Dreaming Of A White Christmas

(Now that he has officially been declared The Loser, the standard-bearer of the National White Male People’s Party, he has angrily strapped his family to the roof of the car, setting out to drive across many states, to the great temple in Utah, there to resume his career of baptizing dead Hebrews and furiously endowing his penis. And in his glum wake I thought I would reprint here that speech of Captain Underpants—a.k.a. Mitt Romney—delivered before the National White Male People’s Party Convention in late August. This version originally appeared in an iPad app that briefly lived and died—sorta like a fruit fly, or Underpants’ hopes for victory—this summer.)

(The following is a full and complete transcript of Willard “Mitt” Romney’s address before the Republican National Convention. This has been verified as the voice of Captain Underpants. Transmission 11; August 30; Sector Zulu King Zulu.)

Mr. Chairman; delegates. I accept your nomination for President of the United States of America.

I do so with humility, deeply moved by the trust you have placed in me. It is a great honor. It is an even greater responsibility.

Tonight I am asking you to join me to walk together to a better future.

True: some of you may decide instead to run, rather than walk, into that future.

And that’s okay.

Or you may choose to fly in personal jets. Or drive fast and expensive cars. Perhaps you’ll hire a private train.

All of that is alright, as well.

Others of you, however, may seek to hobble along on crutches. Or roll sadly along in wheelchairs.

You: you will be left behind. For you are Failures, and Mutants. And I have no time for you.

By my side, I have chosen a man with less heart than is possessed even by Dick Cheney.

He represents the rotting corpse-breath death of America. A man who, when we even fleetingly think of him, will always make us consume vast quantities of narcotics.

And some of us—yea verily—will die, from consuming those narcotics.

That’s okay. No big loss.

Last night America got to see what I saw in Paul Ryan: a geek who appears to be fourteen years old, and who really, really, really wants to dress up like Ayn Rand.

I love the way he lies so much and so hard that he knocks the earth off its axis.

But Paul, I still like the playlist on my iPod better than yours.

For instance, I have on my iPod “Bony Maronie.”

A song that honors the Angel Moroni. Who brought to Joseph Smith the sacred plates. Plates that revealed that Jesus, after that unpleasantness in Palestine, came over to America, to ride buffalo and eat jerky and commune with the Indians.

And command that, when freakazoids from Europe, many centuries later, infested the American continent, they could run wild, boning every maronie they could get their mitts on.

Hey. I said “Mitt.”

And this “Bony Maronie,” that is on my iPod: it contains footage from the joyous festival following the Special Ceremony in which my penis was endowed.

You have nothing like that, Paul.

Your penis, sadly, remains, to this day, unendowed.

That is why you will only be Vice President. While I will be President.

Because my penis is endowed. And yours is not.

All of you—including the Negroes in the media—will notice that on the “Bony Maronie” that is on my iPod, the song is sung by a Negro.

For we in the Fellowship Of The Magical Underpants, we have nothing, really, against Negroes.

It is true that, until the 1970s, we believed, as an article of our faith, that Negroes have no souls.

But that doesn’t mean that Negroes can’t sing. Or dance. Or bring me a mint julep.

If I were allowed, here in the Fellowship Of The Magical Underpants, to drink a mint julep.

Four years ago, I know that many Americans felt a fresh excitement about the possibilities of a new president.

But then they woke up, and realized that the new president was a Negro.

And, as one, the cry was heard across the land: WHAT THE FUCK?

For we are a nation of immigrants.

Not freakin’ slaves.

We are the children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren of the ones who wanted a better life, the driven ones, the ones who woke up at night hearing that voice telling them that life in that place called America could be better.

White people.

White people who had failed like a motherfucker. In wherever it was, that they were rolling and tossing and turning and biting the sheets nightly, hearing that voice telling them that life in that place called America, might not be so filled with failure, so filled with failure that people would laugh and point and throw stones, whenever they walked down the dern street.

Who came not just in pursuit of the riches of this world, but so that people wouldn’t laugh like hyenas whenever they scuttled by, back there on The Olde Sod.


Freedom of religion.

Freedom to speak their mind.

Freedom to build a life.

