July 29, 2012 Call me picky but for president I think I prefer a human over a robot. Some do have feelings; remember R2D2 and C3PO from Star Wars and Red Dwarf’s adorable Kryten? But Mitt the Wimpy Rombot is not among them. Distant, emotionless, mechanical, he just isn’t one of us flesh-and-blood types: some even question whether he’s of this earth.
There’s no mistaking those jerky automated movements, the silly walk. And the cog-driven insensitivity, as just demonstrated in London with a series of crass and offensive remarks that unleashed a tsunami of angry ridicule on both sides of the Atlantic. He then scheduled a $50,000-a-plate fundraising dinner in Israel on Tisha B'Av, a national day of fasting!
This ‘droid’s auto-insult mechanism is stuck on ‘On’ plus there’s that amazing ability to vocalize contradictory ideas on the same day without flinching. Pre-programmed to regurgitate whatever satisfies an audience at any given time.
However, his controllers can’t fix the faulty memory chip: away from them he’s lost. Here’s an example from May 18: “I’m not familiar with precisely what I said but I standby what I said, whatever it was. I’ll go back and look at what was said there.” Whirrrrup! Beep! Rewind, edit-find and replay through his Mitsubishi voice simulator.
He stands by whatever it was he said? Okay, let’s hear what the mechanoid intoned on June 16: “Beep! Just look at the things the president has done and do the opposite...” Wha..? Shut... shut hi...hit that button. Stop him! Which of you imbeciles programmed our Frankenwimp with that third grade answer? You fool! You weren’t supposed to have him actually phonate those words.
But he did. The robot’s gone rogue again.
Manufactured 1947 with an invoice instead of a birth certificate, Rombot has zero concept about the lives we - the citizens his hoity wife calls “you people” - live. He’s never waited in line, never put anything on layaway, never hidden from the rent man, never gone hungry. Never for a moment worried about money. Jay Leno nailed it when he pinpointed Mitt’s summer home as the Golden Temple of Amritsar.
Rombot owns several multi-million-dollar homes. Main docking station is his $12 million California beachside hacienda with 3,600 square foot of below-ground living space. It has a special elevator for his vehicles – he admits to four including his wife’s two Cadillacs. Press a couple buttons and - presto! - his chariot of choice arrives at the doorstep.
Shuffling awkwardly away from reporters like a robot with hemorrhoids, they try to portray him as your regular working stiff. They got the “stiff” part right. But the elegant new jeans and dazzling white shirt with not a button missing, not a sweat stain in sight reveal that here’s a drone that’s never held a screwdriver, never even changed a light bulb.
He’s Rmoney, worth infinitely more than the $250 million he’s unable to deny, refusing to reveal even one year’s complete tax return or his secret offshore bank stashes. He pockets over $20 million a year, yet he tells a gathering of desperate, jobless folks in Florida: “I am unemployed also.”
His account of a “poor” existence in France – as a draft dodger - is discredited by his fellow Mormon missionaries, all now in their 70s. Forced to use a bucket for a toilet, a hose for a shower? What a whopper, they wince. Totally untrue. They lived in a $12 million “palace” with ornate stained glass windows, chandeliers and a fabulous art collection. Mendacious Mitt didn’t rough it at all; a Spanish chef called Pardo cooked his meals and the houseboy shined his shoes.
Back to obnoxious malfunctioning: on TV he offers Texas governor Rick Perry a $10,000 bet like it’s just ten bucks. He’s a sports fan, he says, because his friends own the football and NASCAR teams. And in the midst of a tanked economy that’s struggling to revive he jokes about firing people. Then he babbles: “I’m not concerned about the very poor.”
That’s true. This furtive vampire mandroid was digitized long ago to invade businesses and drain them of their lifeblood; roaming America to suck factories dry and spit out the pips in Mexico and China.
Working folks, he’s not your man. Small businesses, he’ll make a profit on your demise. Wall Street? Well, that’s where the Rombot docks at very regular intervals to have his palm greased with moneyfuel purloined from middle class Americans.
Republicans spurned Romney in the primary. Georgia preferred dishonest former House Speaker, Newt “Sneaky Speaky” Gingrich, a man with as much integrity as a plate of rancid chitlins.
George W. Bush might have seemed a buddy you could have a beer with – if you could talk baseball and if he’d get off that wagon he’s been on for the last 25 years. Romney doesn’t touch alcohol either, but that’s no surprise. Robots require oil.
Even Fox News’ Charles Krauthammer, the cadaverous ultra-right-winger known as Count Chocula, joined the mockery that arose from Romney’s British fiasco. Likening him to an athlete who need only finish the race, not win, he sighed: “Instead he tackles the guy in the lane next to him and ends up disqualified.”
Me? I believe Americans aren’t the people this misfiring automaton should govern. To use his own tortured phraseology, he’d be better off “self-deporting” himself “retroactively” to North Korea, a nation of kindred humanoids who act in unison to command signals. He could be their new Dear Leader... Rom Jung-il.