I can’t hide it anymore. After a long struggle with guilt and shame, I’ve finally decided to come out of the closet…about my sexual attractions towards Sarah Palin, whom I unfortunately find quite the MILF. Would I ever vote for her or agree with her politics? Never! But would I hit that and quit that? You betcha!
I can’t explain if, when, or why it happened…all I remember is that a friend of mine said, “So, did you see Sarah Palin on the news last night?” recently, and apparently according to her account, I got a wistful look in my eyes and said, “Yes…” with a smirk on my face. She promptly punched me in the arm and said, “Eww! Gross! You totally think Sarah Palin is hot, don’t you?” And then I was unmasked.
It doesn’t make any sense. I don’t agree with anything this woman says, I find her somewhat scary, and apparently she thinks she can see Russia from her house. (But the real question remains: is it possible to look down her blouse from Moscow?)
I only have two explanations for how this might have happened. One is that I’ve been single for too long—meandering the gay Sahara for a compatible, single, well-adjusted woman who is actually a dyke and can spare more than five quarters on a good date—that I collapsed into a strip of quicksand between Cubby Hole and RF Lounge, stretched my gnarled hand towards the sky and in a dry, parched rasp, croaked, “Les…bians…please…give me…les…bians” before falling into a trance of desperate, inappropriate attractions towards creepy hetties on CNN.
Another is, in the same vein of my straight girl friends who can’t deny their attraction to “the bad boy,” that I somehow can’t deny my attraction to a terrifying Republican who would like nothing better than to take away all of my civil rights. The good looks, the complete unattainability, the ability to break my heart. It’s all there.
Staging an intervention, one friend assailed me in a fit of rage. “This is horrible! You’re attracted to cruelty and stupidity?”
“On come on,” I said, sheepishly. “You mean to tell me that if you saw that woman in a dimly lit bar in the village, giving you a come-hither stare, bosom aheave, that you wouldn’t want to tap that?”
“HEAVING BREASTS?” she cried. “Life is about more than HEAVING BREASTS!”
It may be the by-product of reading too many trashy romance novels, but I sometimes fantasize about Sarah Palin doing something terrible and unforgivable, like hunting animals from her helicopter. I’m on board, wearing a flowing (yet tasteful dress.)
“Stop the killing, please, my love!” I implore, fainting backward with my hand on my forehead.
It’s then that Sarah Palin shushes me, like a sexy librarian, flings her rifle with gusto off the side of the aircraft, then takes me in her arms like A REAL WOMAN, and I am lost, awash in the smoldering, heated kisses administered by the rugged, yet buxom governor of the frosty frontier.
I’m aware that this is sick, wrong, and horrible. To that, I say some people are into butt plugs. And I’m kind of into Sarah Palin. To each her own.
Oh Palie, Palie, Palie. I don’t know if you’re reading GO Magazine out there in Alaska, but please know that if you ever change your political party OR your sexual orientation (hopefully both), I’m waiting with bated breath. If you ever end up taking a geography class, thereby figuring out where New York is, I’ll take you out to Serendipity so that we can share a hot fudge sundae and play footsies under the table, holding hands and giggling the entire time. It’ll be magic. And if you ever get behind gay marriage, I would definitely love to get behind you, girl…especially in a cute, form-fitting pink dress, please. Rrrr.