My very first thought about Sarah Palin? That would be: “I want to have sex with her.” Want to lick that face and drool on it like a dog.
I found an old clip of her on Charlie Rose. Wow, she can sure keep up with Charlie, no problem! Dodged that one nicely. What a delightful nose!
Then during her speech at the convention: No cleavage? No fair. Slurp slurp.
O.K., I’m only going to say this once: Sarah Palin is much better-looking, smarter, wiser and savvier than 99.5 percent of the hysterical New York City liberal chicks whining about “scary” and “mean” Republicans. Oh yes didn’t she look terrifying holding her lil’ baby—what a step back for womyn. Get over it, pussycat.
Democrats are going to lose and blame America, but I’m going to have a ball on election night like I did in 2004 when W. cleaned John Kerry’s clock. Went to The Palm steakhouse. Media elite party. Everyone acting like it’s the end of the world—except for me. Ha! Suckers! Moved on to Red Rock West, where the barmaid poured shots down my throat; I danced around with a pool cue. I took my one-man celebration over to the Daily Show party. Everyone there stunned, muted. Not me. Ha! Screaming “Whooo!” and “Wheeee!” I sat on some kind of plastic horsey, pretending to ride it. Giddy-yap pony! Some random girl came over and gave me a quick smooch—not bragging, just sayin’. Then I interviewed Stephen Colbert at the urinal.
I was thinking about Sarah Palin yesterday. You want this? O.K., here you go: I was looking out the window. Hands outside the pants! Thinking about her. I want her to take care of me. Nurse! Climb into bed with me and watch movies, cuddle, laugh, play footsie. I see she had a tanning bed installed in the Governor’s mansion. That means no tan lines. Mmmm, me likey!
She could make me a great big stack of pancakes! Camping! Take a pontoon plane, go fishing for walleyes and northern pike. Listen to the loons. In the morning, she’d chase away a bear, then get back into the sleeping bag with me. Her husband can come along, too, I guess. Don’t want to see his dick.
Or Sarah and I could hang in New York. Show her around. Start off at the Regency Hotel, maybe get a kiss on the cheek. Got in trouble doing that once. Don’t want any publicists or handlers or scary earpiece guys listening to everything, reading my mind. Just the two of us in a big suite. Then she waits in the sitting room while I take a bubble bath—I like to lay in the tub for a half-hour with the shower water beating down on me, I invented that—we go bar hopping. Start at Yogi’s on the Upper West Side and work our way down to the Patriot in Tribeca. Or stay in the suite…
What the hell is wrong with me? Sarah Palin’s making me crazy. I’ll bet she’s making you crazy, too.
On a Friday night I decided I’d hit some bars and see if others shared my creepy, perverted thoughts.
Outside Milady’s Bar, two middle-aged men were smoking. “She’s fit, good-looking,” said Adam Walker, a photographer from Australia. “Do you care about her policies?”
“Noooo,” said the other man, Antonio Russo, a caterer from Brooklyn who likes to think of taking Sarah Palin to a sushi bar and eating sushi off her body exotically. He added he’d also like to rent a brownstone in Brooklyn Heights, light a fire and sip some cognac with her.
I told him I would like to smell her.
“Absolutely,” said Tony.
At a lounge on Prince Street, I bumped into Jeff Bercovici, the media columnist at Portfolio magazine. He does not want to have sex with Sarah Palin, who reminds him of older women he grew up around in Wisconsin.
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