Update: The extended director's cut of this piece is available over at The Moustache Club of America, so I'd say go read that one. The Kasich one makes me hot.
Last night's Republican Convention reminded me of one thing: how I have the worst taste in men. The things that get me hot? Clean cut. Obsessed with money. An overly confident dominating a-wad who thinks he is a master of men, and also capable of doing anything spectacularly. Anyone who thinks they're smarter than everyone else.
People who regularly fall in those categories: lawyers, cops, salesmen, political science majors, bartenders
You don't know me personally, but for contrast, let me point out that last night I stayed up till 2am watching Grimm and just got out of bed 30 minutes ago. At some point today I *may* put in a job application and/or buy an umbrella.
Sexual Fantasies I Have Involving Famous Republicans
If Mittens believed in divorce, and got rid of that horrid woman he calls a wife, then he might actually have a shot at winning this election. Which I definitely don't want him to do, so I guess that makes me a fan of Anne Romney? I'm definitely a fan of her twitter account. Anyway, according to some website with too much Flash on it that I just now googled, mormons are okay with divorce, so here's what should happen: Mittens should divorce/kill Anne, then go mend his broken heart in New York City by disappearing into the dirty sexy social circles of trust fund kid wannabe magazine editors, a six month blur in which he is spotted wearing skinny jeans and screaming at a homeless guy in Queens, culminating in a torrid affair with Peaches Geldof. Peaches and her band of merry klonopin addicts allow Mittens to live out the dream he always had in college of becoming an artisan cocktail designer, but when his first recipe book, in which he rants for 30 pages about the bourbon conspiracy and how the chinese are stealing our gin industry, is panned by critics, his new friends abandon him. He starts wandering around the country, hiding his billionaire status and playing steel guitar on street corners for bus fare. We meet on the Wrightsville Beach Pier, where I completely fail to recognize him until we're three beers in, because he goes by Will. I convince him that his attempt to solve his existential crisis with a hobo odyssey is just another way of running from his problems, and then we spend the next three years engaged in a protracted conversation/biography writing mission hashing out all his latent childhood issues with mormonism, rejection, being groomed for destiny ect. We move to Moscow shortly after the book hits the NYT bestsellers list, and spend the rest of our days reigning over the Russian literary scene. He is fond of telling people I'm the smartest woman he knows.
Paul Ryan and I meet at the Airport Marriott after responding to a craigslist casual encounters ad. He wants me to slap him repeatedly and humiliate him, just like those girls in high school. Afterwards, we sit around the hotel room for two days discussing womens rights, and I totally turn him on to Nick Cave. We never talk again.
Chris and I meet in college, when he's working part time at the car dealership next to the bar I go to on Sunday nights. We have a series of one night stands that make it seem like we have a real connection, but he is incapable of admitting any weakness, and leaves me heartbroken at the end of summer. Years later, he contacts me. He is going through his first divorce and misses me. I hate him, but the pain is old enough I think I can take it, and we meet for drinks. Immediately we fall in together again, but even though he starts paying for my apartment, and buys me a car, he refuses to say he loves me. We fight constantly, but he always expects that I'll come back, and I always do because he expects it. We continue this affair for decades. He moves me to a Washington townhouse, and I cheat on him with every lobbyist I can pick up. He knows, in fact I think he likes it, he likes winning over them again and again. I feel completely powerless. He never lies to me, or cheats on me, but at his funeral years later I will recall that he only ever gave me three compliments in 40 years. 1) He told me I was sexy the first time we slept together, 2) that he thought I was brilliant, once, in the first week we met, and 3) when he told me I seemed "well adjusted."
After he dies, I immediately marry a 24 year old grad student who is only using me to write a tell all book about our affair, but I don't care because he thinks I'm fascinating and tells me so all the time.