So, there I was in my dream last night…

…slowly walking, intrigued, down this brightly lit hallway.  Bright, but in rich, soft focus. Ethereal, really. So, naturally, when I came upon a door that read “This Is Your Fate,” my heart jumped as did my feet towards the door. And…

…I stepped in. To complete darkness. Pitch darkness with a dense, dank, foreboding cold. The accompanying silence not only made my sudden, abject fear more pronounced but made the plaintive wails of a newly present yet invisible stranger echo louder and still louder till they coalesced into one desperate explosion that burst into the freezing vacuum: “Please someone help! I’m about to evaporate! My friends won’t acknowledge me! Help! I’m disintegrating!”

A massively unmoved quiet just smirked.

I didn’t know what was going on. Then a stiff, punishing wind blew. Hard enough to move Old Ironsides even in drydock. Something had happened. But what? Confused, I turned back in the direction of where I’d first decided to enter this craziness just in time to see whom I assumed was the “stranger,” in bright illumination now having just “landed” under the sign at the entrance. There, his face was unmistakable and so was his name as it revealed itself right next to the “This Is Your Fate” sign. “Mitt Romney.”

I looked at Mitt, just mocked him really, but only for a moment as I was soon wide awake and back in my bed at home, there, too, roaring with laughter. I’d had this same incredibly satisfying dream every night in these weeks since the impeachment vote and could only hope real life was being as unkind to Mr. Romney as my dreams were.

My God, how could we have been so naïve about this guy? For years. The ties and perfect posture? The pleasant countenance and politeness? We were all lured in cause we wanted to believe there was something good in Washington. But the real, self-serving, egomaniacal guy finally showed himself in all his explosive self-aggrandizement a month ago when the Sommelier of Sour Grapes cried at the Congressional podium over his struggle on the direction of his vote. Any wavering had to have been a sign payback was coming for passing Mitt over for Secretary of State so you knew immediately Mitt was helping shape one of the great debates of the new century: who’d take home the Best Actor award for these first couple months of 2020? Mitt and his crocodile tears (and alligator shoes) in front of Congress? Or Harvey Weinstein as he rolled his faux-injured self past the press on his way to buying his way out of rape charges (or so he presumed) outside an NYC courtroom? A toss-up, fyi. Both great performances. (Oh, and Mitt, before you get overly flattered, and it’s probably already too late, realize here you are being discussed in the same breath as Harvey Weinstein).

It’s amazing. Romney’s resentfulness of Trump so badly camouflaged by a “But I took an oath!” pretense over the vote (that redefined the concept of BS with a specificity surprising even to DC lifers) really should have been embarrassing in all its overtness. But, nooo, Romney somehow thought he deserved our sympathy or admiration for wrestling over whether he should screw the entire Republican Party to suit his desire to screw Trump. Maybe as thanks for what a great human he’s been, he-thinks? NO-ope. Maybe for all his service in government? Well, he has done a lot of that but I’d simply say thanks for saving the Olympics, Mitt, but kinda got an issue with you trying to railroad the guy behind the economic engine pulling millions out of poverty and unemployment so you can explain to your grandkids why you never went any higher than “Republican nominee who lost an election cause of an ABC news debate hack.”

Now, if God were ever to allow me compensation for winding up with neighbors who binge-watch “Real Housewives of (Fill in the Blank)” with the sound on “duplicate MegaDeath” I’d love to run into this vengeful little man in the Senate bathroom (where he’d no doubt be teasing out that great “Grease” look he’s been nursing for all these centuries) where I could ask him, “So, Mitt? Why? Why’d you cast that vote? So folks’d forget that whole putting your kid’s dog on the car roof thing in 2012?”

“Nah,” I guess he’d answer, “I just wanted to stick a knife into a guy I Guinness-Book-hated for achieving all I ever wanted to in life so easily.” Then I’d nod and take a beat then slowly let out “That was just a joke, Senator.”

The amazing thing in all the Mitt drama was how Trump ultimately became the anti-humiliate-the-Mormon-who-wasn’t-gonna-get-a-job-in-here-anyway guy in the WH. Probably already after having made up his mind on the greatest wit in Utah, Trump still publicly and graciously propped Mitt up with dinners and meetings in NYC and Mar-a-Lago but still, come faux impeachment and rubber-hitting-the-road time, Romney was unbelievably standing there with an extra-large iron maiden all perfectly retro-fitted for numero 45 anyway. His three-year grudge holding, I gotta say, though not record-setting, was still impressive especially in a town where holding grudges in that long can result in internal explosions at F-16 g-force levels down the line. Here’s to you and future internal explosions, Senator.

I have to say one of the sad lessons of my adult life has been how disappointing most people wind up being. And Mitt didn’t disappoint in his disappointing. I mean, if you’re gonna do something, why not commit, right? And, boy, did he ever. I think his impeachment vote will go down in history as one of the dumbest decisions ever in DC (right up there with Jerry Nadler getting in between Adam Schiff and an open mic) but let’s stay optimistic tonight. Let’s have hope for the moment. Just cause Romney crapped out on us doesn’t mean DC isn’t full of other really great peop… Oops, gotta go. Just looked out my window and Jimmy Carter’s trying to steal my car.