Mitt and Grits

What follows is a conversation overheard in Mitt Romney’s holding room somewhere in Mississippi prior to his going on stage to speak:

Staffer: Governor, there’s a few things we need to go over now that you’re in the Deep South.

Mitt:  I want to know  what-the-hell that stuff is they clump on my breakfast plate every morning that spreads out attacking my eggs and toast like The Blob That Ate the Gulf Shores?

Staffer:  Those are grits, sir.  Please speak kindly of them while you’re here.

Mitt:  I don’t think my dog Tagg would eat that gruel.

Staffer:  Sir, that’s your son’s name; your dog’s name is Seamus.

Mitt:  Oh, yeah, you’re right, the one that likes fresh air.  One heckavu mutt.

Staffer:  Governor, after you speak there’s a picnic . . .

Mitt:  Love an ol’ fashion picnic starting with a nice ratatouille like my mother used to make, perhaps a few buttery escargot and a hearty lamb osso buco and a …

Staffer: Sir, it’s not going to be like that.  You might be facing some unusual food choices, like hushpuppies, fried catfish, black-eyed peas, stewed okra and red-eye gravy.

Mitt:  Didn’t I give up some of those for Lent?

Staffer:  No, sir, you’re a Mormon.  You don’t do that.  But you might want to stay away from the red-eye gravy, since it has coffee in it.

Mitt:  What am I going to do?  I can’t eat their food or talk their talk or …

Staffer:  Just stick with the few basic phrases we went over. Remember that Woody Allen “Down South” segment, where he handles every awkward situation by saying, “Oh, grits!”

Mitt:  What about “kiss my grits?”

Staffer:  No, no, sir, please, don’t say that.

Mitt:  What about, “Grits are people, too, my friends.”

Staffer:  Well, that would be better--and more believable.

Mitt:  Okay, I’m pumped.  Turn me loose.

(Mitt walks onto the stage to thunderous applause.)

Mitt:  Howdy doody, you ‘all Mississippiers.  Hey, you over there (points to woman) … yeah, the woman with the tall hair—are you Paula Deen?  No? Ha, ha, just joking.  My favorite country singer—love that Paula.

You know, I’ve been a rodent and rabbit hunter all my life—small varmints, if you will, so I was thrilled at being able to get out in your tree-studded woodlands and bag some grits.  Gonna take them home to the wife.  If Ann and the boys won’t eat them, we’ll feed them to The Help—you know The Help—great movie.

Do you know how many “s” there are in Mississippi?  There’s four, my friends, and that's just the right number.  One of the places I’m from is Massachusetts and it has 13 letters and 4 of them are “s.” So, you see, we have something in common besides are love of grit hunting. 

Hey, you over there, are you French-Canadian?

(Response: No, senor, I’m Mexican-Migrant.)

Sure you are.  Would you believe my grandpa was a Mexican Migrant? Let me tell you about grand pappy ….

Staffer (on cell phone): OMG, get me the spin room . . . and fast!