In Which I Proclaim My Love for Sarah
Special Report --
I'm smitten.
I resisted as long as I could, but have now listened to my heart and loins.
Somehow, some way, some day, Sarah Palin will be mine.
Politics are not my passion. They are a necessary evil; like removing mold from tile grout or cleaning a septic tank. Restoration, renewal, reinvigoration. Out with the old poop, make room for the new.
This is a special, special election year. Do you want to vote for the old white guy or the young black guy? Lines have been drawn, talking points buffed to a high gloss, facts conveniently reinterpreted. What are average Americans supposed to believe? I assure you, I have never been average in any way.
I don't agree with much that John McCain says, but I do love the way he says it. It's easy for me to identify with his specious, impatient smile that barely veneers a volcano of apoplectic rage. I myself have worn the same mask for many years, although my rugged, brooding good looks give me a distinct advantage over the Senator from Arizona.
Likewise, at first I let myself be suckered into dismissing Governor Sarah Palin as a lightweight. Woo hoo, I said, big game-changing surprise VP pick. Oh, Senator McCain, you are so thinking outside your ass. Let's get some eye candy standing a heartbeat away from leadership of the free world, shall we?
Everything changed the night I saw Sarah speak at the Republican National Convention. I was captivated by her passion, her perkiness, her adorably flat accent. Wouldn't I just love to hear her say my name -- to call me her own special "bad guy"? You betcha.
I have already composed a list of nearly three hundred catch phrases and special little pet-names we can use to ignite exchanges of whispers, giggles, and knowing looks with each other. I can't wait.
I watched the vice presidential debate Thursday night, just like 193.3 million other Americans. I recorded it on my DVR so that I can review it frame-by-frame and save my favorite images. I'm already up to the end of Sarah's first response. I expect to be able to report my complete analysis of her every wink, smirk, and demure smile by the end of next summer.
My blood boiled every time I heard that rat bastard bully Joe Biden speak harshly to my Sarah. A little respect, please! She is a wildflower -- not to be beaten down or mowed, but rather to be cultivated, admired, and before love's beauty truly fades, pressed between the pages of a book until dry and brittle.
I won't be her First Dude, but I will surely be her last.
