In days of old when Sir Mitt's armor was shiny as a pin nary dent nor a scratch it did bear. He rescued maidens from trust fund towers and cut the scoundrel knights that held them hostage hair.
Proudly did Sir Mitt of Bain stride upon this earth, around round tables, hidden from view he did the profits hew. Til one day he did declare "a king without a table, is no King at all".
So to the primary jousts he went, dented and mauled by bad Sir Newt he ended it all covered in Santorum. Of Lady Bachmann and her crazy band he did mock, of Sir Herman's cooking crew he rendered unto stew.
Boldly Sir Mitt rode forth on shining dancing steed, to meet the peasants upon the field. Shock and awe would surely follow, and he would render the King into offal.
But woe, oh woe, he made a slip, a damned minstrel had recorded it, of how he argued and harangued of just how he found the peasants truly awful.
So to nullify the shock, he turned to his sneaky squire, and sent the poor lad into the ancient dragons den. But woe, oh trice woe! The dragons were awake! Ryan the giant was thoroughly heckled, and with pissed off mien, he did depart, to adjust his taxable income
As Sir Mitt lay in the dust his courtly jesters he did summon. "Oh wise and loyal jesters" he did cry "what the hell happened, please tell me why".
The jesters never doubted of just how he had been routed. By "all common sense" they did deny "of conservatism's tourney he's just not worthy" then went into a spin.
Here endeth the week that was.