The 2016 Republican primary started off promisingly, like a singles bar full of intriguing prospects on a hot summer Friday night.
Sure there were some human grenades littered around the place, like the tall and thin religious zealot at the corner table who shared a pitcher of cranberry juice with the short and fat religious zealot. But for every Santorum and Huckabee there were some genuinely attractive people there, like the oddly compelling weirdo from Wisconsin who droned on about the evils of organized labor while holding a warming, unsipped bottle of Leinenkugels. Or the Californian at the end of the bar who kept telling the bartender that getting fired is the best way to prove success.
There was even a moment when Wall Street Republicans thought about flirting with the curvy piece from New Jersey sitting in the window, but that seemed a little dangerous considering all the simultaneous yelling and eating.
And then there were the two arguing under the TV. The blond with the New York accent and crazy hair was getting a lot of attention from everyone, but it seemed to be, like, a weird kind of attention. The mumbling surgeon kept some distance from the blond but was also clearly reveling in the thrill of the night despite seeming more than a little bit sleepy. Then again, Wall Street was pretty sure the surgeon keep muttering about "What's inside Muslim women."
At one point, Wall Street was having a very promising chat with a verbose Ohioan but then there was a strange moment of recognition and the phrase "Wait, do you know my friend? Dick Fuld?" was uttered.
As the night wore on, Wall Street got genuinely excited talking to the Floridian with family money and easygoing personality who just needed a cup of coffee and maybe some financial help. It seemed like Wall Street was going to get lucky.
But then everything got really weird really fast. The bar seemed to get a little quieter and a little emptier. Scott Walker went silent, chugged his beer and snuck out through the back door without really saying goodbye. Carly Fiorina's protests about getting fired being awesome lost their luster. Chris Christie got escorted out by the bouncer for being mean and "shouty."
Under the TV, Trump and Carson ratcheted up the rhetoric to 11 and started telling everyone in the place that Wall Street was a greedy, tax-dodging asshole, making things really awkward.
And then, almost inexplicably, JEB!'s cute personality faded as he drifted off to sleep while leaning on the bar. The moment got even more uncomfortable when the bartender made it clear to Wall Street that Jeb had mentioned he might not be able to pay his tab before he passed out.
So, there it was. With the evening slipping away, Wall Street suddenly found itself facing the notion of a night spent alone.
Surveying the social carnage on the way to the door, Wall Street began to wonder if this was really its scene any more anyway. Perhaps the night hadn't been as promising at it had originally thought. This place used to host a higher class of characters, like that stiff yet presentable Mormon who always bought the room a round and then jokingly admonished everyone for taking a handout. Wall Street wondered where that Mormon was tonight.
Maybe Wall Street would try that Democrat bar on the East Side. Last time Wall Street had gone in there, the patrons wouldn't shut up about Glass-Steagall, something that Wall Street immediately realized they didn't really understand. Then again, the whole place had smelled like a bong.
Its hand on the door handle and its soul filled with dejection and self-reproach, Wall Street suddenly felt a tap on its shoulder. It turned around to see another Floridian standing there, this one younger and...still awake.
"Hi," he said. "I'm Marco and I think you're awesome. Want to buy me a water? I'm parched."
F#ck it, thought Wall Street.
"Sure, Marco. Why not?"