And yes, freedom to build a business. With their own hands.

This is the essence of the American experience.


For white people.

It’s written in the freakin’ Constitution—freedom for white people—for jeebus’ sake.

When every new wave of immigrants looked up and saw the Statue of Liberty, these new Americans knew that they could immediately leap off the boat and whomp the living shit out of black people.

Or brown or red or yellow people. If, sadly, no black people happened to be at hand.

Today, four years from the excitement of the last election, for the first time, the majority of Americans now doubt that our children will have a better future.

Because there’s a goddam Negro in the White House.

It is not what we were promised.

I mean: read the Constitution. This nation was founded so that Negroes would remain slaves. The founders a-feared that Britain—which, sure enough, it soon enough happened—would abolish first the slave trade, and then slavery itself.

Perish the thought.

We Americans: we wanted none of that.

And so we founded a new nation.

Conceived in slavery, for slavery.

And lo: it was good. For we got to whomp on Negroes decades after the Brits and all them other cheese-eating surrender-monkeys over in Europe started treating Negroes like they were some form of actual “people.”

But now look where we are. Over these past four years.

Every family in America wanted this to be a time when they could get ahead a little more, put aside a little more for college, do more for their elderly mom who’s living alone now, or give a little more to their church or charity.

But there was a Negro, in the White House.

Every small business wanted these to be their best years ever, when they could hire more, do more for those who had stuck with them through the hard times, open a new store, or sponsor that Little League team.

But there was a Negro, in the White House.

Every new college graduate thought they’d have a good job by now, a place of their own, and that they could start paying back some of their loans, and build for the future.

But there was a Negro, in the White House.

Driving home late from that second job, or standing there watching the gas pump hit 50 dollars and still going, when the realtor told you that to sell your house you’d have to take a big loss, in those moments, you knew that this just wasn’t right.

This just wasn’t right: that there was a Negro, in the White House.

And what could you do?

Except run utterly wild and foam at the mouth and roll on the floor and display signs all over the nation all day every day portraying the black man in the White House as a monkey and a Kenyan and a Communist and a thousand thousand slimy things that lived on?

I wish that President Obama had succeeded.

I wish that he had succeeded in understanding that he and his whole family should have stayed in Africa and worn loincloths and screamed gibberish while dancing around a fire with bones in their noses.

Now is the moment when we can do something.

With your help, we will do something.

We will return this country to the governance of white people.

Now is the moment when we can stand up and say: “I’m an American! I make my destiny! And we deserve better! My children deserve better! My family deserves better! My country deserves better! I’m white, goddam it! And I want my country back!”

So here we stand.

Americans have a choice. A decision.

Live with the nauseating notion of a black man, and a black woman, nightly soiling the sheets in the White House bed.

Or send a Fahrenheit 451 crew in there to flamethrower those sheets, deliver a blindingly white new bed, and return that White House to White People.

I was born in the middle of the century, in the middle of the country, a classic baby boomer. It was a time when Americans were returning from war and eager to work. To be an American was to assume that all things were possible.

We just didn’t think there were going to be any goddam Negroes involved in it.

The soles of Neil Armstrong’s boots on the moon made permanent impressions on our souls, and in our national psyche. Ann—my wife, who, according to the Fellowship Of The Magical Underpants, as a woman, possesses no soul, unless she has been penetrated by a properly endowed penis; but my penis, Joe Smith and Bony Moroni be praised, is fully endowed, and has penetrated Ann on, uh, several occasions, and so her soul is fully intact—and I watched those steps together on her parent’s sofa.

Endowed penis in hand.

Like all Americans, we went to bed that night knowing we lived in the greatest country in the history of the world.

Because there were no Negroes on the moon.

God bless Neil Armstrong.

He was not a Negro.

Tonight, that American flag is still there on the moon.

Unsullied by any Negro.

The moon remains Whiteland.

My dad had been born in Mexico, and his family had to leave during the Mexican revolution.

Because Mexicans aren’t stupid, and so they wanted him the fuck out of there.

I grew up in Detroit, in love with cars, and wanted to be a car guy, like my dad.

