Newt Finally Crushes His Solo Cup and Leaves the Kegger.

When you were younger, did your mom or dad ever bark out, just before you left the house for the evening, "Just remember, nothing good ever happens after midnight!"?

Depending on how you define the word, "good," I've grown to believe it's a fairly accurate statement. And in the case of Newt Gingrich's presidential foray, it's now so long after midnight that the birds are chirping and the paper boy only has half his route left.

Yes, Newt is the guy, that guy we've all known, who stayed too long at the party.

During his year-long foray in pursuit of our nation's highest office, Gingrich wallowed in irrelevancy for half of it. Despite a primary win in his native Georgia as well as a victory by a wiry, silver back hair in South Carolina, Gingrich hasn't held a polling lead since 2011.

Okay, and that was back when frontrunners rotated in and out of public favor like toothless skanks to Ted Nugent's dressing room at an NRA convention.

Since then, Newt has whored himself out to a sugar daddy casino mogul whose super PAC kept our fuzzy Muppet stocked with enough Sugar Free Red  Bull and mutton jerky to sustain Callista and him through those all-night steel horse rides. Yet he's still managed to rack up six hundred thousand dollars in debt, plus a forty-thousand dollar per day Secret Service tab at our expense.

And we all know those Secret Service guys have better things to do.

But alas, Newt has decided it's time to fish his car keys out of the bowl and leave the party. The floor is sticky, the keg is empty and the hosts have been yawning since around 1:30. They thought that putting the remaining pigs in a blanket into freezer bags might have signified a strong enough hint, but Newt stayed.

Rick Santorum left a couple of hours ago. He and Michele Bachmann's husband, Marcus, had to be somewhere to lay hands on a guy and speak in tongues to cure him of his gayness.

Michele puked after accidentally taking a huge drink from a Solo cup filled with Rick Perry's chew spit, but old dependable Herman was there, as usual, to give her a ride home.

Perry went out for another can of Copenhagen but couldn't remember how to get back.

Sitting in his van in the driveway, Ron Paul never did make it into the house, which left Gingrich alone in the living room with no one to talk to.

And so, after nodding off a couple of times with one wing-tipped shoe up on the coffee table, Newt Gingrich wiped the drool from his cheek, hoisted his carcass off the sofa and staggered out the door without even saying goodbye.

That's okay, though, I can say it. Bye, Newt.