So about a year ago I’m in an Alaskan hotel room and I’m snorting blow off Sarah Palin’s ass.
I finish by licking off that powdery residue which is left behind when the last of the flaky goodness has been fully absorbed by your nasal cavity. You know the stuff I mean. Hell, we’ve all been there. High fives.
In this case that residue had turned to a slightly sticky paste due to the moisture of her ass which is a bit sweaty from my tapping it so hard and so long prior to snorting blow off of it. Now about the time I’m giving her my signature, ”snorting blow off hot ass final bite,” on her lower left ass cheek area, which as most of Alaska knows is where she has a tiny birthmark shaped like a barcode, her cell phone rings.
She’s got her ringtone set to, “Hopelessly Devoted To You,” from Grease. It’s her and her husbands favorite song. Their wedding song she said. He proposed to her with that song playing on a boombox held over his head she said. like a Great Northern Loyd Dobler. She didn’t say that part. I did. She didn’t know what I was talking about she said.
“Peter Gabriel?” I asked.
She shrugged.
“In Your Eyes?” I suggested.
“You want to skull fuck eh?” she asked.
That was my Sarah.
Sarah said we didn’t need condoms. It was god’s will she said. Sarah said a lot of things. THings that made me want to be with her less but skull fuck her more.
It was a confusing time.
So anyway, her cell rings and she reaches over to the nightstand, almost knocking over my open bottle of Peppermint Schnapps, grabs the cell, says, “Uh it’s my secretary doncha know?” I nodded, not knowing if this was a real question or part of that folksy way of talking she had. Like Francis McDormand in Fargo crossed with an hysterical Kindergarten teacher who thinks kids are retarded.
It was that hysterical school teacher part that made me think I loved her.
She knew that too. She understood my needs. Never having had the good fortune to be illegally sexualized by a teacher during my school years she knew what I saw in her. What I wanted. And she gave it to me. That night in particular had started with her writing sentences on a blackboard with her hair tied straight back, her glasses hung low on her nose so she could peer at me over them with a saucy mix of imperious disdain and vixenish naughtiness. She was my schoolmarm of the North and her bosom had warmed the igloo that was my heart.
Sometimes she brought a world map and a 3 foot pointer. She’d point to areas and make me name them. When I got one wrong she’d tell me I was a bad boy and make me bend over for lashings from her pointer. When I got one right she’d bend over and get likewise from mine. The give and take during those times was truly awesome. That’s what illicit hotel affairs with coke and schnapps were all about. Reciprocity. It mattered little to me that she didn’t know what that word meant.
But on this night she’s using the blackboard to make sentences. I tried not to notice that she mispelled words like flagrant, transgression, fornication, pound, quiver, moist, and throbbing. I didn’t want her for her mind during times like that. I wanted her for her appearance of having one. And oh my god could she pull off that librarian/teacher/Soccer MILF thing in spades. And with enough Peppermint Schnapps and Cocaine in me I could usually dismiss the nagging feeling that her baby talk wasn’t designed to turn me on and that her pointing to the wrong hemisphere altogether when identifying Iraq on the map wasn’t just a coquettish way to get sodomized.
THe strange thing about this night was a sentence she wrote towards the bottom of the board. “Bridge to nowhere,” it said. How existential I thought. Maybe she was going to branch out into philosophy lessons before we screwed. It turned out this phrase was foreshadowing and revealing something that had been on her mind.
She hangs up the phone, flipping her pink clamshell phone and sighs. “Trouble?” I ask.
“You betcha.” She turns around, puts her glasses back on, and hands me the Schnapps bottle I gesture for. “I’m getting some heat on this bridge to nowhere ting dontcha know?”
“No.”
“They want to give us money then they don’t. They give it to me and then they say it’ll look bad building a bridge to a tiny little nowheresville out in the middle of nowhere dontcha you know? And my people are sooo resistant to having my pastor do his anti witchcraft incantations to make the problem go away.”
“No.”
“Ken I have yeer support here Mister. My aids r sayin’ it could be a black eye on my adminstration.”
“It’s not existential? No imaginary bridge?” She looked at me quizically. I jumped off the bed with the Schnapps still in my hand and paraded around naked with one hand on my head. I felt like my world was spinning. Unlike Peach Schnapps and Cocaine, which as those who have heard my Elliot Spitzer story know makes me paranoid over stuff like 80′s music and want to slap the bitch hoes silly; Peppermint and Coke makes me pretty morose. It makes me want to fall in love but doubt I’m good enough. But I’ve never written better stories or poetry than doped up on Peppermint Schnapps and my sweet, sweet nose candy. Once I wrote a 96 page epic ballad about the nape of Keira Knightley’s neck. All Peppermint and Cocaine that one was.
