From Piles to Paradise: Mitt Romney’s Sea Misadventure with Bryan & Booper

This space typically contains a disclaimer regarding what the real Mike Pence might or might not have done. Instead, today, it is merely being used to point out that this tale contains certain observations of an anatomical nature made by one Booper McCarthy regarding an orifice of a friend which are, if not indecent, rather disgusting and entirely fictional. We assume.

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Every year, as the anniversary of Booper McCarthy’s death—as tragic as it was avoidable to all but the most dimwitted of persons—draws close, the tale of Mitt Romney’s bout with piles and the strange misadventure that ensued is called to the fore of my mind. It all began on a beautiful summer day in Florida. The whole gang had rented a couple of flats in Orlando and were visiting the Magic Kingdom and other popular area attractions.

I woke one morning and headed to the kitchenette to make breakfast.

Bryan! Booper called.

What is it, man? I called back. I’ve not yet had my tea!

One of the Bernards is out of order! he shouted from his bed.

At this point I should remind you, dear, patient reader, that Booper names each of the appliances about him and places sticky notes on them so he’ll remember which is which, but he unfortunately names them all Bernard, after himself.

Which Bernard? I asked.

This Bernard has something to do with the temperature, if I remember it aright.

Is it the Bernard that keeps things cold, but not too cold? I asked.

That isn’t himself.

Does it warm things up, then?

It does, begob!

Is it the range? I asked.

Remind me who’s that fella?

Does it make fire and you put the kettle on?

No, no, Bryan. This Bernard has a door, as I recall.

Is it the oven, then?

Is that the one with the little fella inside who turns on the light and makes the plate go round?

No, Booper, that’s the microwave.

It’s the Bernard with the little fella in it. That’s the man who’s out of order.

Is that why you’ve unplugged it?

What is it you tell me now about a plug? he said, appearing suddenly and woefully underdressed in the kitchenette.

The microwave, it’s been unplugged, I said, exasperated.

Why, I must have forgotten to plug the fella back in again. Silly of me.

Now, Booper, why did you unplug the microwave in the first place?

For an apparatus, Booper said, sounding evasive.

An apparatus? God between ourselves and danger! Did you try to hatch eggs you’d bought at the supermarket again?

No, he said quietly.

There was a tense silence all about the flat. Just the sort of tense, guilty silence that only Booper could break.

Yes.

I was so incensed that the only thing that gave your man Booper a stay of execution was Romney wearing naught but a towel and a very concerned look on his face standing in the kitchenette door.

My fellow flatmates, Mitt Romney began, apologetically. I have need of your good will and thoughtful assistance this morning. While this is a delicate matter, I hope that you will be able to help me in an efficient and discrete manner. In short, I have an anal complaint.

Oh, now Romney! I cried. We’ve always thought you neat, tidy—fastidious, even!—but never have we ever thought that you were—

There seems to be some misunderstanding, gentlemen, he said, holding up his hands. It is rather that I have developed a condition in that region of my personal anatomy with marked swelling and discomfort.

Piles! Booper exclaimed. My friend, I am so very, very sorry. But you’ve come to the right man; I am something of an expert on the piles. There’s a certain preparation you need that can be acquired at any pharmacy you can name.

Would you mind, friend Bryan, driving Booper and me to such an establishment? Romney asked.

Of course not, Mitt Romney, of course not, I said. I was to chaperone Michael and his betrothed on a date to the Ariel’s Undersea Adventure ride, but I’m sure I can get Doug Who Works Under Water to take my place; that sort of thing is in his line.

Dear Michael! Romney said, thoughts of his pained anus briefly set aside. He does love that ride so.

Not a quarter of an hour later Romney, Booper and myself were in the nearest location of a pharmacy chain that you know and that I know, speaking to the pharmacist, one Dr. Edward Teach, PharmD. A great beard had he, black as a moonless night and tied into it were ponderously long stretches of receipt paper.

It was very busy; it seemed as if all of Orlando might be there.

Doctor, Romney began. While I was, as it were, working my hardest for the American people yesterday evening, I developed a complaint of a highly personal and delicate nature.

Dr. Teach’s face clouded with combined uncertainty and interest.

A problem with his crapal tunnel, if you don’t mind, Booper said.

Uncertainty and interest were replaced with confusion upon the good doctor’s dark countenance.

He needs the preparation, Booper whispered with a wink.

Arr, yes, but we have many a prep’ration here. I gather ye don’t recall which one in p’ticularr. Was it the Preparation A ye were after, mateys?

What is Preparation A for? I asked.

The ague, he said.

What about Preparation B?

Boils.

And Preparation C?

Catarrh.

