Mitt Romney Bombs in London–headline in the Washington Post

It’s an honor to be welcomed by the President of France–

Who would have been that World Bank guy if he’d kept on his pants–

A country that is famous for Givenchys and Diors

For drinking lots of wine at lunch, foie gras and losing wars

For coddling striking workers and their lazy shiftless ilk

For cigarettes and Champagne, so I raise a glass of milk

To our eternal friendship and its long and proud tradition

Beginning when I served here in a missionary position.

I still recall with fondness how you’d pelt me with your cheeses

When I stopped you in the Metro and tried to talk of Jesus.

And now that I have greeted you, I think it’s time to go

Just let me strap my dog up here on top of my Peugot.

A winning team is like a cake

To make one, eggs get broken.

And if you hear or see one break,

It’s better left unspoken.

The screaming in the locker room

Stays there. And the showers.

Don’t ask, don’t tell and don’t assume

You’ve got some special powers

To intervene to change a life

You’ll only cause a scandal.

Curse the darkness to your wife.

But never light a candle.

Our world revolves around our Sun–

Glorious, eternal–

The One who made us number one.

All-Knowing and Paternal.

He wears a whistle on his neck

And only he can blow it.

Call the cops and sure as heck

He’ll be the first to know it.

The DA will throw out a hook

And hope to haul a fish up

So turn away and never look.

Just ask your local bishop.

Actually, the — chief justice, in his opinion, made it very clear that, at the state level — states have the power to put in place mandates. They don’t need to require them to be called taxes in order for them to be constitutional. And — and as a result, Massachusetts’ mandate was a mandate, was a penalty, was described that way by the legislature and by me. And so it stays as it was.–Mitt Romney, explaining the difference between his health-care mandate and President Obama’s.

‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:

All mimsy were the words of Rove’s.

Like taxing candy from a babe.

Beware the Jabberwock, my Mitt!

The jaws that clench, the clause obscure.

You stepped into a pile of shit.

Humpty Dumpty hit the floor.

But like him your words can mean

Exactly what you choose

History’s a trampoline

Facts like kangaroos.

Are normal laws of synatax

Suspended for a candidate?

Can something that had been a tax

Morph into a mandidate?

You’re passing through the looking glass

Where nothing ever matters.

Tea Party with the upper class

They’re all as mad as hatters.

Blog Chatter: Impeach John Roberts–headline on Politico.com, 11:45 a.m.

Prepare the bumper stickers!

Put up a sign or billboard!

Sign up Rove’s ass-lickers

To motivate the shrill horde

Spur on the troops to ravage!

Arm each Romney proxy!

Pump up Beck and Savage

Shoot Rush full of oxy.

When justice doesn’t give up

The answer that you sought

It’s time to stick a shiv up

Some judge who won’t stay bought.

We’ve seen this movie once before

In nineteen-hundred-fifty-four.

Old ladies in their tennis shoes—

Shocked and frightened by the news

Coming from the highest court–

Took it on themselves to thwart

Evil powers, hidden, foreign,

Like that communist, Earl Warren.

I hear America taunting, the varied curses I hear.

It is the sound of the pain we inflict on each other.

The callow boys on the schoolbus, casually inflicting it for their amusement;

The heedless frat brothers exacting it as the price of their friendship.

The popular pretty girls imposing it by exclusion.

The bellowing bullying voices on the radio get paid for it.

The swaggering sons of millionaires, the self-appointed guardians of conformity,

Growing into their blue-suited manhood as the enforcers

Of the Iron Law of the market.

They sing the song of restructuring

With open mouths feeding on the helpless.

The mountains look on Marathon

And Marathon looks on the sea

And musing there an hour alone

I wondered if the Eurozone–

Bastion of the bourgeoisie–

Might collapse, implode, expire–

Like the Ottoman Empire–

Be lost to history.

There’s a symmetry

If that proud and ancient nation

The very one that gave

Birth to civilization

Should also be its grave.

Mr. Romney and his wife take regular walks around La Jolla, exchanging pleasantries with fellow strollers and occasionally enforcing the law. A young man in town recalled that Mr. Romney confronted him as he smoked marijuana and drank on the beach last summer, demanding that he stop. –The New York Times, on Mitt Romney’s beachfront house in California.

I love the sight of ocean foam

And if I had my druthers

Here’s the place that I’d call home

Along with several others.

Here far from the hoi polloi, a

Man can stretch out and relax

With our own kind in La Jolla

Ann can park her Cadillacs.

To our neighbors–this means you,

The guy with the tattoo. It

Cost us plenty for this view

So kindly don’t walk through it.

And I assume you’ll all adhere

To the law that bans

Smoking pot or drinking beer

Leaving lids off garbage cans

Playing music after dark

Leaving litter on the sand

Riding skateboards in the park

Or same-sex couples holding hands.

And as for all those lovely boys

Who rake and mow and clean yards

Let me recommend the joys

Of checking them for green cards.

Now I’m known for creating jobs

Through private-sector voodoo.

So here’s one for you lazy slobs:

Pick up your dogs’ doo-doo.

In fact for dogs it’s not that hard

And I am living proof

To keep them tied up in your yard

Or on your station-wagon roof.

Big soda ban: Bloomberg administration proposes ban on sugary drinks larger than 16 ounces–headline in the Daily News

BOND Trader for the World

Ad Maker, Stacker of Rice Crackers,

Player with Pilates and the Nation’s Barista;

Poised, slender, ironic,

City of the Toned Arms:

They tell me you are healthy and I believe them, for I

have seen your miserable smokers huddled in the

doorways of your office buildings and restaurants.

And they tell me your body-mass index and I answer: Yes, it

is true I have seen the wives of your hedge-fund managers

take a spin class in the morning and another at 3 in the afternoon.

And they tell me you are expensive and my reply is: yeah, no shit.

Like, the mayor’s a billionaire, okay?

And having answered I turn once more to those who

sneer at this my city, and I roll my eyes at them

and I’m like:

Come and show me another city that charges thirty-four dollars

for two soft-shell crabs and a spoonful of undercooked fava beans.

Where you can have crostini topped with lardo and malfatti

with beef-cheek ragout and shaved pecorino and it’s all cool.

Because you’re going to a screening later where

you’ll have an espresso instead of a soda.

And you are proud to live among the Bond Traders, Ad Makers,

Stackers of Rice Crackers

In the City of the 16-Ounce Soda and the Pint-Sized Mayor,

Stretching

Running

Crunching

Lifting

Biking

Hoping to live long enough for gentrification to reach your block of Sunset Park.

“Dine With The Donald and Mitt–Donate $3 and you are entered for a chance to win”–fundraising pitch from Mittromney.com

Party like a one-percenter!

Whoop it up with Donald Trump!

It only costs three bucks to enter

The GOP of Forrest Gump!

It’s a ticket that’ll get you

Right out of your crummy lives.

Donald says he’d even let you

Date one of his former wives.

Tired of a life of losing?

Every paranoid flat-earther

Can have his 15 minutes schmoozing

With the billionairoid birther.

And that’s not all! The winner’s going

To be driven, pushed or tugged

To a special private showing

With Ron Paul of “Atlas Shrugged”

And you remember Governor Perry:

For a modest contribution

You can join him and make merry

At his state’s next execution.

Followed by a day of shooting

With Dick Cheney at a quail

And join the bankers in their looting

And never have to go to jail.