Dear Sarah Palin,
There is no shortage of threats to stupidity in politics. Every morning I walk to school I step on gum, black gunk on the bottom of my favorite sneakers, a scar, a black hole. I love your glasses, Sarah, and goats too, and when I say I think you’re a toad I don’t mean it literally, Kermit the Frog. I am not mean nor do I espouse amphibian politics, or amphibianism. Sarah was once my favorite name but now I prefer Athena. I’d samba with you in a second even if you were inspired by Tao. I’m into exorcism and erotica and imaginary Volkswagens just like you.
Sarah, Mom says you’re awesome but don’t forget she is on drugs. Poor woman has a penchant for dope. I read recently what you wrote in the Washington Post: “Obama’s cap-and-trade energy plan…will undermine our recovery over the short term and would inflict permanent damage.”
I often go with the flow of dead fish but sometimes I wonder why dead fish float for no reason at all except that they’re dead, or pretending to be covered in crude oil. I often make out with dogs and cats, cabbage patch dolls and transformers too, but that’s just pretend. We’ll leave it at that. I also know there are Bigger Things in life like Megan Fox and human innovation. The long term has a habit of pain and gain, S & M, Alexandria and Gomorrah. The myth of Sisyhpus is just a myth unless you make it so.
Dear Sarah, by inflict permanent damage do you mean like the time father and I played soccer in the house and my chin split on the coffee table? I have a scar but now I avoid coffee. Or do you mean like wounded veterans from Iraq or Afghanistan with missing limbs and traumatic brain injuries? Or do you mean the kind of damage you inflict on yourself in 9th grade with a razorblade and a death wish because you just couldn’t understand why?
I don’t want people to think I’m too serious or sexist so I’ll just say one more thing: can coal blast us off to the moon? Can natural gas catapult us beyond Mars? Is Alpha Centauri reachable by car?
Permanent damage is always looking into the rearview mirror of your childhood when you were in the backseat and I was just a dream. It’s the time your father drove and drove and drove until you magically arrived home in a groggy haze as he carried you to bed through a cloud of carbon monoxide, tailpipe dreams, garage door opener.
Sarah, what if your father was George Jetson and he could’ve gotten you home in the blink of an eye, like on Star Trek? Beam me up Scotty. What if he carried you across the galaxy in his arms to the Promised Land?
Sarah, do you remember Pegaus? Do you remember how you learned to drive?
I promise not to complain anymore about you in private but I read something else you wrote in the Post about tapping “the resources that God created right underfoot on American soil.” I thought about God and His dream for America and I realized He had not dreamed of us at all.
Sarah, why do humans look down when things get tough? Is it cold feet or a fetish for six-feet under? Why do we never look to the stars when there’s almost nothing left to live for? Are we not rearview mirror images of each other, always looking for the next Big Thing, a newborn nebula?
Dear Sarah, I love you and your right to speak. I love Borat and post-racial politics. I love ponies too. You are right, we must move in a new direction, but we must lift our feet to the stars. If you want to hitch a ride on a bus, be my guest.