Wait! Booper shouted with excitement. There’s a system here! Doctor, I believe what my friend needs is the Preparation P!

He has psoriasis? Asked Dr. Teach.

What in Heaven’s name? Booper exclaimed. No, that would be the Preparation S!

Sorry, matey, but that prep’ration would be for scurvy. The treatment for that is anti-scorbutics, which are to be found in a little basket by the spirits.

Not the scurvy, Doctor! Piles! P-A-I-S-L-E-S! My friend Romney, here, has the piles! More inflamed and uncomfortable piles I have not seen. A profound sphinctral defacement! Great mounds about the anus, they are. They look like Shai-hulud eating his own tail, for all love! A beam in Sauron’s eye! Piles!

The entire pharmacy was, struck by that outburst, silent and shyly attentive to our interview; I have never seen a face as flushed red as Romney’s was just then.

Do I want to know how you came by that information, Booper? Romney asked, tersely.

You’re a heavy sleeper, Booper said, shrugging sheepishly.

I think Mitt Romney spoke not more than four words to Booper ever again.

Hemorrhoids, Romney said to Dr. Teach with a most uncharacteristic brevity. I have hemorrhoids.

Yar, matey, I know just the preparation ye need. Unfortunately, due to issues with the supply chain, ye understand, there’s none to be had for love or money.

Dr. Teach’s voice was all disappointment, but his eye twinkled, suggesting that perhaps there was a devious, uncouth solution to Romney’s problem, the sort of solution Romney would abhor were he not in profound excretory discomfort.

Doctor, Romney said. I have neither love nor money to offer you. I am, however, in such agony that I would do almost anything for relief.

Perhaps, mateys, ye’d like to step into me consultationin’ cabin. I’ve a possible solution to yer, shall we say, predicament.

What was spoken in that room I will not relay in detail due to certain statutes of limitations, but suffice it so say that Dr. Teach gave us to understand that he had come into a number of barrels of just the preparation Romney required—quite probably after having taken a container ship off the Bermudas—and that he was in need of a ship to take them from Miami to a buyer in Al Qayrawān.

Miami! Booper said. That’s just where Dick Richards and Gregg Hoff are, and I believe they have a sailing ship of the ocean-going kind! A schooner called Michael.

Booper was right, for once. But Dr. Teach made it known to us that none of the barrels of the preparation in question were not to be opened until they had been brought to their destination.

Romney resigned himself to a very uncomfortable drive to Miami, made more so when we were forced to take rocky, unpaved back roads due to construction. That our rented Oldsmobile had no suspension only made it worse. At every pothole, and they were many, he groaned. No comfortable purchase could he find. He was as resilient a lad as he could be but his discomfort was clear upon his face at every bump and upset.

We eventually arrived in Miami—Romney looked all the worse for our travels—and found Richards and Hoff upon a schooner moored in the port. We were shocked to see that Charles Macpherson—in full British sea captain of the Napoleonic Wars regalia complete with cocked hat worn athwartships Nelson-style—was with them.

Richards! said I. However did you come upon a ship like this?

Macpherson won it after a night of whist with the Earl of Skelmersdale! Richards said. Crazy, I know. He’s determined to sail it somewhere. So when you told us to load the barrels of contraband on board, he was enthusiastic to be part of the project!

Hoff stood at a long nine pound cannon in the bows of the ship.

I was, that, Macpherson said.

Are you, Mr. Macpherson, an accomplished sailor? Romney asked, in obvious anal discomfort, all shuffling about.

Ach, I’ve never even been in a canoe! Macpherson said. I’m as at home on the water as a duck in a spaceship.

Romney looked aghast.

Here I interrupted.

Do not despair, Romney, I said. I’ll have you know that this kind fellow Macpherson is a lunatic. Whenever he hears an idiom which was born in the Age of Sail he is thrown into an insane passion in which he believes himself to be an English post-captain of the late 18th or early 19th century.

So what you are saying, friend Bryan, Romney said, shifting his bottom with a wince, is that all we must do is bring about this lunatic passion?

Precisely, I said. The problem is that when one is speaking, one will often use idioms which derive from the Age of Sail, but when one tries to think of the idioms in question directly, one’s mind often goes blank!

So it does! Romney said.

It’s the darndest thing! I said.

Indeed, Bryan, Romney said, if I manage to think of one, well, I’ll be a son of a gun!

At this Macpherson was struck as quickly as kiss my hand.

Raise the Blue Peter, you lazy swabs! Mr. Bush, call all hands to make sail, if you please, Macpherson called.

We were hurried up the gang plank and Romney was quickly pulled by Macpherson into the Captain’s cabin. He came out presently and spoke to Booper and me.

