It's My Party. And I'll Cry if I Want To.

Disclaimer: I do not usually favor political rants. But sometimes I have to. Rant. Please proceed with a sense of humor.


So, I am definitely not in the mood for a party. At least, not a party of a political nature, no. I have kinda had it up to here with all the noise ... noise ... noise.

Note: Is it possible to Bah! Humbug the whole political season? 

And I do not understand why it's called a party in the first place. Oh, sure there are plenty of games being played by the party, but they are not any fun, although occasionally the "Party Games" remind me vaguely of a creepy version of Pin the Tail on the Ass Donkey, in my opinion, I'm just saying.

So, I am thinking about which potential Republican Nominee's party that I might prefer to attend. Yes, I am speaking of an actual party, where I wear my favorite White House/Black Market skirt, hilarious   political pun intended, and shave my legs, even. Mitt cuts a dashing figure with his chiseled features and perfect hair and he's got the cash for a really nice shindig, unless you're into boozing or extra-martial relations. But I imagine the red punch would be delicious.

Newt, on the other hand, is not without his own charm.

Note: Wait a minute. Yes, he is. Without charm.

Additional Note: Is it just me, or does he resemble a garden gnome in an expensive suit?

Oh, come on. I know you can see the resemblance.

You cannot make me attend that Party.

Hey! I have an idea. Let's throw the politicos in a swimming pool and let them hash it out in a good, old-fashioned chicken fight. Now, that's a party game! Mitt can sit on the shoulders of his five, strapping boys and Newt can sit on the shoulders of his three, feuding sort-of-wives, but with Mitt's approval, maybe Newt can have an open-chicken-fight partnership. With other ladies.

Note: Oh, that isn't very nice of me. Whatever.

Additional Note: Oh, there's another rule about the Republican pool party. Newt may not, under any circumstance, remove his shirt in the pool.  And the 'No Speedo' rule goes without saying.

Sweet Holy Moses.