The Rhetoric of Confusion: Sarah Palin and the Rise of Mediocracy

Doesn't she remind you of someone?

Whenever, in my blog, I venture beyond matters sartorial toward what is considered political, commentary from readers picks up dramatically. It almost seems as if there is a rightist media watch at work, chiding critics of the neo-cons—almost a cultural equivalent of U.S. Border Watch, that intrepid brigade of amateur volunteers who guard our Southern border with binocs in one hand and Lone Stars in the other, from the vantage of strategically placed lawn chairs.

Angry commentators claim that they want to read what I have to say about style, and such vital matters as collar stays and wingtips, but should I veer toward the realm of politics, or even ideas, they not only protest but suddenly question my modest gifts of observation and charge me with blathering.

In fact, it is in no small part matters of style that have occasionally led me into political critique. Style is a consistently reliable “tell” as to the hand being played in politics. I was raised on Marshall McLuhan, and the idea that the medium is the message is part of my intellectual DNA—it’s against my nature to winnow content from form. It’s not just what you say, it’s equally how you say it. In fact, I believe that what you say is how you say it. The ideas George W. Bush have expressed overtly haven’t been particularly shocking, but the seemingly scrambled and mangled words that have delivered his ideas reveal an alarming subtext of obscurantistism. His individual slips are amusing on the surface, but in sum these confused messages constitute an attack on meaning itself. And the chief executive lowering the bar of intelligibility so profoundly is no joke.

The very concept of style begins in words. Style is the particular way we express our individual character, whether in writing, speech, or dress; and there is indeed profound meaning in the manners by which politicians express, comport, and garb themselves. With the surprise choice of Sarah Palin as the Vice Presidential candidate on the Republican ticket we encounter a candidate with a style never before seen in these exclusive precincts. Palin’s style came as a shock to some, a delight to others, and a perplexing mystery to me.

The eminently seasoned politico Bill Clinton seems to actually admire Sarah Palin’s style—maybe it was the red, white, and blue bikini—and he has risen to her defense on style points alone, surprisingly arguing against those on the left and right who are aghast at her selection for the ticket. "I come from Arkansas,” said Clinton, “I get why she's hot out there." Notice his choice of adjective: hot. Apparently the Eastern European heads of state Palin photo-opped with recently found her hot, too. Let’s not forget that she won Miss Congeniality in the Miss Alaska beauty contest, and Miss Congeniality is a title that requires both beauty and, well, congeniality. And the phenomenon of Sarah Palin is about more than meets the eye. A definition of congeniality is “having the same tastes, habits, or temperament,” and it seems that Palin has been chosen precisely because she is congenial to the masses; she shares the tastes, habits and temperament of a significant portion of the mass electorate.

She's one of the gang!

Sarah Palin represents a radical seismic shift in political strategy. Once leaders were chosen for being the best and brightest—we sought out orators, strategists, polymaths, and geniuses to lead us. Today our leaders may be chosen for their representation of American average and for an utter lack of distinction. It is part of the campaign against the intelligentsia, the quiche-and-arugula-eating, Chardonnay-sipping elite. Because of profound changes in the structure of mass media—a shift from the literate world of newspapers to the sound-bite world of cable TV—we have a different sort of democracy today. We now have TV-driven elections and we are discovering that they are very similar to TV programs that involve voting, such as American Idol.

Governor Palin is the fulfillment of the promise of George Bush. Bush was sold to the electorate as the kind of guy you want to have a beer with (even if he’s apparently drinking the non-alcoholic brand.) Bush is not an effete intellectual snob. He is quite the opposite; but if he is a good ole boy, he is a self-made good ole boy. Despite being a scion of the supreme elite, he devoted himself to transcending greatness and, through hard work (like clearing brush), achieving a demeanor of regularity. He shed that Eastern liberal veneer, the posh manners of his upbringing, the ivied aura of Yale, and the mystique of Skull and Bones. Bush lived in Connecticut until he was 13 years old, when Poppy Bush took the family down to Houston, and in those years he attended Andover in Massachusetts, and then Yale. So having spent apparently just five summers in Texas as a youth, George W. took to speaking with the dramatic drawl of a Texan cowboy. His cultural transformation is nothing short of remarkable. No one has ever done more to shed the trappings of privilege and appear “regalar.”

