BO: You flip-flopped on health care. You straight-up flopped on foreign policy, ’cause you don’t know anything about the folks who want to put folks in harm’s way, like Pocky-ston or the Tolly-bon. … You still there?
MR: Yep. Just smirking. Staring off into the middle distance. Eyes getting dewy.
Thick, lustrous brows locked in place like a still life of two woolly caterpillars in a staring contest on a spray-tanned clementine. But please, go on.
BO: OK. Your convention highlight was an old man humiliating himself by talking to a chair. You once strapped your dog to the roof of your car. You said they should let you open the windows on airplanes.
MR: How else are we supposed to dispose of used napkins and such?
BO: You change your mind about everything whenever it’s politically convenient.
You are a man known only for your ambition and your desire, but you stand for nothing. You want money. You want power. You want to be president, but you don’t even know why.
JB: Oh snap, Mittens. You got served, son. You. Got. Served. Son.