September 8, 2008
by Volt and Electra Penn

It was 3 a.m. I woke up drenched in cold sweat. My dream had started innocently enough, a sunny day in a green meadow. Then it took a dark turn into a dank room with a dead man. A huge tumor on his left cheek and thin gray hair combed to one side of his head gave the pasty corpse an uncanny resemblance to presidential contender John McCain.

Ever since Mr. Sordonicus dug up his father's grave to get his hands on a winning Power Ball ticket, I've had my eyeballs glued to the macabre. I know it's ridiculous, but that's why I can recognize Hollywood nonsense when I dream it.

What had really set my heart racing and sweat-glands gushing was - what-if McCain is elected president, and Sarah Palin becomes one heart attack away from assuming the role of Commander-in-Chief of the Army, Navy, Marines and 'We the People'?  

The very idea of a reactionary power-digging ditch-snitch like Palin fondling the hot-line in the White House at 3 a.m. should be enough to scare the dead. It set me on my feet, rummaging around in the kitchen freezer when Electra snapped on the light.

"What the hell is going on in here?" She asked. "It's 3 freakin' a.m."

"Sorry," I said, "I was having a panic attack. President McCain had croaked. Palin's ass was parked in the Oval Office with her finger on the button.  I need some Effen."  I poured myself a shot of the icy vodka. "She was signing executive orders left and right," I hissed. "There was no more separation of church and state. The church was the state. Abortion providers, docs, nurses were stoned to death. Muslims persecuted. Queers crucified. And unions."

"Whoa, hoss," Electra said. "It was a nightmare. Palin's not president. And at last check McCain's still sucking air."

"Whew," I said. "So, we're still stuck in Biden time."

"A Biden is a better bide than to abide a 44 year old beauty queen parading around Washington," Electra said. "I know a thing or two about those flea-ring circuses. Remember, I swung from the same trapeze."

"That's right. You were Miss Tightwad, Missouri of---uh - 1967."

"Do you have to say that so loud? So what if I go back so far it's prehistoric. I was #13. Shows how lucky I was. They made us wear paper dresses for God's sake. The pageant director kept cutting the hem off until the bottom was flapping up the crack of my ass. I'll tell you one thing about beauty contests. Miss Congeniality like Palin is never a sucker."

"No, then what is she?" I asked.

"She's a blower. That's how Miss Independence got to be so congenial in '67. We roomed together during the Miss Mo-Kan contest. Miss Indy showed me how she puckered her lips to blow, see?"

Electra headed back to bed laughing, and I poured myself another shot of 'smooth as silk'. The thought of Sarah Palin strutting her spandex stuff in D.C., practicing her blowing technique blew my mind. 

It's too bad Palin didn't make the grade to become Miss Alaska. Instead, she came in a runner-up, an also-ran, just another somebody who couldn't cut the salmon with the judges. And where do ex-beauty queens with big boobs go? They become sofa strokers, servers at Hooters or TV weathergirls, honest working-girl jobs, according to Electra.

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As the weathergirl, Palin spent much of her time playing 'Little Nell' trying to outrun the horny station manager. Around and around they ran, the rumor runs, just the sort of thing that happens to those working in, for or around the media. 

What really puzzles me is just who voted for this cougar, Palin? The indigenous Eskimos probably don't care who's in an Alaskan whorehouse, the Gov's house or, an outhouse. People of nature seem to want to get out of the way or ignore an invasion of whites. Polar bears don't care if you're a republican or a democrat. They're too busy trying to float from one melting ice chunk to another. Alaskan hunters, trappers and fishermen can't be bothered either. They're too far out to sea to see. All the real working stiffs in that frigid state are either snowed-in, snowed under or snow-blind. 

It must have been those bible thumping church-going busybodies of the local P.T.A. who put Palin in the state house. She's got the right rightwing credentials to allow any preacher to stick their nose into a woman's womb and push everybody's face onto the same hymn page. Don't forget, Palin was also the Gangster Business Class' poster yes-girl for killing and drilling. Maybe that's why she's got the house-keys to Alaska's governor's mansion.

With her as a pick for vice, it's almost as if Karl Rove has been writing the script. Palin, her hubby and kids could be another 'Truman Show', reality at its worst, and more misdirection for the masses. But why so many babies Mr. Rove? Mrs. Palin already has five or six kids, and what woman, especially at age 44, wants a sucker hanging on while speechifying?

It shouldn't make a damned bit of difference whose baby is whose - mother's or daughter's.  What is problematic is that Mrs. Palin really doesn't want to be bothered with child rearing herself. I guess that job goes to Mr. Palin or a stand in.

After my third shot of vodka, I dozed off to sleep. I was biding time at another Convention. Up on the platform was a right-on woman from the 'big hair' days. She parted her ruby red lips and said, "Poor Johnny McCain. He cain't help it. He's sick and he's tired But worse---he was born with a forked tongue in his mouth."

As the crowd went wild with applause, the woman took a deep breath and in a smoky voice continued. "If little Johnny thinks for one second that he can capture the heartstrings of the poor emotionally misguided women in this country by offering them a womanly vice - he's right. But, if he thinks for one moment that intelligent thinking women will fall in line with this cheap shot to win - then he's dead wrong."

On and on, the millions of people screamed, cheered and clapped from the audience. The woman in the blue dress thundered into the microphone, ".and because we are women and men of courage, because we are women and men who do the right thing, we vow never to go back to the bad old days, cowering under somebody's thumb. Hear us roar, Mr. McCain. We'll never fall for a Sarah Palin's feminine gender or her people-forsaken agenda."

I woke up this morning with a clear head and a calm mind, convinced that the geezer and the bimbo are history - right up there with the Mondale/Ferraro ticket and collectable memorabilia. Maybe old John McCain forgot what the Gangster Business Class told him, but I haven't.

First it's the black man. Then a woman.

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Have Penn they'll listen. Volt Penn writes speeches for Progressive Populists and reasoned arguments for those on the left of center. He has also written speeches for anybody who has read his work. You can reach Volt Penn through his artist friend, b.b.kemp, at bbkemp@bbkemp.com

Volt/Electra Penn copyright 2008

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