But Sarah Palin is the genuine article. She didn’t have to work to be ordinary; she was born that way. And she is so ordinary that she represents a sea change in American politics. She is the ultimate political candidate for a political system that resembles American Idol. She is far closer to Clay Aiken than she is to Hillary Clinton. What is proclaimed as her strength and virtue is her very averageness: a local beauty contest Miss Congeniality, a mother married to a working stiff, a newcomer to passports who doesn’t live in a McMansion, who hunts and fishes and minds the kids, while somehow juggling chief executive duties the way other moms juggle PTA duties.

Hey mom, what's for dinner?

Somehow her ordinariness and lack of distinction and achievement are now considered to be a key manifestation of the democratic ideal. Palin’s principal qualification is that she realistically represents the masses. The pitch selling her qualification is that the failures of Washington are attributable the educated elites. To achieve real democracy we need someone who is ordinary in every way, someone the little people can identify with, someone who hasn’t been tainted by Harvard or foreigners. Palin is presented as not particularly gifted, educated, wealthy, or beautiful, but as entirely genuine. Her utter averageness is her greatest strength. So to pick on Palin is to pick the American people.

The Republicans are traditionally the party of the moneyed elite, and through perhaps the smoothest bait-and-switch in history, they continue to serve this constituency covertly while descrying their actual agenda. Posing as the party of the people, the party of patriotism and supporting the troops, they have forged an unholy coalition of the religious, the gun-toting, the xenophobic, and the resentful white silent majority, railing against big government while quietly inflating it. By appealing to the fears of the great middle they advance the agenda of the ultra-elite super-wealthy.

But with Palin they have kicked their posture up a notch, adopting the ultimate faux-populist stance by suggesting that the leadership of the extraordinary is a failed idea, and that true democracy is achievable only by giving the absolutely average their shot at running things. And in a masterstroke of re-positioning they have recruited this paragon of puppetry to charm the masses. If the Republicans manage to win, Sarah Palin, as Naomi Wolf has suggested, will likely play Evita to cancerous old McCain’s Juan Peron, ready to step in and do the work of righteousness in a moment of loss or crisis. And, lo, she comes from the promised land! In Palin’s evangelical world view Alaska is the refuge where the righteous will seek comfort when the End Times are upon us.

Palin is a great believer in what they call American exceptionalism. She is a candidate positioned to appeal to those who believe that America has a special destiny, like its best friend Israel. It is the promised land of the chosen people. And now the Republicans have revealed a great and profound irony: that Americans are exceptional because they are average and unexceptional. Indeed, God moves in mysterious ways. As do Republicans. They have learned that Americans don’t want to be led by a charismatic genius sprung from the educated elite, they now want a surrogate in office, someone just exactly like them.

Bush, for all his wealthy upbringing, finally achieved mediocrity through his own determined efforts. But Sarah Palin is a natural; she was the genuine article from the get go. She’s that hyper-determined hockey mom, an over-achiever who feels a special destiny, eerily similar to Nicole Kidman’s murderous newswoman in To Die For. But Palin is an even more special case because it was God himself who put her up to it. And though her resume is unremarkable, it is clearly untainted by the elites. She is something entirely new. She is the chosen prole who embodies the mystical hand of destiny in manifest destiny America.

And while the intellectual snobs of the liberal elite may seek to ensnare Sarah, faulting her for her lack of experience or knowledge, they will not be able to trap her so easily by her words because her words are utterly indecipherable, even inscrutable. What is she saying? They can’t make it out. She seems to be contradicting herself but it’s hard to say for sure because even she doesn’t know what the hell she said. She seems to recite by rote but in her playback she scrambles and encodes it, creating a sort of Gordian gestalt inaccessible to the literate.

But if the media doesn’t understand what she says, the people do, apparently. Because she speaks their broken language. It’s body language and patented catch phrases so charged with emotion, if not precise meaning, that they are positively ionized. Who needs literal precision when you’ve got the vibe.

Bush’s slips and malapropisms seem comic—“putting food on your family”; “we look forward to hear your vision”; “people that had been trained in some instances to disassemble—that means not tell the truth"; “we will stand up for terror…” But Bush’s gaffes are not simply the comic errors of a man who disdains academic grammar, elevated tone, and highfalutin usage in favor of the All-American vulgate; his style is a conscious deconstruction of meaning—the replacement of a language of precision by a language of ambiguity or even ruse.

He found her in a bar!

