Dear Mitt Romney,

Fuck you.

Fuck you, fuck your Magic Mormon temple garment, and - never mind. Just fuck you.

You were down in Tampa yesterday, and the ripple you sent through the dark side of the Force kept my teeth aching the entire time you were here. Now you're gone, but like a sour beer fart, your evil essence lingers on.

You took a chair at a coffee shop and had a chat with a group of unemployed people. After listening to their plight and their stories, you decided to stick your oar in, and joked that you were unemployed as well. I'm reasonably certain that the jobless at the table laughed along out of politeness.

I would not have been polite.

Mitt, you made your fortune by doing leveraged buyouts that savaged companies and threw hard-working men and women out of work and onto the very same social safety net you and your fellow beauty pageant contestants are seeking to destroy.

You joked you are unemployed. You're rich, you asshole - you can easily afford to take a few years off and loll about in the sunshine while you think of new ways to divert yourself. How many houses do you have? Is it true you'd sell your wife to a Port Said pimp if it'd net you a profit?

Your father was an evil bastard, Mitt. During the 1969 Inaugural, crowds chanted "Romney eats shit! Romney eats shit!" as his limo rolled past. Nice to see that Evil Bastardy runs in your family - I shudder to think how your sons will eventually turn out.

I wasn't going to vote for you anyway, Mittens, but I hope that the primary process makes you feel some empathy with the dog you had on the roof of your car.

Just my two cents.