As rare and mythical as the unicorn, it too cavorts amongst the clouds with double rainbows birthing from its unfathomable depths. But instead of worshipful 12 year- old girls, it is conservative politicians who tack drawings of this inamorata on walls above their beds. We're talking about the legendary... Mainstream.

The message is relatively straightforward. Inside the Mainstream, you will rub elbows with everything that is good and right and true and just about America. Families have 2.4 children, none of whom sport barbed wire piercings or dragon neck tattoos or ever talk smack back. Lawns are broad and green and crabgrass free. And children are cheerfully shuttled to school in orderly processions of grey and beige Minivans. The place to be.

Outside the Mainstream, red turbo hybrids prowl discordantly with hip hop infused rock and roll blasting from after market Korean stereo systems. Uncomfortable shoe choices are flaunted by pregnant teenage girls, while Steve Jobs' subversive acolytes encourage impressionable minds to "think differently," actively disrupting the carefully nurtured herd mentality. The place to flee.

Dedication to Mainstream purity extends to within the holy liquid circle as well. Newton Leroy Gingrich castigated Ron Paul for being "totally outside the Mainstream of every decent American." And Ron Paul is a medical doctor. Apparently the Coast Guard patrolling the Mainstream is ever vigilant.

Then Willard Mitt Romney went and said pretty much exactly the same thing about Newt, which must mean he considers poor Dr. Paul dying of thirst two counties away in some desert of his own moistureless making. And President Obama? Forget about it. He can't even see the hint of a whisper of a shadow of dampness due to the curvature of the earth.

The obvious intention of Team Romney is to plant Mitt in the soft squishy loam as the sole candidate an ordinary person could expect to meet up with in the middle of the flood plains of normalcy. Preserving the Mainstream as a very exclusive territory. A restricted tributary complete with velvet rope and a couple of hulking bouncers protecting it from the dinghies of the hoi polloi. Sort of a watery gated community. Behind which the Governor seems plenty comfortable.

Only proper God- fearing decent Americans are allowed to soak in the aqueous chestnut that is the Mainstream. The rest of us boundary crossing reprobates are prohibited from enjoying the divine waters and directed to spend summer afternoons splashing each other in shallow muddy puddles.

Of course, even to those who can afford the initiation fee, recent responses from Republican debate audiences indicate that voyaging down the Mainstream is a very expensive way to travel. Exacting heavy- duty psychic dues.

First, crowds booed a gay soldier, then cheered the death of an unfortunate who couldn't afford health insurance, and finally leapt to their feet to applaud one of the grandstanding creekside tide surfers who ridiculed food stamp recipients.

If loss of your moral compass is a necessary qualification for luxuriating in the surging current of the Mainstream, more than a few of us will be happy to view the entire proceedings lounging high on the embankment. Besides, we have better picnic spreads.

And for those who do decide to soak in the narrow- minded current, you might want to invest in a heated wetsuit because that menacing red tide torrent of the Mainstream looks to be mighty cold.

WHAT YOU NEED TO PLAY:

• 4 taxpayers: 1 white Wall Street type in full suit and yellow power tie, (MBA Guy) 2 ordinary folks sporting jeans, 1 in blue work shirt, other in white shirt, (the Jeans) and 1 person wearing clothes that look like they were used for floor covering at a tire changing shop for a minimum of three months. Belt, shoelaces, socks and underwear confiscated. (Rags) Except for MBA Guy, game is non-gender or race specific.
• 1 large screen HDTV tuned to speech. 42” or larger. Game played behind coffee table 3’ away.
• 1 regulation shot glass per person. Everybody brings own, placing it on coffee table. MBA Guy gets first choice among assembled. White shirt picks next, then blue shirt. MBA Guy takes last shot glass as well, and Rags either rents it from him, finds a replacement or drinks out of own cupped hands. Everybody antes up 20 bucks. Cash. Except MBA Guy, who tosses in hand made voucher. Preferably crayon.
• 2 packages Lit’l Smokies in bowl with favorite BBQ sauce.
• 1 package round toothpicks.
• 1 bottle small batch Kentucky bourbon.
• 2 six packs beer apiece. Rags gets whatever is on sale, ie; Heileman’s Old Style Ice Dry Light. MBA Guy gets choice of import. The Jeans get domestic, and must go to store to purchase and carry provisions.

RULES OF THE GAME.

