Victims need Victors

Sarah Palin is/is not. What she appears to be, what she was, where she stands. She may be an alien who has dropped from the sky to give the rabble something to blather about. As a pop spectacle, an effervescent phenomenon, she afflicts the populace like very little else has in recent memory. Has she "saved" John McCain like she imagines her Jesus has saved her? Perhaps it's her tendency to look her accuser straight in the eye as she's stretching the truth like so much delicious taffy. She lies but her hair is so impeccably coiffed that the words flutter to the ground as we run through them like kids playing in a poppy seed field.

Her followers seem willingly blinded to the glaring inconsistencies in her presentation. They are cowed by her charisma and all the promises that youth entails. Men want to fuck her like they've never wanted to fuck anyone before. It's power, the promise of annihilation that drives people to her. A kitten with a whip is an indescribable fantasy that men harbor and women repeatedly fail to make manifest. Sarah Palin with a whip, with those boots past her knees, ordering her subordinates to do her bidding while nursing the poor bastard that's recently slithered from between her glistening thighs. It's a tantalizing image and one gets a special thrill imagining her all greasy under the hood of a '76 stingray, her hair a conniption, her fingers tightly clutching a wrench that she could use to bring you to your knees.

We long to feel the heated sting of the whip cracking against our backs. The most powerful woman in the world, sunbathed and excruciatingly elegant, her backless silk gown displaying to the world muscled shoulders, utterly bereft of tension. We want to capture her, to pull her into us, so that we too may enjoy the rapture of her terrible being. Whether or no we agree with what she says is her plan to release us from our trivial lives, we cannot escape her presence from our consciousness. She steals our dreams and afflicts us with such immediacy that we merely hope to be punctured, shredded and devoured by her hungry little mouth. This isn't about identifying with her moxy or merely imagining her moaning low as we pull her her head back by her hair. It isn't strictly an aesthetic response to hot new flesh to play with for the moment. It's about the inherent absurdities in contemporary American culture and how we exacerbate them by mourning when all our vacant words fail to fill the void.

Imagine poor little Willow. Holding hands, her pulse racing. That first fevered moment of recognition as she shudders. Her desires suddenly apparent, shriekingly victorious as she longs, begs, cries out to be held in his arms as she trembles. The sulking middle child, creeping tenuously toward oblivion, dreaming of the big black car that sings of dangers and impossible delights.

We didn't anticipate her and we've had no precedents. She merely found us wanting, waiting patiently for the circus to finally come to town and amuse us nearly to death. This is simply the loudest, most dangerous ride and we are spinning, spinning about, singing songs of impermanence, shouting to be heard above the fray. Will she hear our pleas for recognition? Will she cradle us in her arms and brush the hair from our faces? Is she Kali coming to slay the monsters while soothing our fears? Or is she merely a cog in a poorly maintained machine, spouting off scripted words that they insist we want to hear? She is nothing new, is she? Certainly she is not the first cruel woman with insatiable bloodlust to enter the arena with fangs bared and golden breasts exposed.