Mitt Romney is having a slumber party this weekend at his New Hampshire compound with some very interesting guests: Gov. Chris Christie of New Jersey and Senator Marco Rubio of Florida, along with their families.
—The Times.
I decided to ask the Republican Presidential hopefuls Chris and Marco to sleep over because I wanted to get to know them and offer some tips. Because folks are always saying to me, “Mitt, you almost became President, but not really. What happened?” Plus, I thought it might be a heckuva lot of fun to stay up late and raid the fridge and loosen our neckties. Who knows? By the end of the night, we might all have frosted bangs!
I knew that Chris might be sensitive about his weight, and I didn’t want Marco to be terrified in the bottom bunk, so I suggested that we curl up together on the living-room floor in sleeping bags, or, in Chris’s case, in two sleeping bags and the all-weather cover for one of my Jet Skis. I provided matching nightshirts with a little-elephant pattern. I didn’t want to offend Chris, so I reminded him that elephants are the traditional symbol for the G.O.P. “You should take advantage of that!” I told him. “And, Marco, I know you’re Cuban, so maybe your campaign symbol could be an elephant smoking an expensive cigar!”
My wife, Ann, brought us some steaming mugs of hot cocoa and a tray of those special marshmallow-and-graham-cracker treats that we call S’Mormons. “I hope you guys don’t get overexcited,” Ann warned. “That’s what almost happened with Mitt on the night of the last election, until he nodded off around 9:30 P.M. and I finally had to shake him and say, ‘Sweetheart, it’s over. I won the bet.’ ” Once Ann was gone, I turned to my guests and asked, “So, what should we do first? I have a bottle of Grecian Formula, and I nabbed a disk of that great new flick about Republican politics!”
“ ‘Jurassic World’?” Marco asked.
“No, silly,” I replied. “I think it’s called ‘Magic Mike XXL.’ It’s about the place where Mike Huckabee gets his blazers.”
“I don’t want to watch a movie,” Chris said. “Let’s talk about boys.”
“I hate that Scott Walker,” Marco said. “I think he’s snooty just because he busted all those unions. I mean, what kind of unions do they have in Wisconsin, anyway? Cows and chickens?”
“You know who I hate?” Chris said. “Rand Paul. I mean, get a haircut, Mr. Cabbage Patch doll. And a coherent foreign policy!”
“And a chance in hell,” Marco said. “Oops! Sorry, Mitt! I know you don’t like rough language!”
“I’m down with it,” I told him. “As long as it’s just us guys. Us darned guys!”
That’s when I started tickling Marco, who started tickling Chris, and that’s how the floor lamp got broken.
“O.K.,” Chris said. “If you were a girl and you had to sleep with any Republican candidate, who would you pick?”
“Past or present? Dead or alive?” I asked.
“Are we talking about John McCain?” Marco asked.
“No! I’m talking about me!” I said.
“You’re our host,” Chris said. “So you’re out of the running. Although, Mitt, I just have to say it—in a heartbeat.”
“You’re such a handsome man,” Marco added. “I especially like the way that your hair and your face are the same color.”
I tried not to preen, but I did shoot the guys a profile, which caused a pretty major pillow fight and plenty of pinching and giggling.
“Pretend this is Hillary,” Chris said, shoving Marco’s face into a bolster.
“Mwah, mwah, mwah,” Marco said, smooching the cushion. “I’m a Democrat, and I lo-o-ove you so-o-o much. Just because you’re a wo-o-o-o-man.”
“Do you remember George Bush in that leather bomber jacket?” Marco said, sighing. Chris and I sighed, too, although hearing the name Bush was a buzzkill.
“Mitt, do you think that Jeb has a shot?” Chris asked. “I mean, sure, he’s lost some weight, but I’ve lost way more. I’ve lost, like, three Bush grandchildren.”
“Well, I do like his new campaign strategy,” I said. “To just use his first name with an exclamation point. Whenever I see his posters, with ‘JEB!’ on them, I think that Barbara Bush is scolding him.”
“Marco, I admire you as a candidate,” Chris said. “Even with all of your suspicious business deals and the fact that everyone in Cuba hates you.”
“And, Chris,” Marco said, “I’m a big fan of yours, even if while you were announcing your candidacy thousands of your New Jersey constituents were rallying right outside the building, denouncing you.”
“Fellas,” I said, “there’s only one way to settle this, and it’s not the New Hampshire primary. You’re my top two choices, and that’s why I’ve invited you here—for a pants-off dance-off.”
I put one of my son Tag’s mixtapes into the cassette player, and some sort of disco-rap boogie started playing. Chris stood up, and really started to move. “Yeah, baby!” he yelled. “This jelly is going straight to Pennsylvania Avenue!”
Marco did some impressive salsa shimmying, calling out, “This is why I’m getting the Latino vote, the African-Americans, and maybe some of the gays! Talk to the hips, bitches!”
I sat on the sofa sipping my cocoa, which is considered a pretty outlaw Mormon dance move.
“Boys!” Ann said, poking her head into the room and clapping her hands briskly. “Lights out!” ♦