Authors: Calvin Trillin
Dogfight (7 page)
There was an audible groan from the children. “Leave it to Kevin to ruin everything,” one of the older kids whispered to his sister. “He should know that it’s always safer to talk about sex.”
Carpet Bombing Redux
What happens when a threat to Mitt arrives?
The Mitt campaign calls out B-25s.
The bombs begin. And there is rarely trouble
Reducing a competitor to rubble.
As senator, they argued, Rick was tending
Toward earmarks, not to speak of pork barrel spending.
Yes, Rick, according to what Mitt’s team aired,
Was nice enough but not, in fact, prepared
To hold the highest office in the land,
With actual bombers under his command.
Destroying opposition was the way
That Mitt’s team saw for him to win each fray,
Because the base’s trust still stood unearned.
Mitt still talked right-wing talk like lines he’d learned.
As governor, he told one crowd quite clearly,
His thrust had been conservative—“severely.”
Severely
(To the tune of the Moonglows’ “Sincerely,” or “America the Beautiful,” depending on who’s singing.)
Severely. Yes, I governed severely.
Uh-uh, I wasn’t nearly
A moderate then.
Severely. Yes, I governed severely.
I moved further right yearly—
Right-wing way back when.
I swear, I can’t fathom just how
That health-care law got through.
And with my name, too. Repealing such a law’s the first thing I will do.
Severely. Yes, I governed severely.
And I governed austerely.
I’ll do it again.
The race now had a different complexion.
In Michigan, the primary election
Would be on February’s final day.
The Romney carpet bombers bombed away.
This testing ground was Romney’s home state, too.
(Though he of course had homes in quite a few.)
If Romney failed to win his home state vote,
It might for Mitt, they said, be all she wrote.
His casual talk was still quite far from supple.
He mentioned Ann owned Cadillacs—“a couple.”
He loved not just the cars here, Romney said.
But how high trees extend above one’s head.
I Thought That I Would Never See a Pol Who Loved the Height of Trees
I love this state. It seems right here. The trees are the right height.
—Mitt Romney, in his home state of Michigan
Away from here, I find no trees that please—
No trees at such a perfect height as these.
For me, I cannot ever be at ease
With trees that grow no higher than one’s knees
Or too-tall trees that splinter in a freeze.
Wisconsin, sure, has bragging rights on cheese,
And California’s rich in Cantonese,
And Colorado’s where to take your skis.
Connecticut, of course, has Lyme disease.
At none of these am I prepared to sneeze.
But here we have the perfect height of trees.
I know that I will never see a sight
As lovely as a tree whose height is right.
Santorum, too, seemed terribly hard put
To keep himself from shooting toward his foot.
From Catholics he received a strong rebuke
For saying JFK’s speech made him puke.
His hectoring on things like birth control
Had gotten shrill enough to try the soul.
Those views, the feeling went, among some others,
Would in the fall offend suburban mothers.
The base, though, still could not commit to Mitt.
Mitt simply wouldn’t be a perfect fit.
Republicans for once began to mention
The snarl that could occur at their convention.
Was Mitt a candidate so mediocre
That they might need the service of a broker?
Stuck Again
So Romney won his home state vote—but barely.
Republicans now faced the fact that rarely,
If ever, had the word “presumptive” come
And gone so many times as in this scrum.
One moment Romney seems to have the prize—
The delegates, endorsements from the guys
Who’ve always in the party had the clout.
A moment later something casts a doubt
On whether in November he’d come through.
That starts anew: in lieu of Romney, who?
Some longed still for some sort of alpha lion—
A pro like Christie, Daniels, Bush, or Ryan.
In Michigan, Newt finished fourth once more,
Which meant, some thought, that he’d be out the door.
The right-wing forces thought that they would do
Much better fielding just one man, not two.
When Gingrich had a major surge, he’d tried
Suggesting Rick Santorum move aside,
Which would, by Newton’s reckoning, permit
The right-wing vote for once to be unsplit.
At that point, Rick would not accept defeat.
Nor now would Newt, when shoes had changed their feet.
On Not Leaving the Field
Right-wingers who want to be heard
Note Newt at his best’s only third.
But if right-wing votes were combined,
The front-runner might fall behind.
So they say to Newt, “Won’t you go?”
And Newt, being Newt, answers no.
Newt’s ideological kin
Are dreading a moderate’s win.
They argue they might turn the tide
If Gingrich will just step aside.
Then Mitt can’t divide a duet.
And Newt, being Newt, still says
nyet.
“When England was under the blitz,
Did Churchill say, ‘Let’s call it quits’?”
Says Newt, “That is not what you see
From statesmen like Churchill and me.”
“Oh, please, just this once, Newt,” they say.
And Newt, being Newt, says “No way.”
If Mitt had hoped to have “presumptive” nailed
On Super Tuesday, then of course he failed.
In delegates his total acquisition
Was not enough to crush the competition.
Sure, Rick, who’d won three states, was still behind;
Just Georgia had the Newtster on its mind.
But still Mitt failed to get the votes he needed
To briskly march toward Tampa unimpeded.
And if he finally managed his ascendance,
Would he be too far right for independents?
His manager said no, this wasn’t true,
Because, like Etch A Sketch, he’ll start anew.
To start anew—to flop, then flip—appeared
To be precisely what the right wing feared.
Yes, added to accumulated fodder, it
Portrayed him as a Massachusetts moderate—
The sort of man who, once he wins the bid’ll,
With just one shake, skedaddle toward the middle.
The Situation
So Mitt’s officially an Etch A Sketch,
And Rick says JFK’s speech made him retch.
Ron Paul’s a ditz, and Gingrich is a letch.
Though nets are flung as far as they will stretch,
There isn’t any white knight there to fetch.
Republicans thus sit around and kvetch.
The Southern Strategy
In Southern states, Mitt Romney’s stump routine
Was singular, and something to be seen.
To come off even folksier than Paul,
He’d throw in, now and then, a goofy “y’all.”
His favorite food? He sounded as if it’s
Some catfish with a side of “cheesy grits.”
Some Southerners thought Mitt should quit pretending;
From him, it came across as condescending
To think with Southern voters he’d be blending
By dropping
g
from every gerund’s ending.
As if he had some chaw in his jeans pocket,
He stood there and recited “Davy Crockett.”
The Southern crowd just wondered what it means
That he had perfect creases in those jeans.
I’m a Mandarin Who’s Panderin’
Mitt Romney’s my name.
I’m aimin’ to please.
The floor at my feet
Is littered with
g
’s.
Three Southern contests happened on one day.
A sweep, Newt thought, would certainly convey,
Considering his two already won,
That his Old South possessed a favorite son.
The logic of that no one could dispute.
The problem was the son’s name wasn’t Newt:
Yes, Hat Trick Rick Santorum had once more
With Gingrich and with Romney wiped the floor.
He only had a week, though, to enjoy
That victory, and then came Illinois.
Mitt triumphed there, and in Wisconsin, too.
Could there be any more he had to do?
The anyone-but-Mitt folks grew less raucous.
DeMint, the leader of the Wing Nut Caucus,
Endorsed Mitt, as did all the white knights who
Some hoped would jump in late and stage a coup:
The voters could no longer pull a switch
And go for Jeb or Paul or Chris or Mitch.
At last, the script that Mitt had long rehearsed
Had gone too far, most thought, to be reversed.
At last, it seemed he’d put away the game,
And had “presumptive” tacked on to his name.
The Republican National Committee Selects a Campaign Slogan
Our slogan’s been chosen.
We think it’s a hit.
We’ll shout from the rafters,
“We’ve settled for Mitt!”
The Party’s Over