The Big Head on the Bed and Sara Palin

So long in the wilderness I have been, so long, this big head on the end of a bed. How long has my TV remote been lost? So long that I have only been able to watch this one channel, nothing but puppies 24 hours a day, puppies puppies puppies (and me a cat fancier with nothing but a stuffed cat). But from time to time a scroller passes at the bottom of the screen, updating me on the news of the world:

“Jon Cheats on Wife”
“Farah Fawcett succumbs to cancer”
“Big light in sky Scares minority groups in sector C”
“Hamburger all over the highway in Mystic Connecticut”
“Sara Palin ‘Goes Rogue…’ New Book Released!”

Me, the Big head and my home on the head-bored

What? O’ joy O’ joy! A sad world becomes a happy one at last. A world too complex with so many people talking and so many words, confusing creatures like me, the giant head on a bed. But me, just a simple creature, an everyday creature, who dreams of purple churches and shot guns and ecstatic hunting trips at Thanksgiving, the happy field-dressing of the buck, the flowing of the beer and the football and the money and the cheeseburgers and the american cars and treasures made in China purchased at the Walmart and the television and more bad English, good bad english and screaming radios and fish and the Survivor and General Mills and Bill Gates and FOX News and the big banks and the rebels burning in the streets (yea!) and prisons keeping me safe and polyester and the television. Lead me from the darkness of this world to the light of simplicity Sara, lead me.

But Sara did you know I couldn’t read? No, this they never taught me at the factory, before they bonded the front half of my enormous head to the bed. Part of my brain (I’m afraid I’m not sure what part it was as… I only have the part of my brain that is aware of the other stuff) was removed and provided as sustenance to your people at the convention of the candidates in 2008. How I smiled when I watched them ingest the convoluted folds of my organ, how dazzling it smelled, slightly cooked and seasoned with garlic and Lawry’s Seasoning salt, and served on small slices of buttered toast with the crusts sliced off. There they all sat, smiling, glassy-eyed, with juices running down their Brooks Brother’s suits and their red and blue ties and their pretty frenchie frocks, cheerily stained with red brain drippings. Some got up and undid their belts and sashes and danced a waltz and then a samba (for the minorities), and begged for more brains, and then raised you and the white-haired fella on their shoulders, crying, ‘Yes… Yes… yes, more brains, we need more of the common people’s brains!’

But then the days passed and the channel changed and change came and I lost the remote and all there is now is the puppy channel, nothing but puppies, all day, all night, puppies, puppies, puppies and me stuck to the head-bored of this bed, my eyes pinned open like a Stanley Kubrick Anti-hero, and the universe sneaking in my door, balls and balls and more balls with eyeballs and my glass that is just out of reach, the world swimming around in it. And then the aliens, getting out the vote on the streets, on the streets in Los Alamos, Las Vegas, and Grid Land. But now, food has arrived… the Rogue is out of Alaska! At last, with your sexily annoyingly squeaky voice and bad english, and the pompulous Republican friends of yours, raising you once again on their shoulders: “see the every-person, Sara, she will lead us… with just enough wit to answer the phone and just enough judgment to leave it to the rest of us. Long live Sara!”

My friends, Aliens for Sara Palin, getting out the vote in Grid Land

But me, I’m just half a head stuck to a head board… a head board! Ha! What a hysterical pathetic common one I am, like so many others… waiting for the saviour to come (and I even misspelled savior). Love your glasses, by the way. And so I’ve ordered 100 copies of the book from Amazon and I’ll place them on the bench before me and I’ll eat them… suck them in, I’ll eat them, page by page, because I can’t read, never taught how, but I’ll eat every page. Me and the pages and the puppies, one by one, until the scroller says one day:

“P.T. Barnum was right: America elects Sara Palin President”

O’ joy! O’ Joy! O’ Soldier’s Joy! O’ Joy dish washing detergent… O’ Joy to the world, Sara’s come… let all great big common heads donate your brains to the republicans!

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