Bryan, he said. You’ve been rated Midshipman of the larboard watch.

I was amazed, as I had no idea what this meant.

Booper, he said. Must clean the head with his own toothbrush until our journey is over.

It took me quite a while to explain to Booper the unfortunate nature of this decision, as he at first imagined it would involve no more than a reasonable supply of shampoo. I’ve no doubt Romney thought it a just comeuppance.

It was that afternoon I was called into a formal supper with the captain at two o’clock along with his first lieutenant, Mr. Bush, his second, Mr. Babbington and the sailing master, Mr. Robinson.

There was lobscouse and soused pig’s face and claret to beat the band.

Mr. O’Nolan, Captain MacPherson said, the fo’c’sle hands Tompion, Hawse and Crosstree are your larbolins. Be sure to keep them in line.

I drank my claret and yessired my way through the conversation as best I could.

I came to find out that the starboard fo’c’sle hands were commanded by Dick Richards; they were Scupper, our good friend Greg Hoff and one Alexander Pearce.

Robinson laid a course for the Strait of Gibraltar.

That evening, as Romney played a hornpipe on a tin whistle and Booper capered about in what only he could call a dance, I chatted with Mr. Pearce and Mr. Robinson, who were spinning old yarns.

Ever been shipwrecked, Mr. Robinson? said Pearce.

Oh, yes, the old man said with a wistful sigh. Several times. I was master of the Georgis which went down some years ago.

A storm was it? I asked.

No, perfectly calm. Years before that I was wracked in the Tyger, though I think my wife was to blame for that. We were cursed, you see, after she insulted a witch.

I cleared my throat.

And you, Pearce? Have you ever been castaway? I asked.

Oh, yes. Dozens of times. That’s why I insisted to Captain Macpherson that all our ship’s biscuit be made out of corn. A corn-fed person is much more nutritious.

Excuse me, did you say nutritious?

Did I? he said evasively. What I meant was healthier, yes, healthier.

And off he went below decks, Mr. Robinson and I following with our astonished eyes.

Two days later the storm hit. Great waves coursed over the Michael threatening to take all hands to the briny deep. The sky was torn and so great a gale blew that we were dismasted. And though our bark would not be lost, our tiny ship was tempest tossed.

Of the ship’s people, Romney suffered the most in his rectal misery. His groans as the ship rolled were only matched by those of the Michael as her timbers worked in the violence of the storm.

We were taking on water.

On the second night we felt a great shock which tossed all us larbolins from our hammocks as we slept below decks. We scrambled up to find that we’d run aground on some reef in the dark.  The boat was taking on water now to an alarming degree.

Macpherson ordered that we should abandon ship.

Life jacketed and in the ship’s boat we pulled for the storm washed unknown shore where all fell asleep, exhausted by the ordeal, right where we fell.

When we woke in the morning we saw the ship wrecked upon a shoal or reef a cable’s length or two from the shore. She was a smashed hulk, waves crashing through her, the tide pulling her apart.

In all fairness, one member of the ship’s company felt there was a silver lining to the ship’s otherwise tragic loss. Romney discovered that spread upon the surface of the waters was a translucent, gelatinous layer of the very balm that would soothe his anal compaint. He hollowed out coconut halves and filled them with the stuff and ran into the forest, only to burst out moments later with a childish grin and, splashing into the surf, collect more for later.

In addition to rectal remedies, we took what we could from the Michael and from it built a makeshift shelter on the beach. About us were tropical forests, all asound with great buzzing insects and snakes and what-have-you.

Pearce, our expert castaway, promised that there should be wild boar on the island that we might catch.

Not that I’d be what you call picky under the circumstances, I said. But is the wild boar a well tasting beast, Mr. Pearce?

Oh, yes, he said. It is almost the choicest of meats. I would rate it the second most soylent I have ever tasted.

Soylent, you say? Booper asked.

Did I say soylent? How silly of me. I meant succulent. Succulent, he stressed.

That first night the rains quenched our fire and tormented us most terribly. I can’t imagine many of us slept at all, though Macpherson slept the sleep of the just in his best dress uniform upon the sand that night.

In the morning we rebuilt the shelter, this time with a roof.

As the days went on we struggled to find food and water, the boar having made themselves scare, and in the nights we saw the central mountain of the island—a large mound like a great upturned bowl with two rounded peaks rising higher from either side—awash with the lights and thunderous booms of volcanic explosions. There were strange, unnatural noises coming from the jungle.

One early afternoon Alexander Pearce called a Castaway Council. He held a fistful of cut seagrasses.

Gentlemen, said he. The time of choosing is upon us. Soon we will have to eat whatever we can to survive. Sacrifices will have to be made.

