image from Levis.com
A barroom, late at night. Mitt Romney's campaign jeans are laid across a barstool in front of a double bourbon. The jeans are obviously tired after a long day of vote-seeking. Without being prompted, they start to mutter.
ROMNEY'S JEANS: Don't look at us like that, fella. If you were a pair of denims and had a damn white dress shirt stuffed in your waistband every day, you'd need a drink, too. You don't know how much this pair of jeans would like to be worn with a t-shirt. Any t-shirt, from a bait shop or a college or a swank strip bar, it doesn't matter. Or a Hawaiian shirt. Nice Hawaiian shirt makes any pair of jeans look good. A polo shirt maybe, if the in-laws are coming over. An NBA player jersey? Looks good over us, even if you're a short white guy. Even a wife beater, for God's sake. (Slaps the bar) But no self-respecting pair of jeans wants to be matched up with any shirt that needs starch or cufflinks.
The jeans burp, none too quietly.
Why does Mitt wear us every time he campaigns? To show he's a regular guy. One of the common men. Only nobody commonly wears a five-hundred dollar dress shirt with a pair of Levi's. Not only does he look clueless, we have to deal with those snobbish shirttails. You know what he's doing while we're sitting here? He's put on a tailored Armani three-piece and is sitting in his bedroom, looking in the mirror. It's how he unwinds before he goes to sleep. That and making ten-thousand dollar bets with other rich guys.
The jeans scratch themselves vigorously.
Bets about what you ask? Anything that rich guys bet on…horses, jai-alai, which continent is going to have the next earthquake that actually kills someone. It's not only the shirts, it's the damn thousand-dollar loafers, too. You try being in the middle of a conversation between those two society types all day and night. And the Mormon underwear! That's like living next to a church, though…you get used to the noise and the crowding.
The jeans give a thumbs-up to the bartender's offer of another bourbon.
Tell you something Mitt don't know, though…he's not the only one that wears us. You know how things get "borrowed" in big families? Every one of his boys has grabbed us out of the laundry and slipped us on at one time or another. (Confidentially) Mitt would have a cow if he knew they all go commando.
The jeans fumble for a cigarette, find one, then can't find matches. They put the unlit cigarette in the ashtray and forget about it.
I guess he knows what he's doing, though. Hey, and we've learned a thing or two, too. Like how excited he got when we were standing next to Michele Bachmann. Evangelical Christian woman in a push-up bra…that's Mormon Viagra, brother. Lucky we were bundled up tight in our sacred long johns, or little Mitt might have cast his ballot for her right there, if you know what I mean.
The bartender makes last call.
Over here, amigo. Well it'll all be over one of these days. Then what's' going to happen to us? I could see us relaxing in a dresser drawer in one of Mitt's vacation houses, writing our memoirs. But if you know Mitt, you know that's not likely, and if you don't, ask any of the people he's fired. He can be a little flat in the gratitude department. We'll probably get torn into rags and used to clean off the roof of the car the next time the dog poops on it. Cheers!
THE JEANS finish off their drink and fall silent, possibly even comatose. They have to be awoken when the bar is closing.
All right! Sheesh, we're going. (Aside) Bet they don't treat Rick Santorum's sweater vests like this.
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