Sarah Palin: Continuing Her Hypnotic Hate-Fuck March

Posted at 11:55 AM Oct 03, 2008

By Andy Beckerman

If I have to hear one more “Drill, baby, drill,” double, ahem, single entendre, I think my dick might go limp eternally out of exasperation. But while watching the debates last night, I think I finally understood what so many people find attractive about Palin. At first, I found the rally to bathe in her womblight rather anti-feminist, as if the only thing Palin had to offer America was her vagina. Don’t forget though, she’s also anti-choice, and let me tell you, my friends, nothing gets me harder than the possibility of having sex with a rigid, moralizing lunatic.

But watching her last night, I deeply understood the scads of sad, lonely sacks that professed their libidinous desire to thrust away incompetently at her for a few seconds, only to spurt out an orgasm as bleak as The Killing Fields.

The desire to fuck Sarah Palin doesn’t stem from some misogynist impulse or Oedipal wish, but rather from our death drives. As an empty shell, Palin doesn’t represent a woman, but rather the apotheosis of emptiness; she is annihilation pure and simple. To fuck her is to fuck death, to find sweet release not in le petite mort, but in le grand mort.

Watching her on stage with Joe Biden was like watching a child play a game with an adult. There are moments of recognition; bright, hot flashes of insight that quickly peter out into the dark: an ever-black night of folksy bullshit, gosh darns and gee whizzes that whizzed around her empty nucleus of a self like backwater electrons from some hick molecule deep in the recesses of the universe. You know, where the quarks creepily play banjos and Ned Beatty gets raped by some large hadron. The whole thing sounded something like:

Biden: "We must do something about genocide in Africa. I’ve visited the death camps and mass graves, and this is something we must work against."

Palin: "Well, I don’t know much about mass murder, but I sure as shootin’ love caramel corn in all its multifarious forms. Fiddle Faddle, Cracker Jacks (love the prize!), uh, Harry..Harry and David’s Moose Munch. I like to shoot a box of that from an aerial vantage point. Makes it tastier."

Biden: "Bits ‘n’ Pops?"

Palin: "Bits ‘n’ Pops. Right on."

Ifill: "Poppycock Original Popcorn Clusters?"

Palin: "Is that like a black thing?"

Ifill: "I think they’re manufactured by ConAgra…so no."

Palin: "Oh, look, time’s up."

However, if any metaphor captures the dynamic between Biden and Palin, one need look no further than Mad Men. Dan Draper: perfectly composed, rational, deeply immersed in falsehoods like a second skin and his wife; Betty: an infantalized former model who understands little about life beyond her narrow vision. If only Matthew Weiner had written the debate, perhaps I wouldn’t have spent the majority of the time finding things to do around the house to distract myself from the torturous awkwardness. At least the litterbox is now clean enough eat cat shit off of. So, dig in, America. You can never eat enough.