You sons of bitches, I work hard every day. I work hard polishing cars in Señor Romney's garage, sweeping floor, rotating tires. I rotate the tires of every car in the garage every day, on Señor Romney's orders. And what I wanna know is: Why you wanna make more work for Ricardo Ortiz by voting for Barack Obama? I was looking at four, maybe eight, years where Señor Romney was gonna be El Presidente out in Washington, DC, coming back to La Jolla one, maybe two, times a year. There was gonna be peace and quiet for me.

Now, Señor Romney is here all the time, and he needs all his cars all the time. "Ramon," he says. "It's such a gorgeous day, I think I'll take the Benz out to Boston Market for lunch." Down comes the Benz, up goes the Ferrari. Then he comes back, and he says to me, "Garcia, could you bring down the minivan? Ann says it's time for a Costco run." Up goes the Benz, down comes the Toyota Sienna. And sometimes, Señor Romney, he just sits in the backseat of the Buick and says, "Give me a ride on the elevator, Julio. One more time." And up and down, up and down, up and down we go, and Señor Romney, he just sits there in the backseat and he just sobs and sobs until he falls asleep. You sons of bitches. recommended