If you’re like me (of course you’re not, darling, that’s just a figure of speech) when you sometimes watch Mitt Romney droning on about some damn thing or other he just made up, you can’t help but wonder what exactly is under all that expensive, badly cut suiting.

And does he dress right?

(There will be a prize for the Stinquer who knows what that means. No google.)

Look closely, children. One of these things is the totally awesome new MacBook Pro with bitchin’ Retina Display. The other is not.

Can you tell the difference?

In our never-ending quest to find something to put on the iPad that will amuse the cat we came up with this: something quite mesmerizing.

I strongly recommend you download the hi-def version and watch that.

The first Stinquer who can tell me why I chose this particular picture to accompany this post wins a romantic weekend with noje to experience the Bakersfield Birkenstock Music Festival: Socks Optional! Two days, and nights, of fun and adventure at the glamorous Days Inn.

(No friends or relatives of Stinque or Disney may enter.)

Playgoers like to feel that they care about the world and their place in it.

They like to feel that they are on the side of the angels.

Some years ago there was an unaccountable fashion for the plays of Athol Fugard. A fine writer whose sudden popularity on Broadway was puzzling till one turned one’s gaze from the stage to look at the audience. There they were. Well-dressed New Yorkers deploring the horrors of apartheid without having to actually do anything about it. They’d bought a ticket which proved they cared so they could ignore with a clear conscience the racism that waited outside the theatre. It got so bad that Mr. Fugard refused to write any more on the subject. He felt that he was becoming part of the problem as his work merely exploited the suffering of others, making him rich at their expense. Which, it seems to me, is precisely what Mr. Daisey has done.

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If there’s one thing I like it’s a nice song.

Fortunately, this is not a nice song.

Today, to kick off his swing through the South, the Romney panderbot made his appeal for the crucial Limey vote.

“Cor, stone the crows!” he was hear to opine at Heathrow’s dreaded Terminal One, “the trouble ‘n’ me are here to express our deep affection for all things English.

Not many people know it but my middle name is Nigel. If there’s one thing Ann (with an e) and I like it’s a nice plate of bangers ‘n’ mash. Crikey, them’s good eatin’, y’all. As a huntsman myself, I have a hankerin’ for varmints. Small varmints, if you will. Where was I?

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I know. We’re all exhausted from the froth spurting out of our TVs like an avalanche of fecal matter and cheap aftershave.

We thought it couldn’t get any worse.

But it has.