(When the going gets weird, Petey turns pro.   – promoted by kestrel9000)

(Wes Hamilton is RESPONSIBLE for this.  Yes, it’s his fault.  Find him and make him pay.  He posed the question on Facebook on how Hunter Thompson would cover Romney in a Fear & Loathing On The Campaign Trail style.

So, this is for him all you little Dems too [that means you, Sue].  This is how Romney and the Republicans should be covered, because, they truly have gotten hold of some very bad drugs.  And I think, as seriously as we have to take all this shit from them now, we must consider that perhaps the Corporate Reich has already put these drugs in our water.)

Romney Campaigns In Vermont

   by Raoul Duke

My Polish attorney and I found ourselves in a crowd of cheering Nazis.  I couldn’t believe these people were Vermonters.  Maybe they were bused in on the leaf tours.  A fucking conspiracy.  They looked like they would like to eat us if we had been dressed better.

“Find out the story quick!”  my attorney whispered, pointing with his cane in a not so subtle way.  “These fuckers are about to turn violent.  I’ll cover you with the .357.  Look at that big fat one next to you.  I’ll shoot him first.”



I pulled my attorney’s arm out from his coat pocket.  All he had in his hand was the blotter with four really good tabs of acid I had given him earlier to hold onto.  Now it was all crumpled and sucked dry.  “You dirty swine yuppie lawyer pig!”  I hissed at him.  “I wanted two of those.  You ate the whole fucking blotter?!”

“It’s because the metal in my bad foot made me eat it.  My foot is giving me very bad vibes now.  As your attorney, I advise you to get the info so I can get the hell out of here,”  he said.  “I think I just saw Hank Williams Jr. and John McClaughry frenching over there underneath the hanging tree.”

I turned to the big fat Nazi next to me.  “Can you tell us where the MITT 400 is supposed to start?  We’re here for SEVEN DAYS, to cover it.”



The big fat Nazi gave me a death look.  “What the fuck is the MITT 400 supposed to be?”  he asked, backing up a couple of steps.



“You know,” I said, “it’s that road race with all the SUVs carrying these big dogs in cages up on their roofs.  Some kind of heavy duty fundraiser, I heard.  Sponsored by some perfume lab out in California.  Or maybe it was the Hormel Company.”

The big fat Nazi took a step toward me.  “I don’t think that’s funny, chief,” he growled.  “And I don’t think you and your weird crippled friend belong here.”



My attorney raised his cane.  “You some kind of anti-Polish, anti-handicapped pig-fucking yahoo just out of prison!”  he screamed at the big fat Nazi.  “I didn’t come here to take shit from the SS!  I studied law at Nuremberg!  I’ll take your ass to court!  I’ll own your concentration camp in a week!  And your wife and your daughter and all your lottery tickets!”

The big fat Nazi backed out of there fast.  Going to find a State cop with a taser, no doubt.  I grabbed my attorney and spun him toward the exit signs.  “I can’t take you anywhere,” I muttered at him.  By now, a whole lot of Romney people were watching us.  I wondered how much tea they‘d already had.

“POWER TO THE BLACK PANTHER DOGS AND ALL THEIR LESBIAN TRAINERS!!!” my Polish attorney yelled as I pushed us out of the crowd and toward the Great White Volkswagon Van I had rented in Swanton for this gig.  From behind us I heard:  “Just a minute, sir.  Just a minute!”  I didn’t look back, but my attorney did and said:  “What the fuck now?  Do we have to pay a fee to get out of here?!”



This geeky 20-something kid came up to us holding out something in his hand.  I swear to God, he was wearing a pocket protector and a big button that said: ‘THE FORGOTTEN PERCENT’.  I reached for the pepper spray in my jacket.  “Sir, I think you dropped this,” he said, holding out the little vial of SMILES I had bought off the son of the Liberty Union candidate for Vermont High Bailiff last week at the Kale Vigil in Montpelier.  



“Thanks,” I said to the geeky kid.  “That’s my allergy medicine, kid.  I really need that.  Otherwise I break out in these big scabs that do blood splatter.  Thanks.”  And I grabbed the vial, and the kid took off like he had tickets for The Rapture.  

I got my attorney moving again and I nodded to the RAGING GRANNIES FOR OBAMA AND THE ABOLITION OF NUCLEAR WEAPONS protesting group as we crossed to the Great White Van.  I still had to find out where the MITT 400 was starting.  I had to write a thousand words and get pics of the dogs flying off the SUVs.  I had no fucking idea where we should go.  And I needed a drink.  Really bad.  All I had besides the SMILES was this crappy pot some fucker from Walden who said he was an activist overcharged me for.  In Vermont, EVERYBODY is a goddamn activist.  But Walden I know about.  Walden is where all the activist lepers live.  The crappy pot they grow helps them with their incontinence.



“Let’s go to Charlie Os,” I told my attorney, starting up the van.  “I need to think things through over three or four scotches.  Or martinis, or whatever.”

“As your attorney, I advise you to make that five or SIX scotches,” he answered.  “And you can buy me the same.  I’ll deduct it from your bill.  But, as always, I won’t put it on your invoice.  IRS will never know.  Nor the Catholic Church.  Drive like the wind.”

And that’s what I did.  It was turning out to be another one of those days in Vermont.  Mitt Romney being here didn’t mean shit.  In Vermont, on any given day, you can run into all kinds of weird ass stuff that would wind up in the NATIONAL ENQUIRER if they had a correspondent here.  Maybe they do.  Maybe that’s who it was at the Dowsers Convention in Danville asking around about whether it was true or not that the dowsers secretly fund the CIA because the dowsers make out in Vegas and for all the big sports events.  Could be.  Hell, in Vermont we’ve got everything but Voodoo.  I think.  Never mind.  Maybe what I should do is join one of those Support Groups and then run for office myself.

“What the fuck’s the matter with you?!”  my Polish attorney bleated.  “You’re all over the fucking road!”

“I was just thinking…”

“As your attorney, I advise you not to think.  That will become a felony offense next year, if that asshole whose fucking event you dragged me to gets elected.  I can do freedom of speech, but freedom of thought is going to be a bastard.  I may have to go back to school.  I’ll have to raise your rates.  Hand me the SMILES.”



“Oh no,” I told him.  “You’ve got enough acid in you now.  You do this SMILES shit and you’ll be a complete raving lunatic in Charlie Os.  Remember that time when that 70 year-old woman beat you at pool, and what you said to her?”

“She liked it,” my attorney replied.  “She used to be in the Tea Party, but now she works for Bernie Sanders.  I hear she writes all his speeches now.  But she cheats at pool.  He’ll have to watch out for her.  She’ll wind up getting him into a fight.  Maybe with knives.  Are we there yet?  Whoa, what the hell is this shit?!”



It was three leaf-peeper buses blocking State Street in Montpelier, and a whole lot of old people in the street and on the sidewalks.  They had these big tags on their backs that read: ‘BLIND BOWLERS FROM BAYONNE’.  I told you about Vermont.  And it wasn’t even three o’clock yet.

Peter Buknatski

Montpelier, Vt.