The Prince is ready to eat his words, preferably slow braised, impeccably seasoned, and drizzled with truffle oil.

I started writing this blog on the premise that, in one context or another, the words “Rick Perry” would be a part of the national conversation through election day 2012. Forty four days later, he’s fast becoming candidate zero as Republicans of all stripes visualize this marquee title: “How I learned to stop worrying and love Mitt Romney”. Of course there’s still talk of another man on horseback (Sancho Panza? Bush 45) appearing to unite that persistently unsettled majority seeking anyone but Mittens, isn’t that……kind of where the Perrylicious buzz was four months ago? On the plus side, one thing the GOP wouldn’t ever have to worry about is Chris Christie making someone’s embarrassing RILF list.

Not that I think my boy’s ready to bow out gracefully just because Brit Hume said he threw up all over himself last Thursday or Alec Baldwin spoofed him on SNL (Alec’s probably hoping Christie gets in). There’s bound to be a few good punches or a Rovesque whispering campaign coming sooner than later.

In case you decide it’s all over, don’t forget, Rick, you still have a job, and who knows that the Bilderberg sages wouldn’t give you a nod again in 2016. Alex Jones would love keepng his job too.

All of this has me reimagining the classic scene from “On the Waterfront” with Rick and The Donald as Brando and Steiger.

Perry: It wasn’t him, Donald, it was you. Remember that night in the Garden you came down to my dressing room and you said, “Kid, this ain’t your night. We’re going for the price on Romney.” You remember that? “This ain’t your night”! My night! I coulda taken Romney apart! So what happens? He gets the title shot outdoors on the ballpark and what do I get? A one-way ticket to Palooka-ville!
Trump: Oh I had some bets down for you. You saw some money.
Perry: You don’t understand. I coulda had class. I coulda been a contender. I coulda been somebody, instead of a bum, which is what I am

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