Like the rest of America, the Republican Primaries have left me sexually exhausted. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful; this has been a fun sexy time for our country and I wouldn’t trade it for anything, but when I think of Mitt, Newt, Ron and Rick wailing away on our country’s dormant genitals each night as we sleep, I can’t help but think of the night in Multiplicity when Andie MacDowell takes on three different Michael Keatons. It’s easier to fight it when we’re awake, but at night when our sleeping minds are soft and vulnerable, there’s not much we can do to fight off these sexual giants.
Which dream did you have last? Was it the one where you’re skipping across a bridge when you hear the crunching of bones below? You know – you go down to investigate (even though you know you shouldn’t) only to find yourself wrapped up in Newt’s stubby, bridge-troll arms, covered in turkey grease and belting the Battle Hymn Of The Republic in unison as he ravages you in frantic staccato spurts. Trust me when I tell you I’ve had a few rounds with that one. Maybe it was the one where you and Samwise chew silently on waybread, preparing to make one final push up the mountain, when Ron Paul slumps out behind the shadows to offer ten minutes of tender love-making in exchange for just ten minutes with The ring. “We wants it, we needs it…,” he croaks in your ear.
Perhaps you’re more old-fashioned and when you drift off you find yourself reigning-in a quivering Santorum, “every sperm is sacred Rick,” you remind him, “you taught me that.” I know I’m not the only guy in America who has battled that missionary monster.
I hope I don’t sound like I’m complaining. I guess I’m just relieved we’re down to four (though Chris Christie is waiting patiently outside my subconscious barefoot and bathrobed). Back in Iowa, I wasn’t sure who was going to greet me each night. Sometimes it would be Bachmann with a handful of corn dogs, other times Herman Cain would show up, mumbling about pizza toppings and flexing in the mirror as he lectures about how “A manly man don’t want it piled high with vegetables!”
Were you relieved as I was that Rudy Giuliani didn’t run again? I’m pretty sure I speak for all of us when I say it’s time for him to step aside. That sexy little sprite has induced enough wet dreams since 2008 to fill the Atlantic.
Like any group of people known primarily for their sex appeal, there’s always one that stands out just a little bit more than the rest. The Beatles had Paul, ‘N Sync had Justin, country music had Chris Gaines, and the 2012 Republican class has Mitt. Now I’m not familiar with his politics, but he doesn’t seem to hold that against me while I’m dreaming. The possibilities for role-play are limitless. Sometimes I’m Iran and I’m enriching Uranium as he hands me heavier and heavier “sanctions,” until I “force” him to “invade” me. “My fingers are the youth of our country,” he’ll purr in my ear. Sometimes, he tells me that he’s going to take me straight to heaven, though he never specifies which one. We’d probably have to slum it in the Telestial Kingdom. When it comes down to it though, Dream Mitt Romney is a lot like Real Mitt Romney; he’s just a regular guy. Sure, he can get creative once he has some wine in his belly but most nights he just wants to make love the way god intended, Reagan masks and all. You already know this though.