The Romney wars continue.

Marisha here. Well, what to say. Things are taking a sort of rough turn here at Sherman's place.

I actually had to physically kick the Romney brothers out of Sherman's house where they were staying. I haven't heard from Sherman in Ireland since last Thursday, and can't seem to get ahold of him. The Romneys were out of control, and someone had to do something. Cleaning the bathrooms and blaring the Killers 24/7 was bad, but it got worse when they started rifling through Sherman's personal belongings. I came in to check up on them Sunday night, and they had removed all of the coffee, tea and alcohol out of the kitchen and were pouring it down a storm drain the backyard, and even worse, removing all the of the books from the living room they found offensive.

"Look at this," yelled Biff (or Jake, or Jeff, or whichever one it was) at me, waving a copy of Kimball Burin's account of his 1973 Senate campaign Slaughter of the Innocents in my face. "This filth! You people actually elected this guy to public office? He's a socialist! This is the kind of trash my dad is going to clean up when he's elected President!"

They were removing handfuls of books and DVDs and taking them out to the curb. They had actually stripped the top layer of porcelain off of the bathtub because they were scrubbing it so vigorously. One of them -- I think Skip Romney -- had actually gone to the Home Depot in Seabridge and had purchased a posthole digger, a bunch of lumber and whitewash, intending to build a white picket fence in Sherman's yard.

And the Killers. Looping. Looping. Looping...

I told them it was time for them to get the hell out, that Sherman hadn't invited them anyway, and they could go stay with Reeves Sinderman in his suburban McMansion.

Biff (or Alex, or Eric, or whoever) accused me of being an unclean foul-mouthed Jezebel.

But those Romney boys are a polite bunch, if nothing else, and shuffled out the door back into their SUVs and drove off. I left a message with Megan Van Deest, Reeves Sinderman's assistant, that I had sent the Romneys off, and they were her problem now. She called me a lesbian. It turns out the Romneys called their dad, and Mitt flew them back to Massachusetts that night.

I wish that I could have gotten Sherman's OK on this, since it's his house, but I haven't heard from him. He seems to be off the grid. I have no idea where he could be in Ireland that would put him out of touch for so long, but I hope to hear from him soon.

All the news vans that were covering unlicensed non-Muslim cleric the Ayatollah Martin Wisniewski's funeral in Little Warsaw have now sped across the neighborhood, and are camped outside, covering what the right-wing blogs have taken to calling "the Mitt-Sherman blood feud." I've heard that Mitt Romney is preparing a statement about how his poor boys were treated here in Armitage Heights.

"Poor boys." Really. I don't care how handsome and cleancut those "boys" are: you don't invite yourself into someone's house without their permission, set up an operations headquarters, use their phones to raise money to combat gay marriage and socialized medicine on behalf of your rich handsome dad, clean people's bathrooms, toss out their caffeinated drinks, blare crappy Mormon rock groups on their stereos, construct white picket fences in their backyard for photo-ops, and throw their 1970s-era New Journalism anthologies out onto the streets because you don't like them. If thinking that makes me a lesbian, than I guess that's what I am.

I am going to sleep now.