Arts & Culture

Letter from Jew-neau (Part III): In Which Sarah Palin Reveals Her Breasts and Her Plans for the Jews

A lot of people are emailing me, texting me, Skyping me. A few want more details about Lady Lazarus – I tell them, check my website! ­- but most want to know about Sarah.  "What’s she really like?" they ask. … Read More

By / September 24, 2008

A lot of people are emailing me, texting me, Skyping me. A few want more details about Lady Lazarus – I tell them, check my website! ­- but most want to know about Sarah. 

"What’s she really like?" they ask. "What does she do for fun? She’s so hot, don’t you feel nervous around her?" People want to know her little quirks, her secrets, what kind of toothpaste she uses. I’m bombarded with questions about Todd and Trig and Track. They want the inside scoop, the Wasilla skinny, her likes and dislikes.

Well, I’ll tell you one thing: Her Babeness likes sex.

Who doesn’t, right? But Sarah Palin is above and beyond. She likes sex the way SUVs like gasoline, the way cats like nip, the way Paris Hilton likes attention and George W. Bush likes really small, easily pronounceable words. Frankly, it’s starting to scare me.

She’s a tigress, a terror, a tyrant in a teal snowsuit. When Sarah says jump, this writer gets busy. When she peers at me over the top of her frameless glasses, I know I’m not getting any sleep. She’s loud, ardent, she says what she wants and expects to get it. And she wants it all! Oral one minute, manual the next, she’s got the Kama Sutra memorized, and she’s even come up with her own variations. Her favorite is a position she calls "sled-doggie style" – and I gotta tell you, the harness kind of hurts!

The weirdest part is that whenever we’re sled-dogging, she seems to forget my name."Mush, John! Go faster," she says. "Atta boy, John. Take me all the way!" Who the hell is John, I want to know?

She’s got a closet full of equipment – Oh how that sliding door sets my knees a-trembling! – whips, knives, strap-ons, lots of spare batteries. A five-gallon drum of lubricant, a bottle of iodine always close at hand. She learned the art of seduction at a CIA black site, foreplay somewhere on the border of Pakistan and Iraq. Family values? My ass. Actually, her ass. What I’m trying to say is, Sarah is a dirty, dirty girl.

But she’s still my sweetheart, and I’m her left-wing Jewish novelist toy.

"I’m just so lucky I met you," she said the other night. She rested her head on my shoulder and we strolled under the full moon, owls hooting in the distance. She kissed me, hard, and we slipped a little on the icy roadway. We both giggled.

"I’m glad you’re back," I said. She’d been in New York for several days, meeting important people. ("What a snooze!" was all she’d said about it. "Half of them didn’t even speak English.") While she was gone, I was kept tied up in the basement of the capitol building; once a day, Todd brought me coffee and a bowl of raw, greasy seal meat.

"Andrew, don’t you just love the sky over Gravina Island?" She pointed to the dark hills ahead, the distant gleam of glaciers. Behind us, the town of Ketchikan glowed warmly, reflected in the still waters of the Tongass Narrows. "I’m so happy we got this darned bridge built. It’s just so romantic."

"Gravina?" I said, ducking to avoid the wingbeats of a heron that swooped out of the darkness. "You mean, this is the Bridge to Nowhere? I thought you said, ‘No, thanks!’"

"It was such a terrible name," she said, pulling me close for an Eskimo kiss. "So I said, ‘no, thanks’ to a Bridge to Nowhere, and ‘yes, yes, yes’ to the ‘Highway of Love.’"

She widened her eyes and clapped her hands like a schoolgirl looking for approval. How could anyone not love such a sweet creature!

"Besides, what’s the big deal? You New Yorkers have the Golden Gate Bridge, why shouldn’t Alaskans have the Highway of Love?"

I ignored the comment about me being from New York – you have to choose your battles with Her Babeness – and pointed out that the Golden Gate Bridge serves over 100,000 people a day, and cost a fraction of the $400 million it cost to build the, er, Highway of Love. "Plus, it was financed with bonds held by a private bank, not with federal tax dollars," I said. I thought surely I had her there.

But Sarah’s full of surprises. "Well, my little polar bear cub, what with the government buying $700 billion of bad mortgages, federal tax dollars and private banks are kind of the same thing now, aren’t they?" God, I love how her mind works!

We’d reached the end of the road, and Sarah set off into the hills where her advance team had set up camp. My legs were shaky, my lungs still burning from the crack we’d smoked earlier, in bed. I quickly fell behind. Somewhere in the darkness I could hear rustling and moaning, as though a strange animal were suffering terribly. "Wait for me, darling," I called, but Sarah had already disappeared.

Jewcy, there comes a time when every man questions his life. He looks around, takes stock, tries to imagine having done it differently. I stood on that hillside, under the breathtaking sky, and thought about the path that had brought me to Gravina. Certainly it had something to do with Lady Lazarus and success, with the need to escape the adoring crowds. But, I thought, still hearing the strange cries, didn’t it also have something to do with fate?

