Let Us Now Braise Famous Men, Dept.

Oh my God.  The semiotics of Mitt Romney’s “shopping” cart.  Because he “shops,” you know.  Just like any old multimillionaire.

Some spring water.  Oh, and some Pepsi doubtless stripped of the devil’s twitchin’, what we here in the Mission Lands call ka-fe-yin.  It obviously can’t endorse too many brands at the expense of other brands whose boards might have big purses and small brains.  It’s the Potemkin shopping cart.  I’m surprised he didn’t buy the display food they have in furniture showrooms.

I can’t imagine what it must be like to be Mitt Romney.  The self-referentiality of recognizing that one is a construct.  The realization that one’s own personality and thoughts, well, aren’t really primetime material right out of the box, right?  The knowledge that, even should he *God forbid* not lose, he’s really alotalot of people’s second choice.  Maybe third, were Spermin’ Herman Cain’s rapturous self-appraisal today anything but a madman’s oregano-scented ramblings.

The auto-da-fé of our democracy.