It’s not easy to achieve meaninglessness in the context of government and statesmanship. Palin goes beyond malapropism into a language of pure gibberish, into doubletalk that resembles the comedy of Professor Irwin Corey—who satirized the elevated jargon that academic elites employ to convey an impression of importance that is all flash and no substance. Palin’s syntax is not that of the English language, but a new kind of language in which conventional structure is replaced by blocks and stacks of code and buzzwords, pre-digested button pushing ideograms that simulate speech but are in fact its opposite.

This new form of communication, more signifying that communicating, is not new. The neo-conservatives have been developing this code in the precincts of Karl Rove and Rush Limbaugh, but Palin is the new grand master of this radical, almost cubistic conservative brand of post-logical rhetoric.

It goes beyond doubletalk, beyond doublespeak, into circumlocution combined with Burroughsian cut-up strategies; so that logical thought is short-circuited, and meaning can never proceed in conventional linear fashion. A sentence—or its equivalent—begins conventionally, but then, when the electrically charged key word is reached, it is as if a switch is flipped and a tangent kicks in, negating the previous logical track while appearing to complete it. In Palin’s discourse there are no actual diagrammable sentences. Instead the Governor speaks in sententious paragraphs of scrambled, cut up clichés, run-on sentences, and collaged clauses, stringing them together like signal flags flapping from a warship.

Palin’s words and phrases don’t mean in the conventional sense. They are not ordered logically, but biochemically, forming a rhetoric of subconscious rhapsody. Her singsong tone is everything, and the phrases it beams are more lyrics than argument. Palin’s song is perhaps related to one of the fundamentalist religionists’ key practices, speaking in tongues. What does one say when speaking in tongues? Is it the Enochian language of the angels (or devils), or is it a signification of language that is in fact its opposite?

One listens with a sort of horror as Palin simulates speech. Surely others recognize that this is not language as usual. Surely the interviewer knows! But then a suspicion begins to take shape, a suspicion that, to many listeners, this dance of words is recognized as meaningful speech. It doesn’t conform to any of the rules of grammar or logic, but it serves as an acceptable substitute for those to whom grammar and logic are not essential in communication.

I wonder what interlocutors like Katie Couric or Charles Gibson really think and feel when listening to this performance, when they recognize that their interviewee is completely perplexed in the face of their questions, either entirely baffled or unprepared to respond. But then correspondents such as these are prohibited from freely questioning the nature of her mode of response for fear that they will be characterized as biased elitists and/or sexists who misunderstand and disparage the folksy colloquial style of the Alaskan governor. But what if she is not dissembling in this mishmash of hers? What is it she is doing when she speaks in cut-up tongues? What if she is invoking avenging angels using Aleister Crowley’s parsing? What if she is summoning Baal and Beelzebub?

The Vice President is the first person in the presidential line of succession.

Responding to criticism of John McCain for saying, in the midst of the banking crisis, that the economy was fundamentally sound, Palin responded: “Well, it was an unfair attack on the verbiage that Senator McCain chose to use.” Undoubtedly she was unaware that verbiage means “a profusion of words, usually of little or obscure content.” It is a common mistake made by those trying to sound important, trying to elevate their tone into something resonant with seriousness. But Palin was correct. McCain is a veritable font of verbiage, a coiner of trite phrases and a cryptologist who uses words that say one thing while suggesting quite another. But as a practitioner of verbiage, Palin doesn’t have to take a back seat to anyone. She pours out catch phrases stripped of the connectors. Finally white people have a signifyin’ monkey of their own. Henry Gates defined signifying as employing tropes that have been memorized in an act of communication and its interpretation. And Palin’s rhetoric is a jumble of tropes designed to grab the audience with a shock and awe of confusion. Imagine a Tourette’s syndrome of euphemism. Nothing is what it seems. Nothing is, finally, nothing.

Democracy is still new and it is, we must realize, highly experimental. It is not a fixed thing but an elusive, ephemeral concept that changes as the way people communicate changes. We possess, it is said, a government of, for, and by the people, and yet our lives are still ruled by secret intelligence agencies and mysterious forces like the Federal Reserve and bizarrely named, inscrutable institutions like Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac—titanic economic forces that sound like almost like the nicknames bestowed by George W. Not to mention the vast network of networks we call the media.

Yes, the people still have the vote, but do they really rule? What is democracy today? To answer these questions we must question to what degree people rule their own lives, and to what degree, in an age of mass-media culture, they are actually moved by strings invisible to them. And now that we have Sarah Palin as the proxy of the people we can study her movements. Can you see Sarah Palin’s strings? Are they in the hands of Dick Cheney and Karl Rove or Jesus Christ, or even forces more occult? Is this ventriloquism on the grandest stage of all? It seems that we are finally within reach of fulfilling Oscar Wilde’s quip: “Democracy means simply the bludgeoning of the people by the people for the people.”

