UnNews:Newt Gingrich calls kettle black, GOP monkey house continues
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Newt Gingrich calls kettle black, GOP monkey house continues
Truth doesn't "live here" — It's just camping out
Saturday, March 25, 2017, 13:50:UTC)(
17 January 2012
Greenwood, South Carolina - In anticipation of being on the down-low of a rout in Saturday's South Carolina Republican primary, and desperately trying to tie together all the misinformation in the 2012 U.S. presidential campaign, former House Speaker, professional historian, 8,932nd Emperor of the Moon, and amateur intellectual Newt Gingrich has called the kettle black.
"We live in a world of degrees and destinations most fascinating," the overweight Georgia politician, fresh from the Fox News weekly debate, said to a packed roadside diner of non-English speaking migrant workers and interstate truckers. "An inch one way, you fall off a cliff. An inch the other way, you find money on the ground. Who can ever tell which way the ball bounces, on a specific bounce? Nobody. So Mitt Romney is a liar."
"But how does your story prove that Romney is a liar?" asked a slow-speaking commonly-dressed white man from 'bama, picking his teeth between bites.
"Can you dispute a word I say?" Gingrich bellowed in his historians quiet calm voice. "I thought not. Romney's every deer-in-the-headlights utterance combined with the insincere uncomfortableness of his body language say to me, and to all the other recipients of his nervousness, 'Don't focus on what I do, focus on what I say I've done'. That is the only way to understand Mitt Romney at his empty core. Can he draw a single breath of truthful air between his tight smile, wild-eyed side-to-side gotcha glance, and exhaustingly tailored million dollar suits? You decide."
Gingrich, who worked hard to gain 50 pounds as well as a hard-won reputation for grumpiness augmented with professor, continued his attack on the kettle. "Romney keeps his eyes on the prize by spending the gold on his thighs. When it comes to advancing himself Mitt will say anything once, often changing his opinions on the major issues of his generation in the same sentence. And because he doesn't even have the common sense of my first wife's divorce attorney, when he's tricked into talking without his teleprompter you can look forward to a jumping crumple-bunny herky-jerky performance unmatched since the days of P.T. Barnum."
Gingrich, a convenient recent convert to Roman Catholicism to outwardly enable his newest wife's devotion to the wafer, again called the kettle black by dissecting Mitt Romney's excessive use of his non-ancient religion: mormonosity. "By pretending to devote himself to his polygamist grandfather's false religion--and damn your eyes Christianity for not going the plural marriage route--Mitt Romney runs the risk of exposing the one true God to ridicule and silliness. Does he really believe that Adam and Eve lived in Missouri, dinosaurs broke bread with cavemen, and we're all going to have our own planets when we die? Come on! And tell me, do any of you wear magic underwear? I thought not. Romney not only wears them, he rubs them in our faces!"
"Look, I've spoken long enough. Do you have any questions so we can hear me speak again?"
"Yessir, Senor Gigrich," said Pepe, a migrant from Valle de Santiago. "You tell us that when Senor Romney ran Bain Capital he cost tens of thousands of workers their livelihoods, families, homes, and happiness. Why would he do such a bizarre thing?"
"Ahh, an excellent psychological question Pepe," said the politician who tried many times as a historian in Congress to make the poor grovel. "Romney's father, George, tried to crown himself president once, but he was derailed by his big mouth and brainwashed brain. Mitt, having always followed daddy's footprints and having his hands on enough money to choke a company, did so over and over again in hopes that if he acted like an asshat each time he wouldn't have to run after daddy or choke again. So as head honcho--no offense PePe--of Bain Capital, he'd buy your company, sell off its assets, and with a smile that could charm any pretty boy in San Francisco he tells you to play hide and seek until he said 'Oley Oley Ocean Free'. He'd never say it, of course, and probably doesn't even know what it means."
"So in fewer words than I'm capable of," the psychologically damaged Gingrich entoned, "Romney subconsciously tries to fail by repeatedly shooting himself in the foot. What happens? But, seeing him wounded and dazed, eyes like a birds, what do the big banks, Fox News, and Mitt's corporate buddies keep doing? Propping him up! Which allows the ineptness of his competitors excluding myself to push him backwards towards the GOP nomination. With his inborn-need to fail compromised by good luck running bad policies right out of the ground, this drives him crazy. I expect that by April he'll be so loony with anxiety that he'll challenge me to a "Who's the conservative in the race?" wrestling match, winner to dress as a Frenchman and dry hump that golden calf down on Wall Street. He'll crack, just like his daddy, and I'll walk away with all the marbles. Just one more question please."
"Mr. Speaker, where do yua'll get off lambasting Mitts Romney when yaw yua'llself are known fer digging failure out of every success yua'll ever had?" asked a French Canadian who'd lived in the South a few months past its expiration date.
"Pierre, I'll answer that honestly," said the ego-driven lobbyist and neo-con wannabe author of Bread, Circuses, Then More Bread. "When I first entered this race as a teenager I met John F. Kennedy, who would have been buried next to his fourth wife if he'd lived. I saluted him, shook his hand, and stole his watch. I have it on now, and it still keeps pretty good time. Let this be a lesson to you about American politics, and about why I know that Mitt Romney is a liar. Thanks for listening. Go now, go with God."
Pepe, Pierre, and the rest filed silently out of the diner where Gingrich had spoken. The kettle, as luck would have it, was driving by the diner in his stretch limo temporarily disguised as a campaign bus. As instructed by his handlers, Romney hid his deliciously brackish caviar, uncomfortably bared his teeth, and gave one of those little princess waves to the departing migrant workers and cross-country truckers. Sensing that the acknowledged and inevitable high-end nominee was trying his darndest to pay them what little respect he had, they sort of perked up a little and gave one of those partially raised wrists half-hearted waves back, semi-enthusiasm prevailing habitually on both sides.
Meanwhile, Gingrich--who'd spotted the pie-wheel and its fruit-scented allure when first walking into the diner and had his attention focused like a laser on it ever since--sat down, pulled out his fork, and continued to dig his own grave, a grave he'd dreamed of retiring to ever since divorcing his second wife instead of smothering her with one of her fancy turn-of-the-century embroidered pillows. "She's vowed to destroy my campaign with that open marriage disagreement," he worried, wondering when she was going to spring it on him, unaware that Fate and Fortuna were hiding behind the door and snickering loudly.
|This article features first-hand journalism by an UnNews correspondent.|
Outside, high above the de facto limo and the dimly-lit diner, the waning moon shone upon America and its once robust but now depleted soil. As usual, like a scene straight out of Dante, yet another long day of the dandy and the historian's ultimately doomed race to the White House came to a merciful, but albeit tasty, end.