Curb Your Mitt!

It’s a known fact that there is nothing more difficult than trying to do political organizing in a resort town. You call for an evening meeting and the response ranges from “And miss the sunset?” to “Sorry, low tide, goin’ clamming.” In that spirit, it’s hard to get oneself, i.e. me, organized to answer the blog gotta make the donuts imperative. Especially when the day lilies are giving it their orange- alert all one day at a time. I just don’t want to miss it.
Dear blog-reader, stuck at your computer, I’m sure you are hearing blah blog blah, the dog ate my homework. But then, speaking of dogs, along comes Mitt Romney, and I practically broke a nail getting to the keyboard. Seems the terminally handsome Mormon, [that’s two Ms] was driving the family to a summer vacay, and the car was packed to the gills. It’s a new fuel economy thing. The family dog was apparently treated as a Monty Python after dinner mint. Mitt couldn’t possibly fit it in the car.
So Mitt, who is making a bid to be chief caregiver of our nation, had the bright idea to put the beloved Irish setter in a car tote and put the tote on top of the car for the ten hour ride. Neither the dog nor Mitt was wearing an astronaut diaper. The terrified dog terrified got car sick, or it could have been unrecalled dog food from a certain large soon to be Olympic host country. Mitt’s best friend let go a stream of dog poop so voluminous, they had to pull over to a car wash, hose down and resume their trip. The dog was still up top.
The story has been in the local Cape Cod papers and I can tell you that Mitt has lost the dog-owner vote. The incident has even cut into the man-on-dog sex homophobe theorist vote. The car wash bloc is also a bit swayed. The story does not have as many comedy possibilities as Old Number Two shooting his friend in the face, but good enough on a slow summer news day.
It’s circuit party week here in Ptown – when guys from all over the country come to town to party on down for four days. The testosterone levels have totally cancelled out the estro-swarm of Memorial Day weekend when all the young college girl grads from all over the Northeast come to town. But I swear to god, I think I saw Vlad and George drive George’s Dad’s cigarette boat up to the pier and hop on the all night orgy party boat before it left for a night of carousing on the very high seas. I’ll let you know what I find out.
I’m off to help the talented people at my summer place of employ – The Crown and Anchor – get our float ready for the Independence Day parade. Each summer we have a Co-Dependency Float. There’s nothing on it. We pull it ourselves. And en route we ask caring questions of parade watchers. “Do you need a sweater? You look cold. Here take my sweater.” Maybe this summer we’ll wear Co-Depends and ask Mitt to join us. Once a Gland Marshall, always a gland marshal. Don’t forget to pack the dog.