Drinks with Sarah Palin
I can explain.
Normally, I wouldn’t do this—I am feeling especially loopy today, and I need to vent some brain garbage—but I would like to relate a dream that I had last night. It might be a nightmare. I can’t decide. You decide and then tell me.
So, I was in a car and arrived at a country house on a hill. I was with friends, I think. We get out of the car and go inside the house proceeding immediately to the “rec room” in the basement. Standard middle-American, not-used-since-1978-pool-table-and-a-bar sort of thing. Wood paneling and lame neon everywhere.
Sitting on sofas and chairs are John McCain and Sarah Palin, drunk. Not just regular sort of drunk either, but sloppy wasted. I laughed (probably out loud), and Gov. Palin got up, gave me a big hug and went to make me a martini. “Just how you like it,” she slurred, “three olives and I showed them the vermouth yesterday.” Seriously. I like my martinis dry with a lemon twist. God.
The worst part about all of this is that I appeared to be having fun. I liked these people. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m sure that Gov. Palin would be fun to drink with, if she weren’t a right-wing Christian. Sen. McCain, I would probably have a scotch with anyway, now that he is back to being his old self. I always kind of liked the guy.
Anyway, back to the dream. I asked where the others were. John McCain was drinking Pabst out of a can. I figured him for a scotch man—as mentioned above. Odd, I thought. He said that they would be there shortly. He put on a barbecue apron, but the kind that looks like a woman wearing a cocktail dress. He made some comment about his tits to Gov. Palin and then sat back down.
The doorbell rang, and a dog ran from behind the bar and up the stairs. A moment later he ran back down the stairs followed by Carl Rove and Don Rumsfeld, my friend Leslie, and my friend Canadian Terri. Odd company to say the least. Canadian Terri’s drunk roommate Linda lurched into the room a few minutes later. This is her usual state and didn’t seem as surreal in retrospect.
Anyway, this can’t end well. The music got turned up—Sen. McCain cranked Creedence Clearwater Revival and shouted “Just call me MC Cain, bitches.” Pool was played, and then beer pong. Then Rove—grabbed some tequila and slurred something about “body shots” and took a head-shot off the bottle. Gov. Palin danced on the bar. Canadian Terri threw maraschino cherries to see if she could catch them in her mouth.
I, thankfully, woke up just as she was beginning to twirl one of those severe, shoulder-padded jackets over her head. It was the most superreal dream that I have had in ages. Usually they fade away into wakefulness, but this one made me feel weird when I woke up. Like, my real life didn’t make any sense, but it made sense that I would be drinking in a basement with Sarah Palin and John McCain. I hate that feeling.
McCain in the cocktail-dress apron was funny though.
