A Very Romney Christmas.
Placidly staring from the barred windows of his fortified enclave in the untamed hills of La Jolla, former noble Willard Milton Romney of the Massachusetts Commonwealth, past aspirant to the position of Chief Administrator of the American Republic had plenty to ponder this Christmas day. Shorn of his nobility, his lands relinquished and chased by ravenous peasant hordes, the former noble has had to adjust to a life of non-nobility, a world where servants would no longer answer to his beck and call and then spit at the ground derisively once they were safely out of sight.
On November 4, 2012, "America died." And along with it died the political hopes and aspirations of the former Sir Willard. Immediately upon his inglorious defeat by the treacherous Marxist usurper Baraq Hussein Superallah Obama al-Kenya, current Chief Administrator of the American Republic, Sir Willard was unceremoniously stripped of his nobility and his trappings by Lord Sheldon Adelson, Lords David and Charles Koch. Other fellow nobles turned their backs on him after funneling hundreds of millions of dollars towards the effort to help Sir Willard defeat the captivatingly Kenyan crook.
Since being dispossessed of his rightful inheritance, the once-proud noble has had to contend with the trappings of mere middle-class peasantry. Sans servants, the former noble struggled to relearn many of the day-to-day tasks that he and his family took for granted. For instance, he learned what a "Costco" was and managed to complete an entire shopping trip on his own without knocking over the store displays in sheer amazement or cackle at the store staff called to clean up the mess.
In another middle-class milestone, he managed to refuel his own personal conveyance without splashing any on neighboring vehicles or setting himself ablaze. His faithful and trusting steed Ralfalca was no longer with the former House Romney, as he was sadly attacked and eaten by ravenous peasants during their escape from the District of Columbia after being withdrawn protection by the Secret Service.
After the palatial Romney estate in Massachusetts was burned to the ground in a fit of celebratory violence by Holder's People, bolstered in ranks by a seemingly never-ending stream of threatening 17 and 18-year-old negros armed with codeine-laced sodas, bottled iced teas and colorful candies, the remainder of the Romney family joined their disposed patriarch for something resembling a Christmas dinner. Lady Anne was particularly beside herself with the loss of Ralfalca and her kitchen staff, preferring to remain dazed on the confines of a Ikea fainting couch, which was nowhere near as plush as the 18th century sofa that was sadly left to the devices of the horde.*
Picking at the near-inedible remains of a Lean Cuisine dinner, Willard reflected on how his inevitable victory turned into an awe-inspiring defeat. Perhaps he was too harsh, aloof and cold to the peasantry. His attempts to reassure his wealthier supporters had ignominiously created the "47%" specter that haunted him throughout the rest of his campaign. His insults of cherished television characters, his penchant for mind-boggling gaffes and constant, alienating arrogance must have played a role in turning the people against him. It was that or the Marxist dictator-in-chief showering minorities and women with elaborate gifts of fried chicken and contraceptives, an event immortalized by many observers as the "Cluck'n Fuck" campaign.
But Willard was never good at self-reflection, so he disposed of his microwaved meal and wordlessly walked to the balcony of his newfound abode to stare despondently at the poors below. Young Tagg breathlessly mused out of earshot that his father's heart was never really in the election to begin with. The former noble wistfully dreamed of his coronation on the White House lawn as the true ruler of the American Republic, a man who would finally overthrow the Marxist usurper and take his rightful place as the ultimate ruler of this nation and its massive imperial overseas holdings. Instead, he only has a mere mansion overlooking the sea, filled with a dispossessed and temporarily embarrassed family and an uncertain future ahead of him.
Some Christmas this turned out to be.
*Lady Anne's fainting couch was later found under a CalTrans bridge in San Francisco, thoroughly stained by liquor spills and heavy bouts of soiling. It's not clear how it managed to travel over 3,000 miles cross-country.