Senior class president? I’ll vote for Mitt.
All the girls think he’s cute and
he’ll help anyone with econ.
He drives his dad’s sick Mercedes
to lacrosse practice, and he says
he can lower the cost of the prom.
But then there’s Ricky Jesus.
That guy has no shot at winning.
We started calling him that in
English after his parents sued
the school so he didn’t have to
read Inherit the Wind.
Do not object when I say that this
adjective describes you perfectly.
You sometimes look up, or right, up again,
while I do all of the legwork, the focusing,
making sure the periphery is clear and
coordinating with the smile to maximize
our time talking to pretty women before
you scare them to the other side of the bar.
You are John Adams complaining about
Hamilton and the Philadelphia heat while
I, Jefferson, spend all weekend drafting and
revising the Declaration of Independence.
You are Bill, so happy with your golf,
your new vegan diet and fun new book while
I, Hillary, persuade North Korean
back channels to keep missiles out of the sky.
Scott Olson/Getty Images
IN TWO WEEKS IT WILL ALL BE OVER. All the posturing, the speeches, and declarations of intent we’ve seen made from one end of the country to the next over the past few months will come to a climatic head. But isn’t it a foregone conclusion? Haven’t we all been through this process enough by now to know whom the last one standing will be? Sure, the pundits who follow this kind of thing (myself included) would like this to be more of a competition, and they in turn do their part to hype up that other one, the super religious one with the core family values. But you and I both know it’s been over for that one for the last couple weeks. I mean, who really thought that Kasey B. had a shot in hell after Ben met her family?
The other soap opera most likely to conclude in the next two weeks is the Republican Primary, which, in all likelihood, is another foregone conclusion. As an unrepentant fan of chaos in both reality television and in the GOP ranks, I wish it wasn’t so. I just can’t get enough of this stuff. But you have to hand it to the leading men, Ben and Mitt respectively, for trying to make it interesting. This week, Mitt continued to put his foot in his mouth and Ben confronted frontrunner Courtney about her cattiness towards the other bachelorettes, an issue Courtney, to all outward appearances anyway, genuinely fears. But when the dust settled Mitt’s lead in Michigan continued to slowly grow and it was Nicki who got one of Ben’s awkward and emotionally detached adieus instead of a rose (‘I shed a lot of tears over this today,’ he assured her with the conviction of an overcooked noodle).
By Eric Cantor*, R-VA and House Majority Leader
Cupid may have come and gone already, but we all know that a healthy relationship needs romance more than once a year.
Also, there is tremendous amount of societal pressure on us staunchly heterosexual men to always keep the home fire burning. That is flat-out unfair. So ladies, I’m here to help you romance your gentleman.
Consider it an intensely heterosexual public service that in no way applies to those enjoying “non-traditional lifestyles.” I can’t stand those people, with all their “Smash” and Indigo Girls concerts.
First, it’s all about cosmos.
Yes, they are the drink of choice for all of the Friends of Dorothy on Sex and the City. (For the record, I’m straight. Got a wife and kids.)
But on the Hill, cosmos are also a hit with the most powerful men in the world. You’ll often find me with several of my straight, male colleagues feeling all shirtless and thirsty.
Wait. That didn’t sound right.
See, after a hard day of legislating, several of your nation’s top leaders feel the need to hop into a sauna together to talk through the issues. And stretch our cramping thighs. The types of cramps you often need a friend to rub out with his masculine Nebraskan hands.
Once we towel off, the cosmos taste just fabulous.
Oh, and they’ll make your boyfriend or husband think, “Man, I’m gonna need more of these refreshing cosmos after all the traditional, heterosexual intercourse we’re about to have—my wife and I, that is. Not the twink I met last week at the car wash.
Second, boys are into chocolate, too.
Not the super dark stuff, and not white chocolate. A nice, mid-range brown. Like President Obama. A sun-kissed, fresh-from-Hawaii President Obama. Maybe we’d go see The Vow together.
Uh … how non-hetero is he, right? With all the Nancys in the Army now? Might as well change Obama’s name to Harvey Milk Liberace Barney Frank Streisand.
So when your man walks in from a hard day of listening to John Boehner cry about Ohio and jobs, do this: Approach him from behind. Put a finger to his lips. Let it linger for a second. Then stick your thumb in his mouth. Make him bite it. You don’t want it to bleed, but a little pressure is good.
Trust me. And trust Rand Paul. And Venezuelan exchange students named Pablo and Paolo that live near American University’s library.
Wait. What?
Oh yeah! Feed your husband a chocolate bar all sexy-like. With your breasts in the vicinity. All of us straight men love your rock-hard abs. I mean breasts.
Anyone here know if Rand Paul is taking that spin class at Crunch tonight?
*(Not really Eric Cantor)
