You don’t need a meat thermometer to know that Mit(t) Romney is cooked. He’s done. You can see the giant fork sticking in his rump from a mile away. You can roll up the carpet, fold your tents, pack your bags, blow the whistle, sound the horn, secure the cabin, say the closing prayer and turn out the lights. Marvelous Mit(t)’s party is over and he’s left the building. The good ship Romney has sunk, preceded by proactive rats who long ago saw the writing on the wall.

No doubt we will be entertained for the duration of the campaign by more meltdowns from our good brother Mit(t). Perhaps he will strap his spouse to the top of his campaign bus, or promise to deport the 47 percent of Americans who refuse to take responsibility for their lazy lives, or in mid-debate come stage forward and bear his testimony.

The true believers among us still hold out hope that Elder Romney will pull off a miracle and ascend to his eternally ordained seat in the Oval Office. The true believers are fit to be tied that their fellow Saint, despite his un-Mormon mendacities and his contempt for the needy, has not been presented with his rightful inheritance by the stiff-necked gentiles. To true believers, so superior a personage is Elder Romney that he should simply be sustained by the multitude, signified by the raising of the right hand.

Alas, this fine and decent doofus must go before the electorate and petition for their votes. From the beginning, he has taken it for granted that assertions of his success would be sufficient to give him entry to the White House. As his cluelessness and his incompetence have become increasingly and painfully evident, the candidate has become increasingly and desperately shrill and beseeching. You can hear it in his scolding monotone: “Hey, you dummies, I’m Mit(t) Romney! Can’t you get it through your thick skulls that I’m entitled to be President? What in Sam Hill is wrong with you?”

Now that the faithful can see the chance of One of Us gaining the highest office in the land is equivalent to a snowball’s chance in H-E-Double Hockey sticks, the word has gone out to congregations far and wide to take action. The Saints have been instructed to fast for Mit(t). The Lord on High will presumably hear the collective growl of innumerable empty stomachs and bless his servant Mit(t) with a victory in the Electoral College.

Absent divine intervention, Mit(t) could, if he wished, resort to a last-minute, last-ditch, Hail Mary or Hosanna Shout to snatch victory from the famished jaws of defeat. From a hastily assembled group of brainstorming citizens (who, because of fasting for several days, might have been light-headed and a bit loopy), we have put together a list of actions that Mit(t), that well-known turnaround artiste, could take to turn his sorry campaign around:

Send running mate Paul Ryan back to his day job as a discount-shoe salesman and bring aboard Snooki of Jersey Shore. As you yourself have said, “She’s got that spark-plug personality that’s kind of fun.” The two of you could dance cheek to cheek on Dancing With the Stars.

During the first presidential debate, answer every question by singing “Come, Come Ye Saints.” For some reason, you haven’t taken advantage of the bump in the polls after you sang “America the Beautiful” and “We Thank Thee, O God, for a Prophet” at early campaign events. n During the second debate, call President Obama a pencil-neck and bet him $10,000 that you can beat him in arm wrassling.

Go on Fox News and reveal that you are the love child of a mustachioed Mexican gardener named Pancho, who tended peonies at your parents’ Grosse Point estate.

Promise every American that you will give them $10,000 if they fast and pray for your election.

Go on The Sean Hannity Show on Fox News, and when he asks you your position on same-sex marriage, give him a lap dance and a deep soul kiss.

Announce that you will visit every state in these United States strapped to the top of your campaign bus and humbly apologize to every dog in America for strapping your Irish setter Seamus to the top of your station wagon on a family trip across the windy plains of Canada.

Finally, if all else fails, agree to a forcible haircut from Barney Frank.