I was driving to Tijuana to fetch some marijuana with my pet Chihuahua.
I call him Panchito, and he’s a remarkable dog. On this day, inspiration struck him, as it always does, just before sunrise, right after his first toke.
“Why don’t we tie Romney to the roof of the Subaru?” he said, his tiny snout shrouded in smoke.
“Panchito, you must be really wasted.”
It was a long haul from Seattle to the Mexican border, and Panchito wanted Mitt to be comfortable. Panchito is a compassionate dog, an empathetic dog — a Democratic dog.
“He’ll be much happier up there, where he won’t have to listen to our liberal rants,” Panchito said.
So we put Mitt in his Romney carrier and strapped it to the roof. “He loves it up there!” Panchito said.
Always a detail man, Panichito filled Mitt’s bowls with caviar and champagne.
“This should make him feel right at home,” Panchito said.
Then we loaded up on poop bags. Panchito figured we’d need a lot of them.
“Romney’s full of shit,” he observed.
Off we went down Interstate 5.
We decided to leave Mitt’s wife, Anne, back in Seattle, where she could learn about the Dignity of Work.
In her place, we gave Mitt a Barbie chew toy. He immediately began gnawing on her boobs, which appeared to have been filled with silicone.
We had landed Anne a job as a barista at Starbuck’s, which offered excellent health benefits. She would need them if her husband won the presidency and blew up Obamacare.
Just outside of Portland, we stopped at a Romney park to let Mitt stretch his legs. We were very careful to keep him on his leash.
What if he got loose and mated with one of the spritely young Romneyettes frolicking in the park?
She would give birth to a Romney love child. Under a Romney presidency, Planned Parenthood would no longer be an option.