The Willard of Oz

In case, for some reason, you missed any of the Republican Convention, don’t worry. We’ve captured it all here for you now in the form of a bizarro version of The Wizard of Oz. Enjoy.

 What a world, what a world!

It all started with a hurricane of truth – that rarest of all atmospheric conditions in Republicanland – when Todd Akin blew in and accidentally spilled the beans about what the Pro Birth crowd really believes (that there is actually such a thing as “non-legitimate” rape). You’re not in Missouri anymore, Todd.

But then Reince "PeeWee" Priebus, aka the Mayor of Munchkinland, picked up his gavel and, beneath a giant “WE BUILT IT” banner draped across the publicly-funded convention hall, ushered in a Tornado of Bullshit that blew in and dumped one of Mitt Romney’s mansions on The Truth, killing her dead right before our very eyes, right there on the stage of the Tampa Bay Times Thunderdome.

Then Anne Romney, playing the part of Glinda the Good Witch for the adoring munchkins, floated down in her pink, plastic bubble, waved her magic wand and proclaimed Willard Mitt “Corporations are people, my friend!” Romney just an average, All-American, aw-shucks, normal, run-of-the mill, garden variety guy with an Olympic dancing horse, a car elevator, $100 million IRA and secret accounts in the Cayman Islands, Switzerland, Bermuda and Luxembourg.

Then the munchkins marched around the convention hall singing “Ding-Dong, the Truth is Dead” before Paul Ryan – the Cowardly Lyin’ Ryan – arrived to pronounce her not just dead but morally, ethic’ly, spiritually, physically, positively, absolutely, undeniably and reliably dead. Not just merely dead but really most sincerely dead.

And then the munchkins chanted “USA! USA!” until Barack Hussein Almira Gulch Obama, the Wicked Black Muslim Witch of the Midwest, swooped down on his made-in-Kenya flying carpet and cackled, “I’ll get you, my preTea Party patriots, and all your money and guns, too!” before he disappeared in a cloud of fake birth certificates and food stamps.   

And then we’re off to see the Willard, who, Glinda the Better of all You People, has assured us will fulfill all of our miserable, pathetic little people hopes and dreams if we just trust him, let him cut his taxes down to 0.82 percent and then it will all just magically trickle down upon us, like flying monkey poo from heaven. And so we went, skipping merrily down a yellowbrick road paved with distortions, myths, fabrications and selectively edited video clips, stopping only to feed the animals, until we came upon the Willard, a combination of the Tin Man and the Scarecrow, a heartless being with no insides, just an empty husk filled with straw promises and old, rusty policy positions, who tells us, in a song-and-dance routine performed with The Cowardly Ryan, that we could all be rich, just like him, if we only had a Bain. And it goes something like this: 

You could while away the hours

Up in your ivory towers

Living on your cap’tal gain

Ship the losers’ jobs to China
Put a probe in their vaginas

If you only had a Bain

All your previous positions

Like pre-existing conditions

They’d disappear like David Blaine

Like a pretzel you’d be stretchin’

You’d be so busy Etch-a-Sketchin’

If you only had a Bain

With the thoughts you’d be rethinkin’

You could buy another Lincoln

Or a well-oiled weather vane

You could buy the Oakland Raiders

Or some car elevators

If you only had a Bain

In the Caymans where it’s sunny

You could shelter all your money

The government’s loss would be your gain

You’d avoid paying taxes

Hide your emails and your faxes

If you only had a Bain

THE END