Just when you thought it couldn't get any worse...
Bradenton, FL
October 10, 2008
Your Humble Reporter has seen many things in his day. But nothing compares to what I witnessed earlier today at a rally in this placid West Florida city.
Three thousand enthusiastic people packed The Bradenton Urine Center to hear Governor Sarah Palin of Alaska speak. (Bradenton, FYI, is a major exporter of clean urine and pipe cleaners.) Signs held aloft proclaimed "Media Go Home," "Sarah for Secretary of Hotness," and "McCain/Palin: POW and WOW!"
As the crowed anxiously awaited Governor Palin’s arrival, the Manatee High School Marching Band entertained, playing such favorites as "Smells Like Teen Spirit" and "The Theme Song from Flipper."
A ruddy-faced man, I would guess in his early 40’s, turned to me and said, "I’d do that Palin chick in a heartbeat. What a great ass!" I smiled back at him, not wanting to dampen his enthusiasm, but knowing full well the same "great ass" comment was often directed at Adlai Stevenson during his two Presidential campaigns. And Grover Cleveland.
The music portion of the festivities ended abruptly and a phalanx of local dignitaries took to the podium, including Edmund Bleef, Vice President of The Bradenton Urine Center.
"Welcome dear friends," Bleef began. "As you know, urine has been the lifeblood of our fair city since 1936. We put the "Pee" in progress!" A great rush of laugher filled the arena. Your Humble Reporter pretended to chuckle for fear of being singled out as one who doesn’t appreciate a good urine joke.
Bleef continued. "But enough about me. And pee." More guffaws. "Today, I am delighted to welcome a woman to Bradenton, a woman who comes to us all the way from the great state of Alaska, home to polar bears, Eskimos and Dr. Joel Fleischman."
I glanced over at the Ass Man. He looked like a kid in a candy store. He was also unconsciously playing with his Zagnuts.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, let’s give a rousing ovation to the next Vice President of these United States, Governor Sarah "The Barracuda" Palin!"
The crowd went joyfully ballistic as the Governor, stepped onstage amidst the blare of the marching band’s quizzical rendition of "I’m Henry the Eighth I Am."
Governor Palin waved to the wildly percolating crowd and blew a kiss towards five college-aged men, each sporting on his bare chest a large red lipstick-smudged letter. When standing together, they spelled "APNIL."
"Spelling doesn’t count, by gosh," the Governor cooed. "But ya know who does count? You do, doggone it!"
Ass Man hooted and howled and continued to play adroitly with his yarbles as the crowd went crazy.
"My fellow Americans," Palin continued, "The choice that you make this November is a difficult one. Even more difficult than the one Bristol had to make after God impregnated her with his sweet holy seed. It’s a choice that will affect each and every one of you, be you white or sorta white or kinda white. It’s a choice between good and evil, right and wrong, weak and strong, bang a gong, get it on. John McCain and I are ready to serve. We are itchin’ like a mofo to take on the Washington old boys’ network!"
I burst out laughing, the irony just too damn easy. Ass Man turned to me and glared.
"Barack Hussein Mohammed Kahlil Jabari Hummus Shishkabob Obama," Palin exhorted, "is paling around with well-known terrorists – men, who if given the chance, would have no qualms about flying passenger jets into our precious national monuments, like the Eiffel Tower and other places. Birds of a feather flock together, my friends. Barack Obama is a terrorist and is hell-bent on destroying everything we love, and that includes Pinkberry."
Your Humble Reporter looked over to Ass Man. His penis was clearly saluting now. A sliver of bubbling drool dripped menacingly from the corner of his lower lip.
"And... and it has just come to light in a major respected publication that Senator Obama is the man who ordered the death of our Lord and savior Jesus Christ!"
I almost spit out my gums. Not gum. My gums.
"As you know, Jesus was crucified in 1983, the same year dinosaurs became extinct. Many blame the disappearance of the dinosaurs on an asteroid hitting the earth. But that isn’t the case. Dinosaurs are no longer with us because the ‘Raptors received the Rapture shortly after Jesus’s death. And that’s why France is our enemy."
My head was spinning now. Not figuratively. Literally.
"And speaking of France, do you know that Russia is smaller than Connecticut?"
"I love you Sarah!" a balding man shouted from the front row.
"And I love you too. And Jesus loves you. And Jesus hates Barack Obama because he had him murdered. When Jesus comes back next year in his giant golden blimp pulled by a team of giant sea urchins, he will kill all the terrorists. He will slay the non-believers, be they Jewish, Muslim, or Jewish. He will punish all those who voted for Barack Obama and will wreak havoc on their ankles. Let’s have a Hallelujah!"
The crowd screamed out a holy host of horrific Hallelujahs.
"Gotta go now," the Governor chirped. "Gotta go breastfeed Trig."
Sarah took a long look into the crowd, and then suddenly leaped off the stage into the waiting arms of the adoring crowd. The stunned marching band quickly dived into a strange rendition of James Brown’s "Hot Pants."
The impromptu mosh pit lasted for what seemed an eternity as the Governor was passed from adoring sycophant to the next, her smart slit skirt revealing more leg than I’ve seen from any politician since Donald Rumsfeld.
"I gotsta get me some of that," Ass Man bellowed as he cut his a swatch through the ecstatic crowd. "I’m gonna grab that ass!"
A chant of "Sarah, Sarah, Sarah!" filled the cavernous hall. The Governor wore an odd, purposeful expression of pure delight. While the crazed gathering passed her from one waiting hand to another, the Governor removed a small knife hidden inside her bra, held it aloft and cried, "This is what we do to terrorists! This I what we do to Obama!"
With no hesitation, Sarah Palin took the knife and jabbed it deeply into her upper right thigh. Blood spurted out like oil in Kurdistan, spattering the faithful, some of whom lapped up the Governor’s blood as if nectar.
The college boys, whose collective chests now read "LAPNI." smeared their naked abdomens with her hemoglobin and began to dance around like wild banshees at a wild meth-induced banshee rave.
Your Humble Reporter tried desperately to get to his cell phone camera, but the crush of the crowd made this impossible. Too late anyway. As quickly as the mosh pit had started, so too it ended.
Governor Palin, soaked in her own blood, rolled back onto the podium, rose quickly, waved to the crowd, and then shouted, "Oh gosh, I’m late for Ft. Lauderdale!" She waved once again, smiled broadly, then disappeared into her entourage of Secret Service agents, local dignitaries, family members, and State Troopers.
And then she was gone.
Your Humbled Reporter trudged out of The Bradenton Urine Center, convinced he would never in a million years see a political spectacle like that again.
November 4th can’t come too soon.