Follow Me There!
If ever you wondered if Sarah Palin was indeed the next coming of Christ, her reality TV show, hagiographically titled “Sarah Palin’s Alaska”, proves that not only does Palin own Alaska, but that she is your next Messiah. Special props for the brilliant Jesus propaganda where Palin is backlit angelically with her arms up to the Heavens and music by Christian rock band Third Day calls, “Follow me there!” over and over and over again.
This was your introduction to politics as reality TV show propaganda and I must say that while I was intermittently distressed by Palin’s mean girl, I thought she sure showed those liberal elites a thing or two because while she might have quit her job as governor, she sure didn’t quit that rock. Also, I’ve never seen a more charming and sexual version of rock climbing in all my days and to think I used to climb rocks but never did I ask for help from the mens so beguilingly or dangle with a camera shooting right up my bottom just in case the males in the audience missed the reference.
Karl Rove, I think you have a problem. Your girl isn’t standing down and I can’t imagine that you would look so good dangling from a harness over rocks, Karl. And ain’t it all about the hotness of your bottom? I mean, isn’t that what you’ve been selling us up until now?
And after all, what says President more than rock climbing? I mean, aren’t rocks the ultimate metaphor for real world challenges like mean bloggers and nasty authors and cruel, insecure journalists who dare to ask candidates what they read while the pretty dangles just out of your reach with her winks and her cries for help?
Sure, Palin may have failed in real life but in this glossy rendition of her myth, Palin is the superhero second coming, full of life and surprises—most especially did our Politicos love how instead of Jesus II coming from a manger, this one comes full grown and from the hilltops of the “portal” of Alaska, which is where all of the saved will be beamed up to Heaven after Palin takes office and End Days commence. This will only happen after the older white males of the GOP have a collective orgasm watching Palin parade around for the next two years, each month the hint of skin growing more bold, enticing them on to the ballot box. Do it, daddy! Vote for Jesus.
Speaking of when Palin takes office, I want to prepare my hungry Palin fans for the fact that Palin will not actually reside in stuffy DC. No, sirree. DC is too much for our frontier gal. Recall, will you, how she redecorated and rehabbed the governor’s mansion to such great cost, even installing a tanning bed (to generate that faux outdoorsy glow) only to ditch it and charge the tax payers to live and eat at home, in Wasilla, which is the only Real America we have.
You would know this if you had taken a trip down big box lane and seen the Wal-Mart that so Americanly replaced mom and pop stores in Wasilla. So, unless you want Palin to install a Wal-Mart within snow machine distance to the White House, get ready to pony up for her real residence after you “Follow Her” to Alaska.
You didn’t think she was going to use all of that Sarah PAC money for stuffy old politics, did you? A girl has to live, people. And while you may be dismayed to think of how Palin will kill any remaining science funding we might have in this country of Orwellian exceptionalism wherein intellectual merit is a bad thing, ponder how only Palin could truly inspire the creation of a faster private jet to whisk her from her White House in Wasilla to various parties around the world and tell me you don’t see a positive for science!
It must amuse the Grizzly Mama when the high brow elite smugly announce that Palin might be a hit with the Teabaggers but she couldn’t debate any of the Republican candidates out of a paperbag. Boys, you aren’t paying attention. She isn’t going to debate anyone. She doesn’t have to. Would Jesus deign to debate Mitt Romney? I think not.
Jesus would take to Facebook to make pronouncements from on high. Jesus would attack via Twitter. Jesus would never debate. The gods do not debate mortals and they don’t answer questions from the mealy mouthed press, no matter how hard said mealy mouthed press massages the relentless myth of Herself. It’s not good enough, and why should it be? Would Jesus allow the Wall Street Journal to correct him? I think not.
Yes, my fellow Americans, country music has met wild frontier gal and created Jesus II, who you will happily vote for when the mind conditioning is complete. Gone are the days of “issues” and “policies” and other boring legal governing elite type talk. Why bother with all of that when the world is ending? Just sit back and enjoy following Sister Sarah to End Times. She’s your messiah. You know you want it.
“Sarah Palin’s Alaska” is political porn for the evangelical crowd. Palin even does y’all the courtesy of minding her language which tends toward the vulgar, but with the added heady appeal to those who love to watch blood spill from animals and find inter-family hostility charming because nothing says the Prince of Peace like a shot gun aimed at a defenseless animal or a fish with his head cut off, blood oozing over the wound as the proud First Daughter sells abstinence from behind the gore.
I was only surprised she failed to wrap herself in a flag naked as she stood backlit over the cloudy End Times sky. There’s always next week.
Though to be fair, Palin gives her viewers what they really want by sashaying around in “runners” shorts for much of the time, even when all of the males are in long pants. This little quirk is apparently genetic, as daughter Willow follows suit in an enticing pair of jean cut-offs. The sort my mother would never have allowed me to wear in public, let alone on TV. But then my mother is one of those wanton liberal types. Not a good little Christian like Palin.
Follow Me, Karl. Follow me there. Let me take you to a place you never dreamed of, where little girls in short shorts outwit you and run for your party’s nomination as the Second Coming. Or perhaps the GOP’s first coming, if you know what I mean.