In Tampa, Paul Ryan and Mitt Romney, the freshly minted bromance of two recent tribunes of hard shell Republican radicalism left something valuable behind in their hotel rooms: balls.

Romney, who since his failed run for the nomination up until the convention had transformed himself into a far-right, Tea Party Ninja Warrior, etch-a-sketched a mewling convention speech to the equally cognitively dissonant sea of white in the convention hall.  Ryan, the World’s Most Serious Man, infected by the suddenly mood-disordered Romney went from being the pre-convention terrorizer of programs for the poor to touchy-feely spewer of homilies admonishing love of the weak, or in the words of his idol Ayn Rand, moochers, parasites and losers.

Romney, having endorsed his confederate’s plan for replacing fully guaranteed medical coverage for seniors through Medicare with a coupon to cover a few of the elders’ needs, suddenly became verklempt about the fate of the program. Ryan, first the Genghis Kahn of Medicare destruction and now sworn to defend the Alamo to his dying breath should have had a conversation with a chair with an imaginary him in it.

The delegates seemed to have caught the disease, unaware whether they were coming or going clearly, hooting approval when avant-garde performance artist Clint Eastwood denounced America’s sortie into Afghanistan, and heralded a putative Romney pull-out though Romney has been excoriating Obama for going dovish, and former president George W. Bush launched the war, and presided over it for eight years to the roaring approval of the same Republican rank and file.

In a display of virtually psychiatric historical revisionism Romney blubbered through the sorrows of Obama’s failure to cooperate with earnest, eager-to-cooperate Republicans, sounding so distraught at the President’s spurning, a tear-stained missive to Miss Lonelyhearts seemed sure to follow.

My diagnosis is that if you take any of these people seriously at this stage, see a doctor.