Sarah Palin potpourri!

July 30, 2009

La divina.

Candid readers, I appreciate your patience in waiting a month for this latest installment.  I’m honored that some of you wrote specially to request more — so herewith a compilation or potpourri of several squibs and bagatelles, previously published elsewhere, on She Who Must Be Reported On.  There’s no lexical or even thematic thread running through them, except that each glosses a news story touching Gov. Palin; I’ve just transcribed them in chronological order, discrete.  Enjoy!


Preach it, Sarah! And keep being physically and morally beautiful — it makes the Dorian Gray Democrats just livid. Especially Sen. Ketchupheiress, treasonable champion of the American Left in 2004: Horse’s face, horse’s ass. As Churchill reportedly said to the bossy dowager (the literate know the prelude, so I omit it here): “Yes, madame — but in the morning I shall be sober, and you will still be ugly.”

All good satirists go ad hominem, or in Kerry’s case ad equum. Can’t keep it at the level of high legal theory all the time, especially dealing with Sen. Medalsthrower, that betraying bastard.

Actually, on reflection Sarah’s too kind. It’s not so much the length as the corrugation of Kerry’s snout. Really the overall effect is, echoing Catullus 97, the wrinkling and puckering of a dehiscent mule, only permanently frozen in place.

Here’s the poem for my Latinists. Truly, it’s Kerry:

Non (ita me di ament) quicquam referre putavi
utrumne os an culum olfacerem Aemilio.
nilo mundius hoc, nihiloque immundius illud,
verum etiam culus mundior et melior:
nam sine dentibus est. hoc dentis sesquipedalis,
gingivas vero ploxeni habet veteris,
praeterea rictum qualem diffissus in aestu
meientis mulae cunnus habere solet.
hic futuit multas et se facit esse venustum,
et non pistrino traditur atque asino?
quem si qua attingit, non illam posse putemus
aegroti culum lingere carnificis?


‘Don’t explain; your friends don’t need it, and your enemies won’t believe you anyway.’ Conservatives, consider taking the Governor at her word. Resign political office, sparing oneself and one’s children sprays of poison from Obama’s grinning degenerates, aging catamites like David Letterman and gnawing shrews like “Katie” Couric? Of course the lefties scoff — how should the children of broken homes, of aborting mothers and homosexual fathers, believe? What evidence do they give of even the thinnest scraping of moral imagination? Is it so strange the Governor should stoke great billows of hatred and wrath in HuffPo degenerates? “Remember the word that I said unto you, The servant is not greater than his lord. If they have persecuted me, they will also persecute you.”


La Camilla on La Sara, hot off the press:

“The vicious double standard is pretty obvious. Only the tabloids, for example, ran the photos of a piss-drunk Chelsea Clinton, panties exposed, falling into her car outside London clubs a few years ago. If Chelsea had been the scion of Republican bigwigs, those tacky scenes would have been trumpeted from pillar to post in the U.S. as signals of parental failures…”


Palin Derangement Syndromers, gnash your teeth — Sarah speaks. And whenever she does, it’s news. Go ahead: fume, sputter, get red in the face. The more you clench your fists, the more Sarah just slips through your fingers. Here, you can enjoy her dumping on Sen. Voraxa Vulpine’s (D-CA) cap-and-tax hike. The old bag’s just grandstanding, of course; a sop for the Bay Area body-odor set. Don’t kid yourselves, hippies; the bill’s going nowhere. Oh, and Boxer looks like an old boot, too.

Sarah’s media gold and she’ll be making news whenever she wants for years to come. Hate her till you pop a vein, lefties. And Meghan McCain Republicans. (That bleached-out Black Angus, three hundred pounds of Daily Beast beef on the hoof, is twice the woman Sarah is — on the bathroom scale. I adamantly oppose abortion but can’t Cindy McCain be ordered to have one retroactively?)


It takes a Canadian, to see the zero-sum culture war of urban with rural America.

“We have one group that lives under the highly artificial and intensely regulated conditions of post-modern urban life. (Even if they go to a cottage, it will be equipped with the electronic paraphernalia to create a bubble of urbanity.) And, we have another group who remain in contact with the eternal verities of life on this planet. (Who, for instance, associate electric power with doing work, as opposed to “making consumer choices.”)

Perhaps better terms for the two sides, to replace left and right, might be “martians” and “earthlings.”

It is to the earthlings in this scenario that Ms. Palin is speaking. And when she writes lines like this intentional jaw-dropper in the Washington Post — “We are ripe for economic growth and energy independence if we responsibly tap the resources that God created right underfoot on American soil” — she is quite intentionally signalling that she is ready for war.”


