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Enough is enough, Sarah. It’s over. You lost. Please get off my analog-wave-free television screen and fade to obscurity. Seriously, don’t you have an imminent Rapture to prepare for in the Land of the Midnight Sun, perhaps some freshly murdered moose stew simmering on the stove to stir or a pack of wolves to mow down from an Apache helicopter (aided by your trusty night-vision goggles and the shotgun you used to pressure backwoods lothario Levi Johnston into proposing matrimony to your defiled progeny–that is before the American public voted against you and you realized perhaps your cold-hearted political calculations were not in Bristol’s best interests).
Oh and there is always that state you’re supposed to be governing…what’s it called? Alaska. Remember, you’re the governor of Alaska! Sure it’s only 626,932 people (not nearly as many as even one paltry Nielson point representing those watching as you desperately try to keep your media- contrived feud with Letterman alive on the Today Show so you do not peter out from the public eye for a nanosecond) but they are kinda like depending on you and stuff. And perhaps if you spent more time out of the Big City and up on the tundra you wouldn’t have to filch your speeches from Newt Gingrich and you could learn to be the doting parent you pretend to be on the big screen (opportunistically dragging your brood in and out of the spotlight so your give-’em-hell soccer mom silhouette can be featured prominently in the periphery). You betcha!
You’re the joke and the punchline, a ratings ploy, a rejected reality-show pitch, a residual check for Tina Fey that she’ll use to treat herself to a carefree pampered day at the spa followed by a nice juicy porterhouse din- din at Peter Luger’s. The annoying non-gadfly on the pile of excrement calling itself the GOP base who’s only reason for existence is that no one can stomach the smell long enough to swat you.
No one takes you in earnest. You’re simply a side-show freak in the corner of the Republican tent that everyone points and titters at as you continue to bark and sell tickets to your own dwindling, embarrassing performances–ultimately destined to the fate of the sad, sodden, bedraggled bearded lady who’s been laid off by the circus. Sitting alone on a park bench, all hunched up and forlorn in a tattered terry-cloth robe and dirty pink bunny slippers, with her little grizzled granny goatee and soul patch, heroically feeding the pigeons on a paint-chipped bench…not a flame-breathing midget juggler or unicycling pink poodle in sight. Ba da da da da da da da da da… tears.