Hungover

I woke up this morning in a cold sweat. My head was pounding. My stomach was churning like a storm surge. I was hung over. But I didn’t have a lick of liquor yesterday, and I knew my usual greasy-burger-Diet-Coke-and-tons-of-aspirin remedy would not be working this day. I knew what instantly what was plaguing me: Sarah Palin!

I’ve had too much. I’m sick of hearing about her, reading about her, writing about her, hearing about her, talking about her. I’m even sick of her face. I’m sick of the hysteria, hatred, and adoration inspired by America’s Latest Wet Dream, and my body has finally rejected all the toxins I’ve been ingesting these past two weeks.

Enough aleady!

Now look, like all hangovers, I brought this upon myself. Sure, everywhere I look, there Palin is. I think she’s in my kitchen right now making Obama Waffles right now. But I could’ve ignored it. I could’ve pierced my eardrums or gouged out my eyes. I could’ve done something about it. And I certainly didn’t need to be writing about her here on Tome.

So, I vow—right here! right now!—to not write about Her Royal Palinness ever again!

…

OK, at least for the next week. Right now, she’s being cloistered in Wasilla having the last 4,000 years of human history crammed into her cranium while she looks out her window, staring at Russia. I’m going to take this time to write about something, anything else.

After all, I firmly believe that I’m not alone in my nausea and that the love affair will officially end on October 10 (eight days after the VP debate). Our Pentecostal puck-slapping mama will soon be relegated to the oil bin of history, and we won’t have to hear from her again for another 24 years, when she reemerges ranting about how California Senator Nhung Tran Kardassian wouldn’t be running for President if she weren’t a Vietnamese-Armenian triple-amputee.

Besides, this morning, sensing my pain, 11-month-old Poohbutt fed her Daddy Cheerios for breakfast. I have better things to think about.