I wanted, many times, to use my car to run over Negroes. But I was too chicken.

I would get depressed, about my inability to run over a Negro. But I knew those days were really toughest on Ann. Because her soul was in danger. Unless she was regularly hosed by my endowed penis.

I knew that her job as a mom was harder than mine.

Plus, there was the soul problem.

Like a lot of families in a new place with no family, we found kinship with a wide circle of friends through our church.

Of course, our church was, and is, batshit insane.

But so what?

It’s white.

We prayed together, our kids played together, and we always stood ready to help each other out in different ways.

So long as we were all white.

And that’s how it is in America.

We look to our communities, our faiths, our families, for our joy, our support, in good times and bad. It is both how we live our lives, and why we live our lives.

Livin’ white.

The strength and power and goodness of America has always been based on the strength and power and goodness of our communities, our families, our faiths.

So long as they are white.

That is the bedrock of what makes America, America.


But for too many Americans, these good days are harder to come by.

How many days have you woken up feeling that something really special was happening in America?

The only thing that is “special,” is that there is a goddam black man in the White House.

The President hasn’t disappointed you because he wanted to.

He’s disappointed you because he’s black.

The President has disappointed America because he took office without the basic qualification that most Americans have, and one that was essential to his task.

White skin.

Now is the time to restore the Promise of America.


What is needed in our country today is not complicated or profound. It doesn’t take a special government commission to tell us what America needs.

What America needs is a president with white skin.

And this I can tell you about where President Obama would take America: into some goddam rap song.

As president, I will protect the sanctity of life. So long as it is white, and unborn.

President Obama promised to begin to slow the rise of the oceans and heal the planet. My promise is to help you and your family. To protect you from black people and homos and women who accept unendowed penises and god knows what other foulness. To hell with the oceans and the planet. What’s important is that you be allowed to remain as ignorant and insulated as the utter freaking failures, who were your ancestors, who first hooted ashore and drug their knuckles upon the soil of this nation.

Knuckles that were white.

I will begin my presidency with a massive bonfire that will consume all of the White House, which has been forever sullied. My great good friends in Bain will finance construction of a new one, one that has never been, and never will be, touched by black hands. Except, as it should be, when those black hands are serving me, on a silver tray, a midnight snack.

You might have asked yourself if these last years are really the America we want, the America won for us by the greatest generation.

Fuck no!

For black people weren’t even allowed to serve, in the armed forces of the “greatest generation,” except in their own little units, commanded by white officers, and deliberately sent into situations where they would all be shot and killed as soon as possible.

The America we all know has been a story of the many becoming one, uniting to preserve liberty, uniting to build the greatest economy in the world, uniting to save the world from unspeakable darkness.

Heh. I said “unspeakable darkness.”

Everywhere I go in America, there are monuments that list those who have given their lives for America.

None of these people are black. Because black people don’t get on monuments. Except, sometimes, after white people shoot them.

If I am elected President of these United States, I will work with all my energy and soul to restore America, to lift our eyes to a better future.

I will make America so blazingly white that gazing fully upon it will burn out your eyes and leave nothing behind but smoking fucking craters.

That future is our destiny. That future is out there. It is waiting for us. Our children deserve it, our nation depends upon it, the peace and freedom of the world require it. And with your help we will deliver it.

Let us begin that future together tonight.


2 Responses to “Dreaming Of A White Christmas”

  1. 1 Julia Rain (the deviant daughter) November 10, 2012 at 8:51 pm

    I read this on my phone in the chiropractor’s waiting room. Probably not the best idea, since I kept getting weird looks when I’d laugh or, at some of those pictures, just stare blankly with my mouth open.

    I laughed pretty loud at this part:

    “…a monkey and a Kenyan and a Communist and a thousand thousand slimy things that lived on?”

    Please tell me this “Bony Maronie” is an actual song I can listen to?

    God, I wish I could give this to David’s parents for Christmas…

    • 2 bluenred November 10, 2012 at 8:55 pm

      “Bony Maronie” is a Real song, just like that was a Real speech. And one you can easily send David’s parents for Christmas: just send it through a gmail address you create as a one-time anonymous thing. ; )

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