Several days after Mitt Romney romped in the Illinois Primary, Rick Santorum came back with a major win in Louisiana. The outcome was not close. It was a Santorum shellacking of the others.
Santorum finished with 49% of the vote, far ahead of Romney at 27%. Newt Gingrich won 16% of the vote.
20 delegates were at stake. Louisiana has 46 delegates, but the other 26 will be chosen at their state GOP Convention in June.
Ron Paul, whose supporters claim either victory or fraud after every contest, was supported by everyone except 94% of the Louisiana electorate. His supporters insist he is pursuing a delegate strategy. His 6% of the vote earned him 0 delegates. He has still won absolutely nothing.
As for Mr. Santorum, he still has an uphill battle. Mr. Romney has a wide delegate lead, and there are no contests until April 3rd. Maryland, DC, and Wisconsin are all expected to be friendly territory for Mr. Romney. Mr. Santorum is winning frequently in the Southern states, but so far that has not been enough.
Yet more important than the results of the primary comes a sad announcement and an apology.
My attempt to monitor the candidates in Louisiana failed, and for that I apologize.
From South Beach, Florida, to Las Vegas, Nevada, to Honolulu, Hawaii, I have been monitoring the GOP candidates ahead of those primaries and caucuses. I managed to inspect virtually every nightclub and restaurant bar to make sure the candidates were not there.
Due to concerns that they might try to sneak back to Miami Beach for Spring Break, I took an emergency return trip there as a precaution. As I have repeatedly stated, I owe it to America to make sure that none of the candidates are caught in any hot tubs with college coeds.
Due to my research and investigative affairs in Miami, I was unable to fly to New Orleans in time to do a complete sweep of the Big Easy.
If Mitt Romney, who claims he does not drink alcohol, was downing a Hurricane at Patty O’Briens, I have no proof of this.
If Rick Santorum, who comes across as a religious family man, was caught after dark hanging out in Wet Willie’s, I lack the evidence to present this.
If Newt Gingrich, who insists he has the best oil plan in the nation, was in Fat Tuesday’s with Governor Bobby Jindal drunk out of their minds while chanting “I’ve got a hole you can plug, BP,” nobody will ever know.
If Ron Paul, who is the libertarian king of hookers and stoners everywhere, was hanging out with the finest call girls on Bourbon Street with a beer in one hand and a bong in the other, the world will never see this septagenarian party down.
I can’t be everywhere. There is only one of me. I cannot be on Bourbon Street and in South Beach at the same time. I thought I could, but the recent experiment with light and neutrinos failed. Sometimes hard choices have to be made. Compared to Miami, there are not enough Latina women in Louisiana running beverage cans across their necks while going “Ayyyyy, Poppeeee,” and other pleasant phrases with multiple meanings.
To make matters worse, the upcoming contests are not even worth investigating from a social journalism standpoint. I may put the social in social media, but every single person in Wisconsin is Caucasian. The only immigrants are Canadians, who are even more boring. There is not a single person anywhere in Wisconsin doing anything worth talking about until the Packers kick off again in September.
Maryland and DC are barely more exciting.
So while I apologize for failing to adequately cover the pre and post Mardi Gras festivities leading up to the Louisiana Primary, I am even more sorry that the GOP presidential race is over from a fun standpoint.
South Beach, Waikiki, and Vegas are over. Bourbon Street is done. Does anybody think covering Quakers in Pennsylvania has the same allure? The Amish have not had a decent party since Randy Quaid tried to punch out Bill Murray in “Kingpin.” Sorry to offend the Quakers and the Amish. They are good people. They just are not known for partying.
No wonder the media is bored with the race. They are finally finding out what already know. The last chance for a really hot, spicy story ended without incident in Louisiana.
Would it have killed Ron Paul to go up to some drunken girls On Bourbon Street this past Saturday and asked them, “Is that a giant crawfish in my pants or am I just happy to see you?”
Knowing him, he probably would have called them knickers or trousers, killing the moment.