When I finally caught up, Her Babeness was already in the tent. She had changed into a sexy black union suit, and in the light from the lantern I could see that her nipples were even harder than usual. It was cold, sure – but I knew I was in for a strenuous night. Teeth chattering, I assumed the position – but as Sarah was heating the oil I caught sight of something on her chest: a lapel pin.

"That’s not the American flag," I said.

"What, this?" she said, unzipping the front of the suit and exposing quite a bit of skin in an effort to distract me. I moved closer, only to discover that what she wore above her plump and luscious left breast was a tiny Israeli flag.

For a moment, I was pleased by the thought that she’d worn it for me, that, knowing I was Jewish, my alluring Alaskan amour was trying, however misguidedly, to please me. "I’m touched," I said.

"You like it? My pastor at the Wasilla Assembly of God said wearing it would help bring about the End Times," she said, running her tongue across my collarbone. "Plus, it will help us get that natural gas pipeline built."

"The…um…" I was finding it hard to concentrate while she bound my hands behind my back. "The End Times?"

"You know, silly – when Christ comes back to kick serious ass and all the nonbelievers go up in a pillar of flame!" She had my pants around my ankles, and with a heave she flipped me onto my stomach. I pointed out that I was a nonbeliever and she laughed and delivered a sharp slap to my bare ass. "You’re such a kidder. That’s why I love you."

"But… what about the American flag? Aren’t you worried FOX News will accuse you of not being patriotic?"

Her lips were close to my ear, one hand pressing firmly between my shoulder blades. I could hear jingling behind me as she cinched up her work belt. "Not at all, novelist," she said, the last thing I heard. "I have pins from all the other 49 states, too."

I don’t know how much later it was when I woke up, warm and sticky in Sarah’s embrace. Her Babeness was snoring lightly, the lantern guttering and throwing shadows around the tent. In the distance, the strange moaning had resumed – I was sure now it was a human voice, the voice of a man in terrible anguish.

"Sarah," I whispered. "Baby, I think someone’s in trouble."

"Hmmm?" she rolled over. "It’s fine. Probably just Joe."

"Joe?" The cries mounted, spiraling into an inhuman shriek.

"The boys are out there with him, doing a little debate prep. Lie down with me."

My blood ran cold. "Debate prep? You mean, that’s Joe Biden?"

Sarah sighed her impatience and propped herself on an elbow. "For cryin out loud, you think it’s fair I should have to compete with someone like him? He’s been governor much longer than I have." She reached for her union suit and started to get dressed; in the dim light I could see spatters of dried blood on the material – I closed my eyes and prayed she wouldn’t notice, or I’d be in big trouble.

"You’re just protecting him because he’s your coreligionist," she said petulantly, fingering the lapel pin. With a vicious tug, she zipped up the suit; I felt a sting of grief as her perfect breasts disappeared.

"No, he’s not," I said. "What are you talking about? I just respect the man for being outspoken and unapologetic about liberal causes. Sure, he runs off at the mouth sometimes, but only because he can’t hide his indignation at Republican hypocrisy and incompetence. He’s less full of shit than anyone in Washington, exactly what we need after eight years of shameless lies."

"He’s a lawyer, he’s a grouch, he’s got kind of kinky hair – of course he’s Jewish," she snapped. "And once I’m elected, he’ll be happy to have gotten a tour of Gravina in advance."

She unzipped the tent and stood in the crystalline chill of the new morning. On the ridge far above, I could make out the form of a wolf out for the hunt. I wondered if he, too, had come across the narrows on the Highway of Love, or whether wolves had always been on this island, whether every part of Alaska was their home.

We sat on stumps and sipped coffee, and when I thought her temper had subsided I asked Her Babeness what she’d meant about Biden being happy to have seen Gravina. She touched her palm to my cheek – Jewcy, how could I not forgive her? – and said he’d be spending a lot of time here, once the camps were up and running.

I kissed her hand, distracted. From the other side of the ridge came the sound of a grown man crying. "Camps?"

"For the Jews. And, you know, the other unwhite people. And the cosmopolitans and the media, and definitely the celebrities. Except Alec Baldwin. He’ll have his own island. But, yeah, this is where we’re gonna put all the people who aren’t really American and don’t love this country enough. Why do you think we needed the Highway of Love?

"I don’t know why you’re so surprised, novelist," she said as she cleaned her toys with bleach. "Weren’t you listening to what Rudy and I said at the convention?"

Tomorrow: The secrets of Troopergate revealed; Sarah takes me to church; Her Babeness pops the question…

Andrew Foster Altschul, author of Lady Lazarus, is guest blogging on Jewcy, and he’ll be here all week.  Stay tuned.


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