1. As soon as President says State of the Union is good, but could be better, last person to eat three Lit’l Smokies on toothpicks has to drink 3 shots of beer.
2. Every time Barack H Obama says “compromise,” first person to stop laughing is exempt from drinking 2 shot glasses of beer.
3. If either Vice President Biden or House Speaker Boehner gets caught napping on camera, last person to sing “Wake Up, Little Susie” drinks 4 shots of beer.
4. Whenever Mister Obama says word “jobs”, everybody drinks shot of beer. If he hits 10, throw used toothpicks at TV and first to stick one within outline of his face doesn’t have to drink 2 shots of bourbon.
5. If Chief Executive winks and/ or points at Michelle, all four players blow kisses. Drink shot of beer for every general’s star sitting within two seats of First Lady.
6. When Obama speaks about sacrifices made by our brave troops, last one to leap to attention and salute must drink shots of beer for entire duration of standing ovation.
7. Every time Barack uses phrase “offshore banking accounts,” clasp a Lit’l Smokie between the teeth and swordfight others. Losers drink 3 shots of beer and eat sausages. Winner can spit his out.
8. Whenever Obama makes reference to faith getting him through tough times, last person to fall to knees and shout “Hallelujah!” drinks shot of bourbon.
9. If President relates touching heartfelt story of somebody denied health care, Rags gets to kick everybody else once. Twice, if subject of anecdote is in audience. Three times, if he/ she is sitting next to astronaut.
10. When Barack H Obama mentions bipartisanship, last person to pretend to faint drinks 3 shots of beer.

EXTRAS:

• Before speech, everyone writes down who they think is giving Republican Response. Anybody who correctly identifies person doesn’t have to watch.
• MBA Guy takes home all the money and the Jeans pay off voucher..
• Leftover bourbon, beer and Lit’l Smokies go home with Rags after he/ she washes dishes and front of TV.

Surely you’re longing to hear some scathingly humorous remarks concerning the New Hampshire Primary. And it would be our honor to relate a few pithily amusing jibes about 2012’s primary Primary. Only, sorry. Not going to happen. Can’t be done. NH is so… over and done with. Day before yesterday. Such archaic news, you probably read about it in some ancient medium like a broadsheet gazette with sepia toned daguerreotypes.

Oh sure, in the distant future, historians may well remark upon Willard Mitt Romney’s romp. And what a righteous romp it was. With the grimacing refugee from Madame Tussaud’s Wax Works avenging his 2008 defeat to John McCain by beating the rest of the field like a 4 year old with a dime store drum on Christmas morning to become the first Republican non- incumbent to sweep both the Iowa Caucuses and the New Hampshire primary. And that plus 2 and a half bucks gets you a cup of coffee.

Alas, the political circus has long since moved on. Some of the camps were gone pre-already. Didn’t even bother to hang around Manchester for the actual count and amount, so intent were they to seek their second wind in the warmth of the southern embrace primary action in South Carolina on the 21st and Florida 10 days later.

Hustling down, over their shoulders, the back of the pack halfheartedly tried to dismiss the former Massachusetts Governor’s triumph in the Granite State as a “Isn’t it Nice to See the Boy Next Door Doing so Well” kind of neighborly thing. But that proved a minor distraction and everyone knows the stakes for the final Anybody But Mitt tent need to pitched now. Today. If not sooner. Deep into the fertile soil of the Palmetto State.

This Southern Fried Maginot Line is the last best chance to jump on the Mittmeister and the whole B- Team is lacing up their steel- toed boots and pounding nails into their soles as we speak. South Carolina is where Bush derailed McCain in 2000: and to say the above the belt tactics were outnumbered by those below the belt is both accurate and lame.

To buttress his own personal Alamo, Newt Gingrich picked up 5 million dollars from a single donor, to be funneled directly into ads to do to Romney what Romney did to him in Iowa. Cover your eyes kids: this won’t be pretty. The guy who famously bragged, “I like to fire people,” Mr. Bain Capital, is about to bump up against an entire slate of candidates not to mention a state, that feels the same way.

Not Newt himself, but Newt’s Super PAC which has absolutely no connection to Newt. None. Whatsoever. At all. Totally separate entity. Super PAC. Such a guy thing. “My Super PAC is bigger than your Super PAC.” Super PAC envy. And the candidate with the biggest Super PAC gets the girl.

Rick Perry has joined Gingrich in running a series of grisly ads assailing the front- runner as a vulture capitalist; guaranteed to rile Willard up so bad his talons will be itching for more carrion. And no, I’m not talking about Rick Santorum. The ads are so vicious that if the Barack Obama Re- election Campaign possessed an ounce of common human decency, they’d chip in a couple bucks. Then again, maybe they are.