The year was 1994. Or maybe it was 1987. I forget, and frankly, so does everyone in the town I used to live in before I was exiled here. You see, about two decades ago–again, time really flies by when you have no way to measure time–I got a job as the Fire Chief of Anytown, USA. There’s a story behind the town’s name, but I’ll get to that later. How I became fire chief and how I got kicked out of Anytown are much more important. At least that’s what the house where I’m living in/with tells me.
Anyway, about two decades ago I moved to the town subsequently-known-as-Anytown. I had no connections, no money, and no friends there. Nothing. I just happened to pass by it on my cross-country travels as a door-to-door knife salesman. I stopped in to make my usual rounds, and before I knew it, became the Fire Chief.
How did I become the Fire Chief, you ask? Good question. Simply put, I was in the right place at the right time. Quite literally. See, as I entered the-town-that-was-soon-to-be-named-Anytown there was a mob of people rushing down the street towards me. I was a pretty decent salesman, if I do say so myself, but I’d never been greeted like that before in any of my visits. I figured they were just crazy about their knives. The knives I was selling were pretty nice ones, after all. They had handles on them and everything.
A picturesque home in the New England countryside. It is dark out. The neighborhood is quiet, the lawn is mowed, and 13 American flags are flying along the top of the roof, rustling in the windy chill of the early evening. Inside, all is also quiet. The living room has nary a spot of dust and the fine china sits proudly on the dining room table. The kitchen has all the latest appliances, though they seem to have never been used. The beautiful winding stairs with some sort of ornately wood-carved frou-frou design thingie on the railing suggest that this is the home of no ordinary everyday American, while the magnificently opulent master bedroom on the second floor settles the matter once and for all. What a spread. Just off the bedroom in the master bathroom, a woman stares into the mirror. She is trying on lipstick.
CRASH!!! The massive axe lands loudly on the bathroom door, cutting through it like a hot steaming knife through warm soft butter. Ann Romney shrieks with blood-curdling authenticity. Her fear was no less than frighteningly genuine.
CRACK!!! The axe comes down again, this time completely penetrating through the door like a hot seafood fork through a delicious Prince Edward Island mussel. Wood splinters in all directions. Ann screams again. There is nowhere for her to run! She’s trapped!
CRASH!! The axe swings violently through another section of door. The person behind the axe is trying to gouge open a larger space in the door. Ann screams a third time, this time sounding almost numb to the inevitable horror that awaits her on the other side.
Governor Mitt Romney: Heeeeeeeeeeere’s Romney!!! How much longer are you gonna be in the bathroom, honey? I’m hungry. When’s dinner?