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."
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