In The Bathroom At The Westin

Last evening, high on a lethal mix of cold medicine, Zolpidem, and Yuengling beer, I headed to the Barnes & Noble in Back Bay to pick up a copy of Hunter S. Thompson’s “Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail ‘72.” On the way back home thought I'd stop by presidential candidate Mitt Romney’s Super Tuesday celebration at the Westin Copley Place. If I couldn't crash it, I hoped I'd get a good story out of it.

But, before I could reach the party, I was overcome with nausea, so I beelined it to the closest men's room.

After several dry heaves in the only open stall available, I heard the sobbing of what I assumed to be a man from the stall beside me. Knocking on the door, I was stunned and shocked when the candidate himself, Mitt Romney, rolled out on the floor in front of me.

“Dear god!” I shouted.

“Yes, it is I.”

Hoping to clarify, I asked, "Mr. Romney? Is that you? Do you need a doctor?"

"I'm, fine! Go away!"

There was a voice at the bathroom door. With speed belying his age, Mr. Romney jumped up, slamming it shut and turning the lock.

“Go away, Fenstrom!” He shouted.

"Mr. Romney, what's wrong?" I asked (although I should have said, “Let me ask you a question, sir: What is this country doing for the doomed?”)

"It's all gone wrong!"

"What's gone wrong?" I asked.

“I shouldn’t have to suffer like this! I'm a good husband and have six sons!”

(Six? I thought to myself. I swore there were only five. Could the rumor of the sixth, gay Romney son be true?)

I had to ask. “Governor? Have you been ... drinking?” (I don't know much about Mormonism, but I know they don't drink - Well, Jon Huntsman does, but look where that got him.)

“Of course not! I'm just ... I'm just wound up. Do you know how hard this is?”

He crumpled down on the floor.

“Why does everyone dislike me?!!” He whined.

“Oh, don't say that.” (Although in my heart I knew it was so.) “Plenty of people like you. You just won Massachusetts!”

“My home state!”

“Uh, I thought Utah was your home state?”

“No! I just go to church there.”

“California?”

“Nahhh. I'm just building a mansion there.”

“Um. Michigan?”

“Born there, but it's not home. Massachusetts is home. I love it here. I was governor here. I wanted to be your senator!”

“No offense, but you have a strange way of showing love. All you ever do is deny your past support of gay marriage and universal healthcare.”

“It's called Romneycare! I created it, it should have my name on it! I can't believe Obama takes credit for it!”

“Well, he did get it passed by the Congress.”

“Screw him. Screw him and Pat Santorum and Gingrelch and the rest of those losers!”

Spittle had formed on his upper lip. I reached down and gave him my pocket handkerchief.

“I don't understand. You like universal healthcare?”

“I love universal healthcare!” He responded. “Healthier people mean more drones for the beehive!”

(He kind of lost me there, but he seemed so earnest, I let him go with it.)

“So you like universal healthcare; you support gay marriage?”

“Duhhh yes! I only say those hateful things on the campaign trail in order to get elected. People are so stupid, they don't realize it.”

Well, some people realize it, I was about to say, when there was a woman's voice at the door.

“Mr. President? Mr. President! Please come out.”

“Why is the secret service agent lady calling you Mr. President?” I asked.

“That's not a secret service agent, it's Ann.”

“Your wife calls you Mr. President?!!”

“I know it's silly, but it helps me on the campaign trail; it gives me confidence.”

“Well, she seems to want you to get out of here. Don't you have a speech to give? Don't keep Fox News waiting. Bret Baier’s hairpiece falls asleep at 11 PM.”

“What am I going to do?”

“Well, it appears you're about to become the de facto Republican nominee for US President.”

“I can't do it! I can't!” He argued.

“Well, whether you want it or not, it's going to happen.”

“Maybe I can quit! Or start a scandal. I can have a baby out of wedlock!”

“It's too late for that, Mr. President.” (What the heck, I figured he needed the boost.)

“Do you think I will make a good president? That's what everyone says. I may not be the best candidate, but I'll make a good president.”

“No, I don't think you'll make a good president," I responded. "You're a liar and a bigot and have no moral compass. You'd be a terrible president, setting this country on a course that will take us decades, if not a century, to recover from.”

“But, you like me - you told me I'd be the Republican nominee!” He shouted.

“You will!” I replied. “But there's no way you're going to win the general election. Gingrelch(?) is right. (I shuddered.) 'Mitt Romney can't beat Barack Obama in November.' And that's exactly why I want you to be the one running against him. Now get out there and win! And, lose!”

“Gosh, darn it, I will!” He replied.

“That's the Mitt I've come to abhor. Go get 'em.”

“You know, you're a nice young man.” A twinkle appeared in his eye. “I should introduce you to my son, Cody.”

“Sorry, who?”

“Strike that. Carry on, and thank you. I promise you, after you die, I'll have the church Mormonize you.”

“Uh, there's no reason …”

“Nonsense. Done! Courage, my boy, courage. That’s what Malcolm X said to me as we marched together on Tiananmen Square.”

With that, he stood up, dusted himself off, applied some Brylcreem to his temples, and walked out.

A solid day's work done, I washed my hands, splashed some Axe spray on my cheeks and followed.

You’re welcome, America.