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June 15, 2011

My exclusive interview with Sarah Palin

Boy Howdy. History is being rewritten so fast it?s hard to keep up. Thank God for

Wikipedia. Sarah, et al, is out on Her Magical Mistressy Tour. Being linked as a one time love interest of Bristol, I was granted an interview. For those who are not aware of the tawdry tale of woe, I provide the following link.


(Authors note: Not intended to be a factual statement. Except where indicated. **)

We sat in the plush cabin safe and insulated. The singing of the tires barely audible as

they bounced along one of the better maintained stretches of highway in the crumbling

infrastructure. She eyed me coolly. “Is this about the sex tapes??

“It never happened.” I assured her. She relaxed visibly. The playful Mamma Grizzly

twinkle returned to her eyes. “What is this glorified carney about?” I smiled my most

sincere smile.

“We?ve just been drive?n around this great ol? country of ours. See?n all the places where

that historic stuff happened. Ya know. Just a regular American family on vacation. Only

our?s is paid for by FOX NEWS. With a big ol? bus with my name and the Liberty Bell,

an? a We the People thing on the side. Two bathrooms indoors. Just plain folks.”

“Soooo.” I said, drawing out the vowel. “It?s just a family vacation.” I made no attempt to

hide my skepticism.

Sarah operated on the principle that if you just keep babbling long enough, eventually

something will make sense. This has not proven true. “I?m, ah, you know, promotin? our

great nation, an? remindin? people that they have been warned. We?ve been to a bunch

of places, I can?t remember them all.

We had Lithuanian pizza in Time Square with The Donald. I saw this statue of a famous

Jewish guy named George M. Cohan. It was covered with pigeon poop. Only in a great

country like this could a poor jewish kid grow up to be covered with pigeon poop.”

“That explains a lot.” I thought.

“And there were soooo many people.” She said following my lead. Some wearin? funny

hats. Like some big ol? mass of humanity. All mashed up together.

“Like open bar at a Tea Party convention.” I offered.

“No. All kinds of ?em. All colors n? races an? religions. And I was thinkin? to myself.

“Sarah, I bet a bunch of these are illegals. Then we saw ol? Miss Liberty herself. The big old gal standin? there in the harbor, waivin? a big ol? torch. Waitin? for the sailors to come in. She reminds us that there are

other nations, cause we got her from France. And she was a warning not to make the same mistakes other countries made. Like bein? careful of French prostitutes.”

I started to protest.

“If I don?t know anything, I?m sure of this. I know my history.”

We sat, silent, as I digested this new revelation. “The Sarah Palin?s Easter Special,”

playing on a continuous loop provided a surreal sound track.


Could this be true? Was the Statue of Liberty really part of an early abstinence only

program? I took a piece of jerky from the bowl on the table and chewed absently. My

taste buds were suddenly assaulted. I gaged and lurched for the window. “What?” I

managed to gasp between retches.

“Goose.” said Sarah when I finally sat.

“No thank you I?m married.” I wiped my mouth with a GLENN?S TEARS™ freedom

scented moist towelette. “May I have some water please?”

“Sure thing. Bristol, bring Chris some water. There are some sealed bottles in the

cooler.” Soon Bristol came shimmying up with a bottle of water. She slipped me a

meaningful glance. I put it in my pocket. Sarah watched fondly as Bristol shimmied back

to her seat. “She learned that on Dancin? With The Stars. She sure is a pistol. Guess the

cub doesn?t fall far from the tree.”

I attempted to steer the conversation back to the bus tour. “So, how did you find Mount


“We got a navigation system.” Sarah chirped.

“No.” I tried to clarify. “What did you think about it? It really is beautiful, and there are so

many things to see.”

Sarah laughed, “Even Piper realized how hard ol? George musta worked to keep a big

ol? place like that goin?.” **

“True.” I agreed. “Just George and his 150 African volunteers.”

“We call ?em interns.” The half term governor winked.

I studied the passing landscape. Cows were grazing in a pasture. Sarah slid her window

open. The air played through her hair like the invisible hand of the free market. She

pulled a large hand gun from a thigh holster concealed beneath her skirt, took aim, and

shot a large Guernsey. She closed the window and regarded the gun for a long

moment. “Sometimes,” Sarah mused. “I feel like Paul Revere.”

Flummoxed, I tried to reconcile this last statement with the accompanying act of

senseless slaughter.

“He who warned, uh, the ... British that they weren?t going to be taking away our arms,

uh, by ringing those bells and making sure as he?s riding his horse through town to send

those warning shots and bells that we were going to be secure and we were going to be

free, and we were going to be armed.” **

Are you sure your not confusing the midnight ride with Mardi Gras?

“I know my history.” **

I felt betrayed. Was all I had learned and read and believed fiction? My world tilted. I felt

a stab of panic. What if the world was flat? I was rescued by our arrival at the next stop.

My time was up. I stood to leave and recognized a familiar figure rise from the back seat

and hurry toward me. Christine O?Donnell pressed a folded scrap of paper into my hand.

“I?m not a witch.” She whispered. “Here?s my number. I?m prime.” She hurried past, off

the bus and disappeared into the crowd.

I stepped off the bus into gathering gloom. The bitter taste of betrayal and goose jerky

still fresh in my mouth. I unfolded the damp paper Christine had given me. It was a 7.

She was prime.