By Ross “Middle Class Voter” Barkan
I’m sitting down with a bag of Cheetos, big bag I tell ya, extra cheese, and I calls to the wife. I say, “Hey wife you know what I heard on the tube?” And she says, “What, you already told me about them pills that make your diddly hoo hoo better.” And I says, “No, sweet baby Jesus, I heard our future Vice President Sarah Palin is a hockey mom!”
The missus ignores me, but I continue. “She likes some good old hockey and she’s a mom. My word, sweet super Jesus, that’s a woman I want in the office!”
Ok, so I’m watching these debaters debate things. The older fella, Joe Biden, is borin’ me with his talkity talk. Saying stuff about “taxes” and such. Load of horseshit if you ask me, going up there and not even mentioning stuff that’s important to me. I mean, he says nothin’ bout fixing my damn flat tire or gettin’ that fat cat-fucking sack of doughy horseshit Mildred Cummings to keep her cats and her damn hose offa my lawn. Offa I say! But then this Palin, who’s almost as nice on the eyes as the ladies in my magazines, starts talkin’ about the real issues. And I mean hockey!
I love me some hockey. When I was a boy, we would take a skate on the ol’ pond every morning. Choose up sides and play till it got dark. We would take breaks for some lunch and some beatin’ of brown-colored folks, but then it was back to the rink. I been a fan of the Red Wings since my pa was passed out drunk at my 5th birthday in a Gordie Howe jersey. I says to pa, “If ya like Gordie, so will I!” and then he burped up some green-lookin’ stuff.
God damn ya Mildred keep your fucking ugly shit-licking cats off my lawn or I’m gonna come out there with the wrath of black Jesus and shoot them all to hell!
So as I says, I find out in the debates this Palin loves her some hockey too. Sweet Jesus an’ Moses, what a wonderful thing it is. She almost ruined it when she mentioned soccer moms though. The missus and I don’t like soccer and we forbade our boy Billy from playin’ such a sinful European sport that celebrates homosexuals. I seen me some soccer. Nothin’ but two-timing Spaniards sliding on grass with their boyfriends. Ain’t for me or any good American.
As I finish my Cheetos I hear her talkin’ some more. She mentions stuff about oil and health care and I don’t really listen. My pop didn’t need no government to clean the beer offa his pants after he throwed-up at my seventh, eighth, and twelfth birthdays. Or wipe off the sticky from his trousers after he canoodled with the arithmetic teacher at my high school graduation. Naw, good Americans just need some gas and some chewin’ tobacco. And them magazines wit’ the boobies, I fuckin’ love those.
The missus likes Palin ‘cause she’s a mom and has a kid who don’t think good. Billy is kinda slow too. Slow ‘cause he’s fat porker who eats even more goddamn Hot Pockets than I do.
Jesus Mary Fuck An Octopus Mildred, get your damn cats away from my John Deere I will bust Whisker’s ass so hard he won’t know what year it is if cats could know such things.
So this Palin doesn’t know everything, so what? She knows ‘bout hockey and momming. And she’s right up those commie Russians’ tails bein’ from Alaska and all. Of course, she loves Jesus as much as the missus and I pretend to. I been to church every Sunday this year. Ok, other Sunday. Three weeks ago. A month. Since the football season started. Go get ‘em Romo my boy the Cowboys will rise agin!
So the missus and I was on the fence ‘bout McCain who’s got a liberal streak and don’t seem to hate the gays enough. But Palin sealed it for us, I tell ya, she hates them gays and them blacks and hopefully will keep the towelheads away from McDonalds down on Pine Street. She knows what it’s like to be from a small town and not do good in school or know about fancy terms like “geopolitics” and ‘bout all them confusin’ naming countries in the Middle East. Pakiran or whatever, it don’t matter, as long as we blow them to hell so Ol’ Glory can fly forever. Yup, Sarah Palin is the right vice presidential candidate for our country.
Also she’s got a fine ass.