Sleeping and Laughing Through Fashion Week

"God is a comedian playing to an audience too afraid to laugh."
-- Voltaire

Fashion week ended a few days ago, but I'm still recovering. I attended many shows, not out of a consuming interest in women's fashion but because my new job requires me to—not so much as a way to keep up with the latest developments, but as a way to suck up to advertisers. But that’s okay. And I like most advertisers. They are the bio-diesel that runs the magazines. And actually the shows are very enjoyable, for the most part—watching beautiful girls parade in beautiful clothes to loud music. Yeah, sometimes the girls are unsettlingly skinny. Sometimes the music is dumb. Sometimes the clothes are silly or ridiculous. But there are far worse ways to pass the time.

The biggest annoyance is the waste of time. If the show is scheduled for three it will probably start at 3:30 to 3:40, which means if you have a 4 o’clock show and it’s in another part of town you may wind up rushing to make it, and God forbid that show goes off on time. Or if the designer is waiting for Kanye West to take his seat, you might wait for an hour. Then somebody like Marc Jacobs, who used to be the biggest lateness offender, is remarkably punctual and that throws everyone for a loop.

When I was a young editor I went to shows of designers like Willi Smith, Stephen Burrows, and Halston. They were important designers, but today even novice designers have bigger crowds. The fashion world has become show business. The shows in the big tent at Bryant Park are attended by approximately 1,000 seated and maybe a few hundred standees—bloggers, fashion assistants—and there are mobs waiting. Even walking into the tents you have to run a gauntlet of the curious, celebrity hounds, and paparazzi. If I noticed one thing this season it was big, gigantic purses. I mean, I have been aware of them for a while. My wife has a lot and I trip over them. But at the shows I found I was always getting bag bumped. In fact I think that’s what women (and men) like about them. They are bumpers for humans. Want to push somebody? Give ‘em the bag.

And yet the bag brigade acts as if the bag isn’t there and they aren’t shoving you. It’s just like the urban backpackers who turn around and knock you into the street. Bag bumpers are such a problem that I think I have to get a big bag to bump back with—I mean, most of the assailants are women. You can’t slug ‘em, but you can bang ‘em with your own Marc bag. Actually, if I get a bag for bumping purposes I’d like to get one designed like the Rodarte shoes I saw on Cecilia Dean at the Proenza Schouler show. Gnarly.


I mean, if fashionistas are going to get medieval on us we might as well get medieval back.

The other trend that I noticed this season was people in the front row either sleeping or going into a trance. I’m assuming some of this was the jet-lagged foreign press and buyers, but that’s not enough to explain the phenomenon. I’m not going to name any names, but I saw you sleeping. More disturbing were those seated in the front row who were staring straight ahead not looking at the models or the clothes. I started thinking about this film that’s been on late night TV lately, The Invasion, with Nicole Kidman. See, the world has been taken over by an alien virus that turns everyone into emotionless zombie automatons. Once you’re exposed, which can happen through a spilled drink or a kiss, the virus takes hold as soon as you fall asleep. Sort of like Invasion of the Body Snatchers.

Maybe I was tired, but it got me thinking. Was I seeing more emotionless zombie automatons at the shows? Not the models on the runway, but in the audience. At the end, when all the models come out and everyone applauds, there were a lot of people applauding with no emotion, no expression. I remember the old days when people would cheer a single look in the middle of a show, or even the walk of a model like Marpessa would get applause. Today it’s a more jaded crowd. Unless, of course, they have all been turned into aliens.

Was I getting paranoid? I’ve been putting in a lot of hours lately. A lot of stress. Could it be that aliens are invading the planet through the fashion world?

Perhaps the most disturbing evidence that this might be happening, for me, was the Thom Browne show. As usual Mr. Browne made a show that was really a show. He doesn’t just “epater le bourgeoisie,” he confronts the most sacred cows of men’s style and dissects them, rearranges them, and puts them out on the runway in something very close to fine art. What is the meaning of the country club in an age of gangsta hip hop? What is the meaning of gentleman in an age of “Just do it,” or “Never let up, never blend in”? I know he’s just a tailor, or a designer, but this is very high-concept stuff, and it pushes buttons that are hotwired to mass male identity. And the way that he does it is funny. It’s fun.


