Mitt Romney would approve of the current business meme:  When management executives decide to stage a feeding frenzy on a company's wealth, ala Bain, it's best to chum the waters first, letting everyone know it's really someone else's fault.  Labor unions, say.

If you look hard enough, in fact, you'll eventually see that labor unions are the cause of global climate change, Hurricane Sandy, the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, the Dubya- and Reagan-era federal deficit spending sprees, rising gas prices, Fukushima, fracking, the BP disaster in the Gulf, unhelpful phases of the moon...

No, the latest bit of mind-altering news isn't coming from the states of Colorado and Washington where marijuana's just been given a thumbs-up by the population -- it's coming straight from the Hostess Financial Fabrication Factory, with management at the controls, running the Golden Story Machine full blast.

Hostess, of course, is in another round of financial straits.  Management moans once again it's simply unable to weather a strike by union bakers.

President Obama wasn't really born in Kenya after all.  That was just a little good-natured political ruse, for the election, that was all.  See, Obama was actually born on Venus.

OK, well, maybe Neptune, at the outside.  But it's definitely down to one of those, right there.

Plus, you know what?  Obama eats cloned stem cells for breakfast!  By the end of this year, it'll be no more bacon-and-eggs for the rest of us -- you mark my words.  He'll have us all eating the same glop, and maybe fetuses, too.  Then, right after, we'll have to march around every day in socialist parades for an hour or two, singing about how much we love Chairman Marx and Comrade Obama.

And guess what -- that's not all!  They're putting LSD in the drinking water -- even the bottled stuff -- to keep us woozy, helpless, and off balance, for when the spacecraft land and Obama sells off all the people to the aliens the way we buy and sell cows!

I even seen them building holding pens for us, and some kind of factory, just over the ridge, on the other side of the tree line.  I'm telling you that Soylent Green movie was no movie -- it's a preview of what's going to be, only that's not even half the story.

We're all going to be sold like some sort of hashed-up, mashed-up cat food to the baby-eating, outer-space liberals from Obama's home planet!  You wait and see!  You wait and see!

You just can't get good help anymore.  This seems glaringly true for a number of bad apples hogging the news spotlights these days.  They all need new advisors, as a basic start.

While these lot-spoiling apples are only a minority percentage of state residents, businesspeople, and total politicians in the country, these small groups always hook the Klieg lights and attention their way.  This is usually while they're busy demonstrating one of their strongest assets and skills, being -- to use a (shudder) Grover Norquistian phrase -- poopy heads.

For a limited time, folks, I'm prepared to offer you a real sweetheart deal:  excellent advice at no out-of-pocket cost.  Yes, I am putting my own personal empire of legal wunderkinder and public relations manipulators at your disposal, free of cost.  If you like, I can also have this advice placed on letterhead for you later, as both a reminder and souvenir of the day you got the best deal you ever had.

For you delusional secessionist residents in all 50 states...  for you pinheaded emperors (male only, so far) of American business... and for all you Republican politicians (the GOP being 99.8% of the challenged group), my global firm of Floutet, Flauntet & Flamette hereby bestows upon your very sorry butts the following advice:

Keep your damn lips buttoned.

Pretty much Standard Operating Procedure these days:  When bad things happen, have your legal and PR staff closely question and challenge the Point of View of accusers, while working every Catch-22 connection and boondoggle in stock, trusting complaints will crash in on themselves from sheer confusion, crosswinds, and weight.

Once the status quo has been maintained and Situation Normal (All Fouled Up) has been re-instituted, one can then declare victory and divvy out promotions and bonuses, taking a year off with full pay and benefits.

This formula works right across the tragedy board, and throughout the entire spectrum of mass mayhem people usually encounter:  any banking, all politics, business in general, you name it.

All areas of human endeavor eventually go south;  when they do, it's important to have a standard game plan already in place to dodge blame and lay a solid foundation of Doubt and Delay -- two of the best friends any industry or enterprise has ever had.

BP has emerged a masterful maestro, working both of these with ongoing masterstrokes.

Sometimes we make it a lot harder on ourselves than we have to.  This is where the acronym KISS comes in handy -- Keep It Sane and Simple.

There are other variations on that acronymic theme, of course.  Many of them even contain no rough language whatever, surprisingly, when referring to our stalwart national stewards, aka members of Congress.

The point, although it seems especially prone to idly wandering away today, is easy enough to re-grasp:  Sometimes the answers for our most difficult challenges and problems are right in front of us, jumping up and down, waving like mad, trying to be seen and heard.

(Of course, not everyone looks at the world as I do.  To actually look at the world as I do, first, twist your facial expression into a combination wince and grimace, with a baleful half-smile.  Then, pop open your eyes wide as they'll go, with wrinkled eyebrows, as if in comedic horror.  Finally, place your hands theatrically staggered in front of your face, as if trying you were trying to stop a volley of catapulted pillows, or an oncoming train.)

Whoops.  Digressing again.  My apologies.  I will endeavor to... Sorry -- I'll keep it simple, from here on out.

The loose chatter of Romneysiacs is idling upward, as the gabblers feel their Wheaties, and are feeling especially well-armed with a bad case of Sore Loseritis, made worse by the brain-disengaging disease, Secessionist Fevers, aka Separation Anxieties.

In a word, give or take some Romney-voting states, the Old South wants O-U-T.

My first impulse is to be just as reckless in return, suggesting that all ten states, and all 100,000 petitioners in this idiot cause, be given a small, hyphenated phrase in blunt reply.  (No, I was not thinking of a biological impossibility, but that would be a most excellent guess.)  I was in fact thinking of this one:  Buh-bye.

You know, as in:  Don't let the screen door slap you in the ass on your way out, you bozos.

Texas -- who woulda guessed? -- has taken the lead once again, this perennial secessionist rose amongst all the states.  The petition from Texas has 25,000 ticked-off, sore-loser, Romneybot, racist Teabaggers fuming and steaming around in circles, back and forth, kicking any slow-moving small animals that accidentally get in their het-up way.