"Mitt, you hear about these $5000 stop signs?" asks Paul. He raises his arms over his head and washes the last of the shampoo from his tightly bunched nest of black curls. Romney smiles at the way Paul twists in the steamy shower, subtly flashing his armpits to Mitt like his arms were radar arrays and his smooth clefts were reflecting Mitt's innermost thoughts back at the man while he scrapes suds from his naked body with his open hand.

"Did I? Talk about parasites! First we have to remind them to avoid ramming their cars together at high speed, but now we're footing the bill? It's insane!" says Mitt. His eyes paw Paul's younger body appreciatively through the misty haze only to reject the metaphor as if the word "paw" might suddenly summon Tim Pawlenty and make their mutual man showering all awkward.

"Seriously! It's like Ayn Rand writ large!" says Ryan. His abs steam. They were once awesome, back when he was piloting a meat filled wagon through the underbelly of Wisconsin, which, when it's described, can take no modifier other than the cliche of "soft". Now his abs are mere reminders of how a pack of sausages can go to field when left unattended. They're topped by twin breasts ringed with weird man fur that seems to shake like frantic pom poms whenever anyone mentions Ayn Rand.

He turns and presents his backside to Romney, seemingly uneasy that the man behind him is washing his totem savagely like Romney's hand were made of Silly Putty and his prick were printed with words from Atlas Shrugged.

"Are you really sure Clinton and Gore took showers together...?" asks Ryan but Romney's only answer is a sigh and strained grunt as he pours his chances at the presidency down the soap stained drain at the sound of Ayn Rand's name.