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I’ve been remiss, I admit that; I haven’t been keeping up with Sarah “Wink-Wink” Palin lately—or Sarah “Boom-Boom” Palin, or hubba-hubba, or whatever lip-glossed, moose-shootin’ hyphenation you prefer. While I was busy living my little life, apparently Boom-Boom there turned in another lap-dance of a performance—but this one, this one takes the cake she might have popped out of once. I truly am in awe of this presentation: it has all the trademark pasties ‘n’ piety delivery we’ve come to expect from Our Gal Governor (ex-Governor now, of course) and it’s pure Machiavellian genius.

Genius? The woman who seemed confused by both the limit and the scope of the very office she was seeking? The one who appeared flummoxed by Katie Couric’s challenge to name any periodicals or journals she regularly reads or subscribes to, or to cite any of her Supreme Court ruling-faves—that  Sarah Palin? Machiavellian genius?

No, smarty. Not that one. This one:

Washington Post, Saturday, July 4, 2009: 

Sarah Palin, the Republican Alaska governor who captivated the nation with a combative brand of folksy politics, announced her resignation yesterday in characteristic fashion: She stood on her back lawn in Wasilla, speaking into a single microphone, accompanied by friends and neighbors in baseball hats and polo shirts.

Of course she did.  Of course they were.

Gosh golly, Sarah Palin, whatever will you do?

Palin said her children encouraged her to leave office, in part because they were upset at seeing their little brother, 14-month-old Trig, who has Down syndrome, "mocked and ridiculed by some pretty mean-spirited adults." She said her decision was based on prayer and talking with her family.

"I polled the most important people in my life, my kids, where the count was unanimous," she said. "Well, in response to asking, 'Hey, you want me to make a positive difference and fight for all our children's future from outside the governor's office?' It was four yeses and one 'Hell, yeah!' And the 'Hell, yeah' sealed it."

Oh. Right.

That finger-puppet show you call a family—natch. That’s classy, Sarah Palin, shows you were brung up good.

Of course, my cat will jump up on the kitchen counter and knock over the bag of Happy Tails for what he wants, too, if I haven’t taught him not to.  Bad kitty, Sarah Palin. Naughty... and nevertheless, there's genius there.

It’s not a Mozart or an Einstein genius, or a Marx Brothers-genius, or even the genius of Larry, Moe and Curly; Sarah Palin’s God-inspired grindhouse is pure, polar bear-eatin’, predatory Genius. I’m awed by it, as by the epic torchings of a skilled arsonist.

But then again, if pimpin’ yer kids for political gain were the crime it ought to be, Sarah Palin would be peein’ in a cup once a week, and wouldn’t be able to live within a hundred yards of elementary schools.

In which case, the rest of us would be a little to blame as well. I admire the steely grace which propels the shark ever-forward through its waters, but if I reach out to pat said shark on the head and draw back a bloody nub, who’s to blame if I didn’t bring a rolled-up waterproof newspaper with me for shark nose-bopping.

Anyone who was saddened by Palin’s sudden resignation needn’t be down-hearted; sure as a boomerang, Boom-Boom will be back. And I have to admit, Palin’s tenacity is breath-taking—not in a “How exquisite!” way, more like a “Did she just say what I think she said?” way. I'm as much to blame as anyone but you see how it is: when we pick at her and tease her oh-so-mercilessly, it builds a base among certain pockets of the population from which to launch more acting-out behavior, i.e. campaigning. You can’t keep a good woman down, and you can’t keep Sarah Palin down either—make no mistake about it, she’ll be back. But we’re only encouraging her this way, it isn’t good for her or fair to us, and if we don’t stop now, when she gets big she won't scratch at the door to be let out, and she’ll end up eating us out of house and home.

My cat rarely tries to help himself to the Happy Tails these days, because if he does I swat his little behind and say, “No. Bad kitty.”  Then I assume we have an understanding, and I ignore any effort on his part to apologize, for a good long while—cat lovers, back me up on this, cats do “apologize”.  Not often, and if you wait for it, you’ll wait forever, but they do apologize, in their own fashion.  With Sarah “I-shot-a-moose-in-my-nightie-once" Palin, forget about it. The apology, I mean. She’ll rub up against your leg, alright, but it will hardly be sincere. Besides, Miss Family Values needs to save any nuzzlin' up she intends to do for those spokeskids of hers—oops, almost forgot, for that spokes-grandkid, too.

But I’m sure she’ll be back when she’s hungry again, so better all around to be prepared: grab some periodical or journal you regularly read or subscribe to, roll it up, and be ready to give her a good bop on the nose, and say—No. Bad Sarah Palin.

Then, just ignore her for a good long while.

 

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