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June 15, 2011

Note: This is the second and final installment in my absolutely fact-ional coverage of the Sarah Palin’s non-publicity seeking bus tour-cum-family vacation. (Fact-ional, fiction with a touch of fact. I hold my fiction to the same high standards of truth and journalistic integrity as FOX NEWS.) This report begins after my exclusive interview, as I follow Christine O’Donnell from the bus. If you have not read the exclusive interview with Sarah Palin http://www.scribd.com/doc/57304319/History-is-Rewritten-Thank-God-for- Wikipedia

I moved as quickly as I could against the sea of press, and Palinites.

Scanning over the heads, I searched for the Delaware Witch, but she had

disappeared as if by magic.

There was an audible pop and a whiff of ozone. A bluish light flooded the

bus’s attached stage. In marched Sarah, Bristol, and Piper. Sarah played

the flute. Bristol limped along at her side carrying the flag. To make her

limp more authentic, her mother had taken one of her shoes. Piper

morosely pounded out the cadence with a wooden spoon on a saucepan.

Battle wounds were simulated by a wrapping of Quilted Northern,

(courtesy of the Koch brothers) marked with splashes of catsup. They

played a passable “Yankee Doodle.”

“This week of touring has been one of the best of my life. Just yer typical

vacation, reminding America how important it is that we know what our

strong foundation is all about.” The half term governor paused to let the

profundity of this statement sink in. “Whenever we visit historic places, we

do these little patriotic tableaus. Tableau is a French word.” She

continued, “Which is where we got Lady Liberty and prostitutes.” Sarah

winked. “We also love to sing around the campfire. Todd usually plays the

guitar, but he cut his finger on a Miller Lite tab.”

Sarah shielded her eyes from the spotlight. “I see somebody that plays

guitar. Chris, get up here.” A spotlight swung in my direction. “Give him a

hand folks, he’s shy.” Hands jostled and propelled me to the stage. I

squinted into the lights. Sarah adjusted the mic. I stood next to her

adjusting my G string. The guitar was badly out of tune.

“This is going out to all those people in the little pockets of what I like to

call the Real America.” Sarah beamed. “I’ll start, then I want ya ta join on

in.” I played a C cord on the guitar.

“This land is my land.

This land ain’t your land.

So get off my land,

Go find your own land.

This land is my land.

This land ain’t your-er land.

This land was made for me not you.”

(Repeat ad nauseam )