Are you suggesting, I said. That we resort to cannibalism?

I am.

Egads, man! Shouted Romney. We’ve only been here four days!

I’m a planner, Pearce explained, somewhat cowed.

Well, Romney continued. We’re not going to consider cannibalism on Thursday, when we only got here on Monday. For one thing there’s still salt horse and biscuit left. Now, I’ll have you know that Captain Macpherson and I have convened a Committee on Rations, a Subcommittee on Liquid Rations and a Blue Ribbon Committee on Rescue. We have imbued these several bodies with subpoena power over both the ship’s people and the several species of animals found upon this island, including those as yet undiscovered. The Committee on Rations meets twice weekly and every alternate Friday, which means, Pearce, that your concerns can come before the committee tomorrow as long as you submit your request to appear upon the agenda in writing by sundown tonight.

I just wanted to know when we can start considering cannibalism, that’s all, Pearce said, staring down at a broken conch shell he was worrying with his foot.

Macpherson intervened and busied us crew with various jobs: another attempt at fishing, some gathering of firewood, weaving a great awning out of palm leaves, Hoff was tasked with trying to make a working signal flare from the soused ones we’d recovered from the Michael and Pearce was set to the task of writing help on the beach in giant letters that might be seen by a passing airplane.

As the sky darkened that evening we all gathered at the shelter. Hoff showed us the signal flare he’d jury-rigged. We decided that the sky was dark enough to chance it so we all stood back as Hoff fired it off.

A great bursting flower in the sky, it was, coloring the night. We all went abed in hopes that we would soon be rescued.

How strangely were our prayers answered.

I think the burlap bag was over my head before I was ever awake. There were the voices of several women and a confusion of grunts, stumblings and warnings. Never before or since have I been subject to so many pokes with a nightstick.

Next thing I knew I was strapped to a chair and a bright light shone in my face. The room felt like a bunker of some sort, all concrete and steel. The rest of the Michael people were similarly bound.

Romney sat, bound to a folding chair as we all were. A blond woman stood over him, her flashlight lighting his terrified face.

You’re here to cure your hemorrhoids, you say? she shouted at Romney.

That’s not–it’s complicated, a very flustered Romney said.

Was the gel mass floating just offshore complicated, sir?

Let it go, Agent Elsa! a clamshell-brassiered woman with red hair shouted. Those are pearls that were his piles. This is a strange place for him, a whole new world!

Look, Booper interjected. I can explain.

All the flashlights spun to focus upon his blubbering gob.

It’s a long story, he said.

Let’s take these poor unfortunate souls to see the kommissar, said a dark, strikingly beautiful woman in flowing harem pants.

Agent Jasmine is right, the one called Agent Elsa said.

We were marched to another chamber. In the hallway I heard someone behind me stumble. I turned to look.

Don’t turn around! said a little man in a phrygian cap.

It was then that I noticed that there were seven of them, little men in phrygian caps. They were called Slappy, Crappy, Hangry, Mangey, Dickey, Spiteful and Cock.

They swung their billy clubs indiscriminately. Agent Snow had her hands full trying to keep them in line.

We soon found ourselves in a grand stone chamber. At its head was a mighty plinth upon which sat a young woman. She was dressed in grasses.

Kommissar Moana! Agent Jasmine called. We bring to you the interlopers. Have you heard their story?

I have, Moana said. I find it hard to believe. Firstly, it introduces side characters—the intent here was clearly commercial; they have licensing potential—but then drops them with nary a word. The plot then continues willy-nilly—

Your honor, ma’am, Booper said. It’s not as if our story included a Macguffin with previously unexplained powers to attract evil entities only to never mention this quality again after the antagonist in question is driven off.

Kommissar Moana narrowed her eyes.

I suppose the infraction could be forgiven, she said, if the source of all the trouble, which involved many people and caused untold destruction and ended with your unwelcome and unpaid-for stay here on Walt Disney’s Happy Joy Perfection Paradise Resort Island, would resolve the conflict with an earnest apology.

That’s ludicrous! Booper declared.

Is it? the kommissar said with a raised eyebrow.

You’d have us believe, for example, that an epic sequence of events spanning generations and causing entire cultures to abandon their exploratory way of life could be resolved with a simple apology.

Yes, she said.

At this Booper walked up to Romney and, holding his hat in his hands, said, Mr. Romney, I am very sorry for all the pain I have caused you.

I forgive you, Booper, Mitt Romney said.

As we were unbound, Kommissar Moana turned to Booper and said, You’re welcome.

 

The next day we were removed from the island and banned from all Disney properties for a year. Only Alexander Pearce chose to stay at the resort, where he has since risen to the role of Chief of Exotic Meat Procuration.