We seem to have forgotten about post-modernism in this culture, and even modernism seems threatened by a growing tide of fundamentalists of one sort or another, but Thom Browne is the post-modernist par excellence. He takes the uniform of modernism, the business suit, and collides it with other loaded cultural signifiers, like the hanging-off-the-ass pants homeboy look, the just-do-it jock look, and creates chimerical costumes that function as aesthetic demolition devices. From philosophers and pundits down to therapy groups, people are talking about rethinking male identity, but Thom Browne is doing something about it.

Anyway, it was at Thom’s show that I noticed an incredible, impenetrable seriousness among the fashion professionals. I could not stop from smiling, but the whole room seemed utterly deadpan and unreacting at this extraordinary display of deconstructivist revelation. Are we not amused? Are we not men? Well, yes, but what are men? Good question!


Fashion professionals, however, don’t seem to question. Despite a few bright spots of intelligence, mostly writers from The New York Times and’s Tim Blanks, fashion people never seem to wonder what it all means. Which makes one wonder if designers like Browne, Margiela, and Comme des Garçons are popular for reasons other than their artistry. Perhaps it’s the aura of artistry. But I suppose I’m expecting too much. How many art collectors have a grasp of what’s on their walls or in their vaults? Fashion, like art, is a game of follow the leader.

It took me a long time to get with Thom Browne. I think that’s often the case when somebody’s doing something new. I remember hearing a radical Rolling Stones song like “Paint It Black” and thinking that they’d blown it, and then two days later it was a brilliant loop, stuck in my head. I remember when Coltrane was noise and Pollock scribble. Now I will never, consciously, walk around with my trousers hanging below my underwear, nor with my cuffs above my ankles, and yet I must applaud him as an artist working in the field of fashion. (Pause for applause. Still nobody smiling. It’s a little scary to see just how seriously fashion takes itself.)

Clothes make the man, now more than ever, as we inhabit an empire of signs and a reality completely composed of fictions. But clothes should also transform the man; they should be a tool for awareness and social change. (Did I just say social change? Yikes!) What I mean is that clothes like these play with all of the signifiers that in a world of signs define who we are as men. They are cryptic, elusive, playful, and even courageous and defiant. They are more punk than punk ever was. They are more fierce than fey, and when you see Thom Browne himself across a room, with his athletic body and high-and-tight haircut, you could almost imagine him leading a platoon of grunts. Then again, on reflection, it occurs that if his stylistic influence starts to really catch on (and he’s already captured Brooks Brothers, the most hallowed bastion of the American male style establishment) it could fundamentally alter the male sensibility from the outside in.

Dandies are unlikely to invade other countries, or your privacy. They will not act out of blind allegiance to obscure tradition but will create spontaneous solutions to complex problems. Am I overstating? Hey, we’re talking about fashion. But don’t think it doesn’t mean anything.


And if you don’t smile when you see this tall, African-looking bachelor that stripped the bride bare, then maybe you too have been taken over by aliens.

Republican Style Is Shifting

I suppose that you should vote your conscience, or at least your intellect, but the funny thing is, I keep thinking that if you voted for style or for aesthetics you’d probably be just as likely to make the right choice, maybe even more so.

I’m sure some of my readers will think this is a jaded perspective, and that this is the elitism that the Republicans have been talking up in their campaign against Obama. He’s an elitist, he’s a celebrity. He’s a latte sipper and an arugula eater. Funny, it used to be quiche they were incensed about. But now the millions of iceberg loyalists are up in arms about salad. Because McCain presumably eats wedges of iceberg with bottled ranch at his seven houses, he’s more of a man of the people than Obama, who presumably eats salad like a Frenchman. (And no French dressing.) So we might as well fight it out on that front. At least if we’re as green as we say we are we can support the guy most likely to toss up frisee, mache, finocchio (code word for “homo” in Italian), mizuna, radicchio, and endive.

Several months back, assessing the candidates for President, I had this to say about Joe Biden: ”Biden may look a little too bespoke for a White House run. Still, there's something likeable about him, and I'm hoping for Secretary of State Biden. It's about time we had a statesman who, when he puts his foot in his mouth, it at least has a Berluti shoe on it.”

