Mitt and Me

Once we reached the store, Mitt was far less excited.

"What is this awful place?"

"It’s a supermarket," I said. "It’s where regular people buy food."

"How dreadful," Mitt said. "Where’s the VIP parking? Where’s the valet?"

"The wha? We just park and walk in."

"Hmph," he hmphed.

As I carry him in, I set him in a shopping cart.

"What do you think you’re doing?" he yelled.

"You’re about a foot tall. You’re going in the cart," I lectured.

As we shopped, Mitt seemed very uncomfortable and scratched himself all over.

"I’m allergic to commoners," he whispered. "Ah, an illegal alien!"

"That’s not a illegal alien," I sighed. "It’s just a latino employee."

"Check her papers!" he demanded.

"I’m not checking anything! Let’s just keep moving," I said, shaking my head.

At one point I left the cart to get the milk, when I turned around, Mitt was holding a six-pack of beer. How did he get out of the cart?

"You have beer?" I asked.


"I thought Mormons didn’t drink beer."

"Geez, lighten up a little."

"Seriously, dude?"

"It’s American Patriot Beer. I’m being patriotic. Why do you hate America?"

"Put it back."

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