What It Do: Lost In Jersey

“We’re going to box these things up in just a minute and put them on some trucks, and then we’re going to send them into, I think it’s New Jersey. There’s a site we’ve identified where we can take these goods and distribute them to people who need them.” ~ Mitt Romney, “Storm Relief” Event, October 30, 2012


Somewhere in New Jersey – November 6, 2012

“Give me the map, Josh, you don’t know how to read it.”

Tagg, the eldest and wisest of the Romney boys, grabbed the worn Rand McNally road atlas from his younger brother, and started leafing through the pages. Josh, the middle Romney, stared venomously at his sibling.

Tagg glanced up from the atlas, “And you can wipe that look off your face, too, asshole. Remember that internet meme? The picture of you staring at President Obama like Christian Bale from American Psycho? Yeah, that definitely helped us seem not at all weird.”

“At least I didn’t threaten to punch the President and then pussy out when I met him,” Josh retorted.

“I told you, there was Secret Service all over the place! If they hadn’t been there, I would have totally punched him!”

“Yeah, right. Pussy.”

“How bout I punch you in the face, instead, motherfucker?!”

At that point, Ben, the second youngest Romney, chimed in. “You guys aren’t supposed to be using bad words. Mom said I was supposed to tell her if you didn’t behave.”

Tagg turned around in his seat and shot Ben a withering look. “You could do that, if you wanted to. Just like I could give Josh permission to decapitate all your G.I. Joe toys. Again.”

With that, Ben wordlessly shrank back into his seat.

At that moment, Craig, the youngest Romney, spoke up from the back of the van. “Will you guys give it a rest? I’ve got it pulled up on Apple Maps.”

Everyone turned and stared silently at Craig.

“What? Just because it took us to a gay bar instead of the campaign rally last time doesn’t mean we can’t trust it! We trust Father, and he says things that aren’t true all the time!”

Matt, the second-eldest, gripped the steering wheel and exploded. “Don’t you talk about Father like that!”

“Well he does. Come on, don’t you read the internet? The old man is full of it.”

Tagg’s voice was measured and even. “Keep up that kind of talk, baby brother, and you can forget about that reality tv series you’ve been cooking up.”

“But how did you k-”

“I know everything, Craig. I know everything.”

Josh asked, “Can we just hurry up and drop this crap off somewhere? I don’t know why Father made us deliver these stupid relief supplies, anyway. Couldn’t he have gotten some staffers to do it?”

Tagg replied, “He said he wanted everyone to see how much our family cares about people, not like that fatso on tv hugging President Obama.”

Craig spoke up, “You mean Governor Christie, the guy whose state just got flattened by the hurricane? And he was working with the President to get federal relief resources quickly? And he did that instead of wasting time on a photo op with Father? What a shocker.”

Tagg angrily shot back, “You’re sounding more and more like an outsider every day, Craig. I find your lack of faith disturbing.”

Craig replied, “Okay, whatever you say, Darth Cracker. Besides, Father sent us out here so we wouldn’t say anything on camera that the media could use against him. Wouldn’t want to undermine his precious little ‘momentum’ narrative.”

Josh said, “You don’t think it will work?”

Craig answered, “What, overcoming the fact that he’s behind in the polls by trying to convince the media that he’s going to win? And hoping that they fall for it, and the positive coverage causes people to vote for him that would have stayed home? It’s a stupid plan.”

Josh asked, “You have a better idea?”

Craig responded, “Yeah, don’t spend the primaries running to the right of Atilla the Hun and then expect to be able to sell yourself to the nation as some kind of reasonable moderate. Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. Today is the day, and we’re stuck in this stupid rental van, delivering these stupid canned goods to some stupid place in stupid New Jersey. Oh, and just so you know, the Red Cross said specifically that canned goods and clothes weren’t helpful for storm relief. They want cash or blood. This is such a fucking waste of time.”

Ben yelped, “Craig! Bad words!”

Craig exclaimed, “I’ll give you a bad word if you don’t shut it, bitch.”

Tagg leaned forward. “Matt, have you been able to find any election results on the radio?”

Matt replied, “Considering we got the only van in America equipped with just a shortwave radio, not so much. So far, I’ve managed to find the Voice Of Korea, and some crazy old guy ranting about the gold standard.”

Craig interjected, “Pretty sure that was Ron Paul.”

Tagg brooded, “It’s getting late, the results should be coming in. We should just ditch this stuff and find a hotel lobby or something.”

Ben spoke, “I wonder if Father is having a good night. It would be so neat to be the son of the President.”

Craig looked out the window and muttered softly, “Not fucking likely.”