And this about Obama: “How can you not like Barack Obama? He gets you at hello. That radiant smile; that long, lean profile; that quiet dynamism. That Camelot preppie chic. He's almost too stylish, or let's say he's almost too Kennedy-esque….Of course, high style worked for Kennedy. He made ‘charisma’ a household word. Style is what got him elected. The cool breezy glamour of Kennedy trumped the sweaty five o'clock shadow and scripted delivery of Tricky Dick Nixon. And now Obama brings a similarly modernist gleam to this crucial race. While Hillary brays at stentorian volume and Biden turns on the old-school power moves, Obama sets just the right tone and volume for today. He speaks with cool, measured reason in a network-quality deep baritone, making serene, steady eye contact and using JFK-like hand signals. Watching him in the debates, the hand signals were almost eerily similar to Jack Kennedy's, and this candidate, self-consciously or not, presents the same youthful vigor and charm that made Jackie's husband the idol and hope of millions.”

Hmm. It seems that the most stylish men made the ticket. And maybe if Hillary had listened to me she would have, too. I must say though, that she has made a wonderful loser. Her appearance at the Democratic Convention was extraordinary. Not just the speech, but the way she handled her voice and face. The contortions were gone, along with the brays and honks. She was nearly presidential. As one not fond of her pantsuits and their traveling sisterhood, I must admit that she did look radiant at the convention in that almost dayglo orange suit, against that almost dayglo blue backdrop. One of the best photos from the convention was the posse of Hillary handlers holding up a veritable pantone book of pantsuits to see which looked best against that cerulean wall. It wasn’t just the pantsuit that was radiant; she seemed to glow from the core. In defeat she finally appeared presidential.

Stylishness does not seem to help in the Republican Party, where the frumpiest contender of the lot tops the ticket. Obviously they are cleaning McCain up a bit, getting him out of grandpa’s sweater and making sure his shirt is tucked in, but in keeping with the Republican’s ironically populist stance, maybe McCain’s sheer stylistic clumsiness has appeal to the world of regular guys. He might have seven houses, but does he have seven suits?


Meanwhile his running mate is not only the first woman on a Republican ticket, she's the first bimbo on any ticket.


She is one of that rare breed of Americans who, when she picks up the Monopoly card “You have won second prize in a beauty contest,” can say, “Yes, indeed I have!” She also won a “Miss Congeniality” contest, and her pitbull-with-lipstick image is something that Sandra Bullock should be able to sink her teeth into. I can see the TV movie now. The former mayor and governor obviously made her way to the top by displaying that combination of cuteness and meanness, that feisty Bullockness, that very American quality of thinking that insulting a man is attractive. I know that persona is tremendously popular among women of my generation, which accounts for so many of the “sisterhood of the traveling pantsuits.” They think that sarcastic mocking performed with a bit of sexual innuendo thrown in actually attracts men. And they wonder why their husbands left them for post-feminist trophy vixens.

Sarah Palin is the candidate of the first wives club. She knows that men like a challenge and she undoubtedly knows how to tease them with icy coldness.


She’s definitely no dummy. That’s why she wears glasses and goes for that Nana Mouskouri look. And no doubt lots of voters will identify with her K-Mart wardrobe. Her name is an anagram of “plain.” That’s the message here folks. She’s one of us!


She'll be a veep in velour. With beehive, bangs, and highlights! And down-home styling touches like the banana clips.



And she leaves no doubt on the score of man's dominion over animals. What good are they if you can't shoot 'em, eat 'em, or wear 'em?


This coat looks like she shot it herself. And this jacket…no, maybe that’s Naugahyde. I wonder if they still have naugas up on the North Slope.


John McCain would be the oldest President ever. And the first who has had two bouts with melanoma. So we wonder, should McCain/Palin win, what odds Vegas would lay on Sarah Palin becoming the 45th President of the United States?


If so we know what will get. Theocracy. No right to choose (even in cases of rape), Creationism taught in schools, banning same-sex marriage and benefits. She not only prays for you and me and all right-thinking Americans, she also prayed for a $30 billion natural gas pipeline. And for God’s plan for Iraq: “Our leaders, our national leaders, are sending [troops] out on a task that is from God. That's what we have to make sure that we're praying for—that there is a plan and that that plan is God's plan."

In the coming days we’ll be learning more about God’s other plans, and I suspect He plans to do something about our heathen culture. Apparently Governor Palin believed that Alaska would, in the end times, which might just be now, become a refuge for fleeing Christians. Maybe God told her about trouble ahead. He seems to talk to her, just like He did with George W. Remember your Bible. God spoke to Moses through a Burning Bush. What’s next?

Some people think Sarah Palin is hot. She might just be hot enough to burn a library—or a country.