Lipstick on a pig


In a way, it doesn’t matter what Sarah Palin said tonight from the dais in St. Paul.  It’s all mere windowdressing to cover over the filthy, cracked, scorched window on the American collective soul that is the legacy of the Bush-Cheney era in our history.  A legacy of corruption, outright theft of the birthright of our children – in a country founded on a Constitution, a sense of justice and moral right that we maintained until it was stolen away after election day November 2000.  She’s the lipstick on the McCain pig.

Conjuring up the image of a smiling John McCain, flashing the thumbs-up to his fellow captives as he returned to his cell in the Hanoi Hilton, fresh from a brutal torture session in which his arms were stretched to the breaking point as he was hung from the ceiling by the ‘gooks’ that he still hates to this day, Ms. Palin no doubt touched the hearts of many.  But as you know people, and as I know people, you know it’s modern myth, legend, and stories we tell ourselves to fend off fear of the dark.  Say it with me: John McCain is not superman — he cried like a pussy all the way back to his cell, just like you or I would.  Or he was unconscious from the pain, and the guards dragged him down the hall as he lost control of his bowels, and they tossed him on the floor like a sack of dead weight to lay in his own filth until he awoke to the rats scurrying over his aching body, biting him and scratching him with their claws.  Or, not, if that’s simply too painful an image for you.  A lot of adults, I find, like to live in a state of uninterrupted mental comfort and bliss, preferring to look away when the visuals get too intense or disturbing.  If you’re one of those, by all means, do what you must to maintain your zenlike calm.  For the rest of us sentients, consider that McCain has never offered for public inspection the debriefing he gave to military interrogators upon his return to US custody and control.  So we don’t really know whether stories of his bravery are true, or are deliberate fantasy.  That’s the problem with a man who doesn’t trust the American people to know as much about him as there is to know – you don’t know when it’s OK to start believing him, and you don’t know how much truth is actually there, and how much of it is simply cobbled-together half-truths that he would prefer we have simple faith in, truth be damned.

Whatever you think of Sarah Palin and her sweetly flawed and ordinary family,  she is on the ticket for one treason only – she’s the lipstick on the pig.  Keep your focus firmly on the pig . . .

 

P.S. The young man who had been raucously fucking Sarah’s daughter is in quite a pickle.  He certainly couldn’t have realized what he was getting into when she was shedding her calvins for him in the back seat of his souped-up Dodge Neon during the endless midnight of the Alaskan winter.  I’ve seen some uncomfortable things in my life, but none so much as the rabbit-in-the-headlights look of young Levi as the cameras focused in on the sweat on his brow.  Could he have possibly imagined when he was withdrawing, and laying down “the money shot” on her bare back that the psychotic mother of this barely nubile, but somewhat worldly conquest later would trot him out before a world television audience as Exhibit A to receive the most public damnation possible regarding his youthful indiscretions, forced to accept the role of the faithful stud who will be forced to marry that stupid girl (that he begged not to make him use a condom) from the wrong end of an AK-47?  And you know he’s not allowed to sleep with her before the wedding, either.  Too bad – he may have found some comfort in her abundant decolletage had he been permitted.  But his life, for now, is over.  He may be OK later, if he can shake loose of that crazy family, but only after many, many years of therapy, and hundreds of replays of that pitiable scene last night — like a nightmare that seems without end — as long as the campaign goes on.  He is pledging his eternal allegiance to Satan that McCain loses so that he can hit the road hard, and make fast getaway from that woman, never to return, as soon as the election is over, and Barack is safely ensconced.  For now, Sarah and her man own his genitals.  They keep them in the nightstand by their bedside, firmly squashed between two Alaskan volcanic flat rocks.  If he wasn’t a bed-wetter before, he soon will be. 

retardez.

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