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A sad woman can't escape the confines of her hut. Oh, she can leave, but it's not like there aren't more huts outside. She's from Hawaii and she used to know Obama and his third cousin, of course, Romney, although Romney never visited.

It was a bungalow really which is a word with such connotations as "bung," "dung," and "low," from a homo-phonic standpoint.

The worst part was how heavy all her clothes were that summer. They were drab, and dull, and full of awful gravity. She couldn't afford new ones. It was sad. She was a sad woman, after all.

Then, a magical man, who may or may not have been Obama's third cousin Romney, in full hipster regalia, arrived and mentioned also that his underwear may be magical. The sad woman wondered, is my underwear not magical? And of course mystery-Romney knew what she was thinking, being magical, and said,

"No, dear. Your underwear is not magical."

And from the sky fell a wardrobe. Not a wooden rickety one, which would have been smashed by the fall. But an entire set of hipster magic attire, like skirts and stockings, and especially underwear, and especially hats, remarkably.

She wondered aloud because she had not realized that Romney could read her mind. She said, "Are these mine?"

And they weren't. They were the Gods'.

"Romney?"

Romney had disappeared, leaving behind a note which was floating to the ground very slowly. The note said,

"May you flip the dimensions with this full set of magic hipster gear,

and may your bungalow not be so bongy, bungy, dungy, and low.

The collars will fill the skies with the reflections of the gods, my dear,

And the pumps will, should I be elected over him, set your walls aglow."