Originally published in jawillie.blog.com 4/24/12
You know how you go to the club hoping to…well, let’s be real…get laid? You basically stand there at the bar nursing the hell out of a drink, trying the same tired old pickup lines you’ve been using since high school, hoping to get noticed by some studly dude or smokin’ hot female (the sluttier the better in either case). You spend the night milling around to and fro, until the bartender announces the two most dreaded words in the English language…last call. The ugly lights come up and you’re still stuck, horny and drunk as hell, and the only thing left in the club are other pathetic drabs like yourself. So what do you do? You do what most people do when they’re horny as hell and too drunk to give a damn. You find the person who looks the least unattractive through your beer goggles, and avail yourself. After all, its 2:00 in the morning…might as well.
As you leave the club and make your way to your place of Kunut-Kalifi, you engage in some small talk with your intended of the evening. That’s when you discover that the person you are with has all of the conversational skills of orangutan on crack, and an IQ just slightly below that of chewing gum. But you’re drunk, you’re horny, and you’re not really looking for conversation anyway. And besides, you’ve waited all night for this person, so…might as well.
You get your partner home, and turn on the lights which are even uglier than the ones in the club. To top it off, the beer goggles that have been doing an adequate job of deluding you into believing that you haven’t taken home Quasimodo, have started to wear down you and you finally get a really GOOD look at your catch. As various thoughts go through your head (chiefly “When the hell did I pick up Phyllis Diller?”) you pour yourself and your partner a drink. He or she a wine cooler, you a Jack Daniels with a sterno chaser, figuring that a hangover would be more than worth the price of turning the basset hound in your living room back into the fine specimen of loveliness you “saw” at the club. You engage in more small talk, which buys you enough time to return to a sufficient level of drunkenness, then it’s upstairs to the bedroom where the two of you, both desperately horny and too drunk to care, engage in an evening of mediocre mind-numbing “might-as-well” sex. This is the kind of sex where you basically just lay back (or bend over, or stand there), close your eyes, and wait for it to be over.
This is the problem facing conservative voters in 2012. They’ve spent the better part of the year at the club, nursing their drinks, waiting for the right person to come along and sweep them off their feet. The problem is that not only has their Mr./Mrs. Right pulled a no-show, none of the other beautiful people even bothered to show up. Mitch Daniels, Chris Christie, Haley Barbour, Jeb Bush, even Sarah Palin, have all decided to stay home and read a good book (even if Palin can’t tell you which book she read). So conservatives were left with the dweeb-wall; featuring Michelle Bachmann, Herman Cain, Newt Gingrich, John Huntsman, Tim Pawlenty, Ron Paul, Rick Perry, Rick Santorum, and Mitt Romney. Of them all, Huntsman was really the only handsome one there, but they all thought he had the cooties and avoided him like the plague. So when the ugly-lights came up, and everyone has left the club, they wound up with Romney. Their reasoning is that out of all of the primary candidates he’s the most electable, and by “most electable” they mean he won’t bring the rest of the party down with him when he loses (and he’s gonna lose). So they're figuring...might as well.
So on November 6th, Republican voters are going to go into a booth. And because they’re so horny to replace Obama, and too drunk with anger and hatred to give a damn who they replace him with, they’re going to hold their nose, close their eyes, bend over, and have “might as well” sex with Mitt Romney…and wait for the night to be over.