“Fuck!” I yell. “I’m so fucking alone!”
“Oh why don’t you getcha self togeether theere Mr Fancy Penis.” She called me that. “I got myself a real problem here and all you can do is keery on like it’s the furth of Juu-ly.”
“Wait, what? The fourth of fucking what?”
“Juu-ly.”
“Jesus christ what the fuck are we doing here? You’re not making sense.”
“Now dontcha you go taking the Lord’s name in vain you hear me Sir Lance-A- Lot of Cummalot.” She called me that too. I drank some more Peppermint Schnapps and started to love her again.
“So where’s the bridge?” I thought it was a legitimate question. But she just looked at me like I was Charles Darwin or something.
“There’s no bridge you silly Bust-her Clit-on.” Another pet name. God she was clever. I started hoping she was really talking about uniting people or linking history to a better future through more sound policies. MAybe she thought the Bush administration’s selfish ideology was leading us down a road that ended in the oblivion of a bankrupt moral ocean of despair.
Then she gave me some more info about Gravina Island and Ketchikan. She started writing names on the blackboard as a little history lesson ensued. We of course used the opportunity for her to get dressed again, tie back her hair, and go into history teacher mode up at the blackboard. It was when she started mixing in math with dollar totals and expenditures that I cut her off by throwing my bottle across the room.
“You dishonor our love with all this, this, addition. And subtraction. Lie to me you voluptuous piece of the body politic! Why can’t you tell me the bridge is a metaphor for the real world constraints that keep us apart? Damn you!”
“Metapheer’s are elitist dontcha know.”
“Aaargh! So you’re stealing money with typical Congressional pork barreling projects. Is that what you’re telling me?”
“Ted Stevens and the former governor stole it dontcha know. I’m inheriting their headache.”
“You did ultimately veto it and request reduced earmarks?” I said hopefully.
“You betcha.”
“You are brilliant!” I cried.
“And you are a very special student.”
“With special needs.”
“Come show Mrs Palin where the subject is in this sentence,” she said as she ripped her blouse open and waved her breasts at me. Then she pointed at each breast with the pointer. Being a dutiful student I poured some fruity Schnapps on those breasts and started licking it off as she backed against the blackboard.
“Wait a minute,” I say.”Witchcraft? Your pastor believes in witches? ”
“Drove them right out of our parish dontcha know.”
“Holy shit.”
“Oooh yeer a bad boy huh?”
“Witches? Really?”
“Sure ting. We sent em right along like that uppity librarian who wanted to keep those elitist books in the library.”
“Uh oh. Sarah we gotta talk,”
“Talkin’s fer teachers. Not fer students. Now sit back and be a good boy Mr Smarty Pants.” At that she lifted her skirt and flashed some thigh. Then pressed her bosom up against the blackboard and stuck her Alaskan ass up so that just a hint of her bottom and barcode were visible.
Just then I knew what I had to do.
God how i wished I had a bottle of Peach Schnapps handy. Instead all I could do was start humming “Don’t Stand So Close To Me,” as I went into my luggage and pulled out a bottle of Blackberry Schnapps. I swigged it down my gullet, coating my throat and my mind with the particular warmth and bracing intensity Blackberry always filled me with.
I looked up at the blackboard, her ass and the sentences on the board starting to mingle together. The brandy started mixing with the cocaine already suffusing my system and I was able to start finding order in the chaos of her scribblings. “Tell me you put it into infrastructure at least?”
“What?”
“The earmarked funds.”
“Of curse Mr Einstein. What dooya take me fur? A money whore?”
“No.” I said softly. Worse I thought. “A politician,” I said.
“Oooh,” she took her glasses off and let down her hair. “Talk deerty to me sumore.”
I grabbed her and shoved her up against the blackboard. “Republican!”
“Liberal,” she called me back.
“Zeolot.”
“Idealist.”
I thrust up against her and she started grinding her booty against my growing left-wing media conspiracy. I turned her neck and we kissed violently. “Witch!”
She pulled her skirt down farther. “Expel the demon from me!” She screamed.
I was feeling a lot better. As I knew it would, the combination of blackberry schnapps and blow made me want to sodomize puritans.
