Usually you need the dirt-encrusted hand of a dead zombie prom queen thrusting upwards from the grave to trigger such bone-chilling horror, as you flee as far and as fast as your legs will carry you, hollering, “Run, run, run for your lives, she’s back!!!” Turns out, one other thing can do it: Sarah Palin on our television screen again.
You snatch the TV remote and hit buttons frantically, wondering what clown left the TV on the Fox “News” channel, but no … that rifle-packin’, flag-wrapped, shrieking harpy is on all the channels, gushing support for Donald Trump via excoriation of President Obama and a Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride of patriotic non-sequiturs and idiotic sarcasm.
Me, I’m befuddled. Befuddleder, actually, because the only thing more befuddling to me than Donald Trump’s meteoric rise in the Republican primary is that he tapped Sarah Palin for an endorsement. Given that her legacy is to be the Queen Midas of politics (everything she touches turns to ca-ca), why on earth would The Donald want to be associated with her in any way? If anything, you’d think he’d nod to his bodyguards to drag her away if she got within 300 yards of him.
But no. Trump invited that demonic ditz into his campaign.
Unless… is it possible?… Trump doesn’t really want to be president! The reality is sinking in that patting the firm, shiny butts of bikini-clad beauty queens and grandly firing stables of C-List celebrities is way more fun than serving as Commander in Chief. Sarah Palin is his campaign suicide pill!
Well played, old man. That’s one sly move. I’m almost enticed to wonder what unconventional and novel things you might do if implanted in the Oval Office … how you might really shake things up.
And then I recall the megalomanic sewage that spews from your weirdly round little choirboy mouth underneath that dead tribble on your head, and yeah … I’m curious, but not self-destructively so.
Suicide by Sarah. That’s the only logical explanation. Sarah Palin was Trump’s Hail Mary. Except he isn’t trying to make the goal, he’s trying to escape it.
Eh, football. Who needs it anyway.
Despite this crafty ploy, the Trump faithful haven’t budged. They aren’t supporting Trump because they agree with him, they’re supporting Trump because they’re fed up with Congress (and rightly so), and they want to drop the Trump bomb and blow it all up. So it doesn’t really matter what he says or does.
But I must say, I admire Trump’s creative attempt at self-sabotage (and escape) by aligning himself with a deeply unlikable character. Maybe try it with Jeb Bush.
Meanwhile, however, Mr. Trump, you’ve unleashed Sarah Palin into our consciousness again, just when she was teetering at the brink of irrelevancy — so very, very close to just evaporating into oblivion. And you brought her back. It’s the psychological equivalent of flinging an ebola-filled water balloon into a crowd and sitting back to watch the fun.
You may find it amusing, in your solid gold, airtight haz-mat bodysuit. The rest of it? Not so much. We’re all barfing and spewing blood from our ears just hearing that banshee’s voice again. It’s a screaming infant, a jackhammer on concrete and an entire classroom of fingernails on a chalkboard all rolled up into one giant cat with its tail in a blender.
And that’s just how it sounds. The content is even more torturous.
Here’s a sampling of things Palin actually said in her recent speech, at which she wore a jacket adorned with ripples of dangly silver bullets that sparkled subliminally over her breasts when she moved (Google a video, I’m not making this up):
About her supporters: “Right wingin’, bitter clingin’, proud clingers of our guns, our God, and our religions, and our Constitution.”
About Trump: “He being the only one who’s been willing, he’s got the guts to wear the issues that need to be spoken about and debate on his sleeve.”
I’m astounded that my Grammarcheck didn’t flash a squiggly green line under that when I typed it. I suppose, technically, it is grammatically correct much as “Hand me the refrigerator because dogs can’t type with icepicks in their pancreas backpacks” also does not alert Grammarcheck to anything amiss.
(Note to Microsoft: Please develop Babblecheck.)
About… (something?): “Well, and then, funny, ha ha, not funny, but now, what they’re doing is wailing, “well, Trump and his, uh, uh, uh, Trumpeters, they’re not conservative enough.’ ”
What does that even mean?
Usually, the only thing that causes such mental contortion is a slam poetry reading. At least with a poem, the message eventually emerges, on an intuitive level if not a logical one. I suppose Palin’s message actually does emerge, if you can manage to listen to her babbling bilge without fleeing like a dead zombie prom queen just thrust her hand at you from the political grave: “Look at me, look at me, look at me!!!”
Like a rock star or TV preacher who thrives on the shrieking adoration of faithful followers, Palin craves that spotlight like a junkie craves a fix. She needs that high, that rush. And Donald Trump just handed her a needle, rubber tubing and a big fresh bag of China white.
Yes, zombie Palin is back and she’s after our brains. But do not despair. We can mitigate our terror and misery with the knowledge that somewhere in America, Tina Fey watched that speech, too, had a multiple full-body orgasm and raced to dust off her pink suit. SNL will kill.
And, maybe, just maybe, somewhere else in America, Jon Stewart is writhing in agony about the timing of his retirement and rethinking his decision. I mean, Trevor Noah is a cute little cupcake and all, but… Where have you gone, Jon Stewart — a nation turns its lonely eyes to you.
Trump and Palin. It’s the China white of comedy.
Come on, Jon. You know you want it.
— Email Debra DeAngelo at email@example.com; read more of her work at www.wintersexpress.com and www.ipinionsyndicate.com