My fellow comrades:
I have a confession to make. As a member of The People's Cube and The Party™ for almost five years now, I have always asserted that I am no more than 23 years old.
I'm here to tell you now that I've been lying about my age all this time. I suspect that won't surprise any of you any more than the identity of the scoundrel who forced me to do so.
That scoundrel's name is Willard Mitt Romney.
It all started with a phone call from the Washington Post. They wanted to talk to me about an encounter I had with Mitt Romney almost 50 years ago in which he'd bullied me. I told them I wasn't present for any bullying but I'd been troubled by it ever since, so we talked, me and WaPo, and had a productive conversation that unearthed my repressed memories of one long ago night.
It was the night of the big prom. I was told I couldn't attend unless I dressed appropriately in a floor length prom gown and dainty glass slippers, with my hair done up in a big bouffant beehive that would only make me taller than most of the boys.
My ma, Yelling Yelena, couldn't afford to buy me the required gown on her monthly welfare check made possible by LBJ. None of my uncles could help out, either, with the possible exception of Uncle Pettifogger, but she'd just had a big fight with him over my other uncles, so they weren't on speaking terms or any other kind of terms at the moment.
Furthermore, my feet were too big for dainty glass slippers, which is why I wear boots, and as you can see by my avatar, I cannot wear my hair in a big bouffant beehive because of my red headscarf which, as some of you may know from old Cube lore, I took from the neck of the dying Che Guevara as I knelt over him bawling my nose out, so I used his neckerchief to wipe my nose and then wrapped it around my head, where it's been ever since.
Or has it?
I didn't think it fair that I should be shut out of the prom just because I was poor, so I went anyway, wishing for a fairy godmother to turn my brothers into a National Guard unit to escort me, and the cockroaches in our trailer into members of the news media to record for posterity my gutsy move. I arrived at the prom and what did I see but this tall, dark and handsome guy whom everyone called Mitt.
He was the most gorgeous guy I ever saw. I couldn't help myself. I simply had to approach him. I followed him all around the gym, making googly eyes at him. Soon everyone began chanting, "Mitt has a girlfriend, Mitt has a girlfriend." Imagine my delight upon realizing that everyone thought I, Pinkie, was Mitt's girlfriend!
To my dismay, however, Mitt didn't seem to like this one stinking bit. He told me to quit following him around and to leave him alone. Obviously a young man of his immense wealth mistook me for a panhandler, or he wouldn't have said such things, right? I told him, "I want to hold your hand," and he saw me standing there, while everyone else chanted "She loves you!"
Mitt pushed me! He shoved me flat to the floor. There I lay spread-eagled, wondering if I was about to be ravished. Instead he shouted at everyone, "Look at her red headscarf! What do you suppose she's hiding underneath it? Let's rip it off and look!"
Rip off anything else of mine if you please, but not my red headscarf! Never my red headscarf!
"Check out her red eyes!" Mitt chortled. "And her red nose! Hey, Pinkie, with a nose like that, I'll bet they never let you play in any reindeer games, eh?"
I'd never been so humiliated in my life. Or more terrified. Oh, the terror! The horror! The unspeakable trauma of being compared to a creature that Sarah Palin shoots and grinds into sausage links!
He held up the scissors. They were long and sharp, like my screams of fright.
Snip, snip!
So many years later, the sound of those two blades sliding together still sends chills up my spine and down my legs.
Mitt cut off my red headscarf, held it up, and whooped. Then he threw it over the basketball hoop where it came to rest over the rim. Obama would never have done that—or maybe he would after four or five shots.
Mitt then strapped me down to the top of his car and drove all the way to Canada, where he landed the car in a ditch—just like a Republican!
If only I'd had my shovel with me that night, I might have been able to beat him off, but I had to let my brother borrow it that same night so he could dig up something or someone and rebury it elsewhere.
And now comrades, you know why I've lied about my age all these years. It was to hide more than just the truth of when I was born—it was to bury my secret shame.
I suppressed these memories for many years, until I found out Mitt Romney was plotting to steal the presidency from Obama, and that's when I decided it's time for me to be brave. To be courageous. To make a gutsy call.
To evolve.
It's time for me to claim my right to be a victim.
I am a victim of bullying by Mitt Romney, and it is my sincere hope that by taking the great risk of opening my heart about what happened, that others will come forward and share their stories of being bullied by Mitt Romney.
I want to emphasize that I'm not doing this for money, or fifteen minutes of fame, or to get free stuff. As always, I'm doing this solely to raise awareness, but it goes without saying that to accomplish that, of course I'll need money, the fifteen minutes, and plenty of free stuff.
Commissarka Pinkie is a regular contributor to The People's Cube, and is renowned and admired by the masses for her dedication to raising awareness of how much she cares. When she isn't busy making an issue out of everything, she enjoys spending other people's money, occupying other people's property, and whacking other people upside the head with her shovel.
