For 10 Straight Nights I Dreamed of Sarah Palin

by Arthur Radley

I am lost in the wilderness, being quiet and still, lest Sarah Palin mistake me for a wolf and shoot me from her big airplane.

I am going to work a float at the Alaskan Macy's Thanksgiving's Day Parade. I am supposed to help control Barney, or Dora the Explorer, but they're not there. Instead, I must control the float for Vladimir Putin.

I am boffing Sarah Palin.

I am telling a scientist that the adult male body is 60 percent water. I tell him I hope that if Sarah Palin shoots at me from her airplane, she hits me in one of the more watery parts.

I am on Facebook; I am friending Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, Hamid Karzai and that newish Russian guy to prove I am ready to assume the office of Vice President. Karzai loves emoticons. TMI?! (:> P

After a long night of Palin-boffing, she and I are sitting on her back porch. Floating above us in the sky is a blimp. On the side it reads: Goodyearski.

President McCain is shot and killed by Al Gore. Gore is carted away; he is shouting, ''Lock box! Lock box!'' Sarah Palin pours me a coffee in the war room, smiles and says, ''Whoooo-Hooooooo! Told ya!''

I boff Sarah Palin and then go off and return to her in the morning and say, ''My darling, I have changed my first name to Truck!'' She asks to see my driver's license and she realizes I have also changed my middle name to Hussein. She shoots me with her handgun and sells my left rear hoof.

Katie Couric, constantly blinking, says there's something in her eye. Sarah Palin attempts to remove it with the business end of a Dyson.

I can see the gorgeous full moon from my window. Therefore, I am now an expert on interstellar foreign policy. That's what I tell Sarah Palin, and we clink our beers. But then she cries . . . and cries and cries and cries. And cries terribly once more. And I do not feel bad at all, not one iota . . . except for the fact that we do not boff that night.

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