Always.
And finally, here was my chance. I started moving down her face to her neck while I added, “Creationist.”
“Community organizer.” This made her laugh for some reason.
“Jesus freak.”
She turned and slapped me. Then she slapped me again. I slapped her back. “Can I have some more guv’nor,” I said and walked over to the nightstand and grabbed the pvc piping, handcuffs, and bandana sitting there. “Let’s do this GOP style.”
She reached for a piece of chalk and wrote “Boondoggle,” on the chalkboard. ”That’ll be our safety word for today dontcha know.”
It was one of the few things she said I truly did understand.
__________
Postscript.
I didn’t hear from Sarah again until a few months later when she called me for professional advice. My baby girl’s got a special needs child and I thoughtcha coold help us. But ya can’t tell anyone it’s her baby.”
I hadn’t had any Peppermint Schnapps so i was kind of out of love and feeling pretty normal thanks to the coke I had just snorted off the ass of Lindsay Lohan’s lesbian lover. “You’re the fucking governor. Isn’t someone gonna notice you weren’t pregnant or that she disappeared for the last few months of yours/her pregnancy?”
“Alaskans have bigger tinks to concernemselves wit Mister.”
“So she and the hockey player made a retarded kid.”
“Special needs.”
“And Bristol doesn’t know how to use a condom? Is she special too?”
“We don’t believe in contraception. Abstinence programs are all that works and that Jesus approves.”
“Yeah obviously. So what can I do.”
“You work with special needs populations. What can we do besides pray to make his life normal till Jesus cures him?”
“I’d start with the praying. Stop that. God hates retarded kids. That’s why he made them that way. You need to keep the kid away from other special needs kids or he’ll become institutionalized and weak. Fuck the Special Olympics.”
“I already cut their funding.”
“Bitch. Excellent”
“Will that cure him faster?”
“Uhhh no. But it’ll help him live a better and more independent life.”
“I know. Only Jesus can cure him. We pray on that everyday and pray that the Pastor can exercise the demons from his soul.”
“Yeah forget it. The kid is doomed.”
“You want to fuck ya silly goose?”
“I’m in New York and I haven’t drank Peppermint Schanpps since the last time I saw you. It’s over baby. I’m sticking with high class hookers.”
“Well fuck you then Mr Grumpy Balls.”
“Sorry Sarah.”
“Nobody dumps me. When I’m President I will make your life miserable Mr.”
“Right. You as President? Not even the Republicans are that messed up to put you anywhere near the White House. Stick to governing in the ice age”
“Jesus has blessed my political career. He put me on the fast track for a reason.”
“Why’d he make your kid’s kid retarded?”
“So he could better excise the cancer of original sin.”
“You using the Augustinian defense?”
“Caesar was a pagan.”
“Uhhh not Caesar Augustus. Augustine of Hippo.”
“Now you’re just being silly Mr. Animals don’t make theology.”
“Not Augustine the Hippo. Of Hippo.”
She paused then said, “In what respect Markie.”
“Perhaps you’d be better off arguing the hidden harmony defense and attribute Bristol’s kid to a greater plan lost from the vantage point of those in the flood rather than the position of knowing held by Noah. Sure it still calls into question the justice of god and the ontological implications of the evil being punished but at least it represents a sort of occult sublimation of the implied theodicy.”
“I want to fuck you now Mr Talkity Mcchatter.”
“Talk dirty to me you electoral slut.”
“You’re a throbbing elitist!”
“You’re a vapid fuckstick.”
“Engorged terrorist appeaser!”
“Wet and dripping cultural neanderthal!”
“Oh god I’m so hot fo ya Mr New Yerk manlovin’ art fecker!”
“Fillisbuster my hard-on you ideological cumbag!”
“Pork barrel my vj ya cut and runner!”
THis went on for a few more minutes before we said our goodbyes and hung up. I didn’t think of Sarah much again until McCain pulled her out of his ass for his V.P. nomination. She said she’d be President and damn it she and her special needs family might just occupy the White House after all. She may come for me. She may not. I guess if this is out there I’ll have some record of why I might suddenly be disappeared under a Palin regime. Maybe I’ll just visit the oval office and stick cigars up her vj. Either way we had some times. But Peppermint Schnapps gives me heartburn and fundementalist zealots give me the creeps so it’s probably over.
But at least if she’s President I can say I fucked the President instead of the other way around.
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