my life now—our son Ru holding office, me running for president with you by my side manning the oxygen, Sarah Palin saying she likes me second best. Can it get any better?
About what I said regarding legalizing prostitution. It is no reflection on us, Snookums, I swear. It’s just that I don’t want anyone regulating what I can do with whom, when, where, or how, and sometimes why.
Ta ta for now, and 23 skidoo,
Do you like what I’ve done with my eyebrows?
The First Lady to The President of the United States
Al Green? Our song? Are you kidding me? What, you didn’t have enough groupies?
Why didn’t you sing the second line of the song? In case you’ve forgotten, it’s “What ever you want to do is alright with me.” Perhaps I haven’t been clear. I WANT TO GET THE HELL BACK TO CHICAGO. People there are NORMAL. People here are MEAN. It’s tough love, Babe, but someone’s got to do it. They hate you here and will play nice only when hell, which they believe in, freezes over.
All your buds are back in Chicago anyway. You and Rahm can perform your good cop, bad cop routine again. I saved the costumes.
It’s as if the vast right-wing conspiracy is scheming to keep us here for frickin ever. One day Newt says he wants to make the moon the 51st state; next day Romney says, “I’m not concerned about the very poor;” Crazy Grampa says goo-goo-gaa-gaa and is declared winner of the debate. We’re not going home any time soon, are we?
Sorry to vent on Valentine’s Day. The Bidens came by for breakfast, and Joe was all, “Let’s make a bloody Mary bar!” And he brought umpteen veterans.
Okay—I’m feeling a little better already. I’ll light the candles, put on a little mood MSNBC, and when you get home you can put my “Let’s Move!” campaign into action. Insert fist-bump here.
Mitt Romney to undisclosed recipients
I heart you.
I bet you $10,000 I love you more!
I’m wearing jeans . . .
One Mr. Newt Gingrich to Michelle Obama
You’ve probably been wondering, When is Newt going to hit on me? Wonder no more, M’Lady.
As a historian, let me say you are one fluffy piece of cheesecake.
You wonder about my third wife, the blond one with the non-human hair? She was fine for a while, I kid you not. Then she made me turn Catholic. Talk about buzz kill.
I’ve seen the way you look at me, and who can blame you? No one wants to be married to an Islamic, anti-colonial Kenyan. Who’s also a socialist vegan.
My dear, I am not embarrassed to say that when I saw you in that push-up contest with Ellen DeGeneres methinks I wet myself.
What say you?
The Honorable Former Speaker of the House of Representatives
About the author…
Mary Beth Hoerner is a Chicago playwright and fiction writer. Her play Atomic Honeymoon was performed at the Cornservatory in Chicago, she is a network playwright at Chicago Dramatists and she was the recipient of a Ragdale residency in playwriting. Her short fiction has appeared in various publications and her memoir, Night Games, appears in the anthology Cubbie Blues: 100 Years of Waiting Till Next Year.