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As a woman voter, I take politics very seriously. There is nothing more serious than being a woman who votes, especially in this election. There is absolutely nothing funny about it. I’ve seriously never been more serious.
So, of course, when I’m deciding who gets my vote, I need to consider every possible angle. Basically, I need to sleep with the guy. Obama obliged in 2008, and we had an earth-shattering night that ended in partial numbness in my left leg. But he never called. I’d text, but he’d write back with cryptic messages such as: “Too busy compromising” and “Goldman Sachs 4-Evah!” and “Hilary Rosen Rulz” and “This is Larry Summers, come over any time. Women don’t know science.” I felt abandoned. In 2012, I knew I’d have to look elsewhere.
I was excited to make love to Romney, because, well, because I’ve always liked a stiff man, and I was looking forward to the GOP’s War on Women to be launched on me. I knew if there was one girl who could move that man’s hair, I could.
I’d never been to the house of a Mormon before, but I’d seen the movie Witness, so I knew to wear my sexiest bonnet and to bring oats for the horses. When I reached the first half of the Romney estate (the second half is hidden in Switzerland), I was taken to the 27th guestroom by Mitt’s son Taggart. He put me at ease by repeating his name over and over again, because I couldn’t stop laughing. After that, we played a sexy game of tag that I said was “Too easy” and “Too on the nose,” but he wouldn’t listen. Then we told each other our dirtiest secrets — I told him I believed that birth control and breast exams should be covered by health insurance, and he told me his middle name is “You’re It.”
Suddenly, all of Taggart’s brothers came bounding in the room, even Ben, aka The One Who Once Had a Beard. They took off their shirts and started a pillow fight. “Come join the war on pillows,” Craig called out. Or was it Josh? Or Matt? The white light from their perfect teeth was blinding me. As I watched their rippling Republican muscles, I tried to decide: If I were trying to get an abortion in Texas, which one would I most want to give me a vaginal ultrasound? I wondered if one chooses one’s vaginal wand, or if vaginal wands choose their owner like Harry Potter’s did in Old Ollivander’s shop. I hoped mine would have a feather on it. Ben came over and explained to me that his father would be in shortly and that I didn’t have to wear my bonnet because Mormons aren’t Amish and that’s actually really offensive.
Suddenly I looked up, and there he was. Catcher’s “Mitt” Romney. The Big Mitten. Mittle Big Horn. Not Mitt-out My Daughter.
Mitt and I were finally alone. For a while he said nothing and just smiled. “Give me 30 percent of all the clothes you have on.” I blushed. He grinned, “Just kidding, I’m not Warren Buffett.” I asked for a drink, and he called me a heathen and cracked open a young ginger ale he’d flown in from France. (You can’t call it ginger ale unless it’s from Ginger Ale, France.) He asked me why I didn’t already have children as a fat 30-year-old woman. I said, “I’m trying to get a job as a stay-at-home mom, but no one will hire me.” He laughed at my wry, edgy wit. I asked him if he was ready to make love, and he nodded and got out the aspirin. I put one between my knees. All the girls were doing it these days. It turns out there are still a lot of sexual acts you can do while holding an aspirin between your knees — for more information, Google anything. (Nyquil between your knees is a little harder, but if you want to make it really fun, try a de-humidifier.) Anyway, I wasn’t worried about getting pregnant, because I had my diaphragm in — I’d made it myself. I knew, in the current economic crisis, we all had to make sacrifices, especially institutions that have lied, cheated and stolen from the American people — of course, I’m talking about women’s health organizations. My do-it-yourself diaphragm was actually a paper-cup telephone — that way I could call down there and tell myself not to get pregnant.
Sex with Mitt started liberally and ended very conservatively. There was a lot of flip-flopping, which, I gotta be honest, was actually pretty great. The only tough part was when he wanted to change positions, he couldn’t tell me directly; he’d just laugh uncomfortably, talk about something irrelevant for 10 minutes, reference someone from Flint, Mich., and then stand very still with a smile on his face. I thought Mitt’s hair never moved, but I was wrong — it’s moving all the time, very, very slowly. Like Earth. I tried to get him to pretend I was Lilly Ledbetter and was suing him for equal pay, but he told me he wanted to run me “like I ran Bain Capital.” He kept whispering how badly he wanted “free enterprise,” which I think meant the missionary position (exciting to do with an actual missionary!). At one point, I made the mistake of calling out in a terrible Jamaican accent, “Give me Mor, Mon!” but he just laughed and said, “Please shut up.” Finally, we were done. We had no more “human capital” left. He’d given me enough for three wives. He climbed off the bed, buttoned back up his full-body underwear, smiled and said softly, “You’ve just been Mitt-i-gated.” And then he was gone. I took another sip of ginger ale. Hmm. As a woman voter, I guess I was feeling a little, well, unsatisfied?
Meriwether is the creator of the Fox sitcom New Girl and a screenwriter (No Strings Attached) and playwright (Oliver Parker!).
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