The Constitutionalist renaissance continues. The time’s ripe, conservatives and libertarians: give each moderate or centrist you know a thumbnail education in federalism. Most don’t know the concept from Adam, having wasted four years, like yours truly, in one of those NEA homes for aging hippies where they teach sex ed instead of civics. But once explained, they grasp it instinctively, and respond eagerly. They know they don’t like it when the First Citizen (if he is one) confiscates their income to shower his urban redoubts with cash. They know they hate it when federal courts shove alien cultural and religious values down their throats. Now give them a principled reason why! Pragmatics are all very well, but teach these persuadables they don’t even need to reach the merits, whether this or that socialist policy of Obomber “works” or not — does it do violence to the Constitution? Yes. Then defy it.


What’s old is always new again, and where better for the next Tenth Amendment renaissance than the home of Boy Bryan, the original Red State republican — lower-case, please — and a loyal son of Jefferson and Jackson. As those who nowadays attend Jefferson-Jackson Day Dinners are distinctly not. Though of course neither are many of those who host and attend Lincoln Day dinners. Sarah Palin, Michael Huckabee and all other non-Arian presidential hopefuls, please take note.


Give me more of that old-time Ann Coulter! The Queen of Mean dumps on the locker room punching bags and dowdy schoolgirls who grew up to be Jon Stewart, or university staff. Libs are “talking about her like an ex-girlfriend… Because she’s magnificent… a huge star… the hatred for Palin is coming from liberal women in New York who have overheard their boyfriends saying, Well, gotta admit, she is good-looking.”


My old friend Peona de Fleur, high up in a Washington D.C.-area conservative think tank, as quick-witted as your faithful servant but less stodgy, suggests the following captions for Gov. Palin’s photo:

“Because Todd’s at least this big, I keep comin’ back to ride that ride…”

“Anyone who’s not this big won’t beat me down, come 2012…”

“You know what turns liberal women into conservatives?”

“Most Lefties dream of redistribution because they don’t have it upstairs or downstairs…”


Castrated by Ann Coulter, and now intimidated by Carrie Prejean: Queef Olburpmann, the rather mannish Jewish lady who hosts “Countdown” on MSDNC, is retaining a lot of water this week and is VERY pissy about Carrie Prejean’s bosom:

No need to be catty, Queef — your breasts are much larger than Carrie’s. I see a pattern emerging in Carrie’s “fashionable” critics on the left: androgyny, fugliness and obesity, to start.  (Can’t Obomber afford a court flatterer who isn’t a slob?  I guess a degree in “communications” from Cornell… ah, Ag School won’t help if you’re bovine to begin with.)

And lowbrow Christophobia of course.  One is reminded in this connection of tart-tongued transsexual Ms. Garrison’s memorable outcry when dumped by Richard Dawkins in South Park‘s “Go God Go XII”: “Well go ahead and leave, you atheist faggot!  Have fun mocking God in Hell, queer!”  Warning to more squeamish readers: this South Park clip simulates sodomy in gleeful mockery of academic celebutard Dawkins, whose increasingly reductive caricatures of theism and theology have earned him a painful busting back to private by no less a Leftist than Terry Eagleton.

In a word, candid readers: FAT.  That, and the fact that Carrie’s upright in both senses: full of moral probity, and tall as a willow tree, to May-gun’s squat, dumpy barrel cactus.

Yes, Carrie Prejean, Miss California who “chose truth over a tiara” in Maggie Gallagher’s words, is the Queen Esther of her times, physically lovely but discreet too, willing to put herself on the line to speak truth to power:

Contrast this, candid reader, with the bovine eructations of Meghan McCain, as likely to shoot from the lip as her amnesty-crazed father but, incredible as it may seem, even more ethically challenged than the old Keating Five womanizer himself:

How dare this dumpy cow lumber onto a national stage, belching and farting her country-club Republican twaddle to any leftie who’ll book her on his show, especially looking like that?  (You know the country-clubbers’ pious mantra: Cut my taxes — but keep abortion legal so my slut daughter can fornicate consequence-free.)  I thought she’d learned from the scars earned in her battle of the wits, though sadly unarmed, with Ann Coulter and Laura Ingraham, like that gaping new one ripped between her ass’s ears.  How do I detest thee, Meghan?  Let me count the ways…  I can’t do better here than quote the patron sage of this blog, Jonathan Swift, describing female horse’s asses who try to impress beyond their abilities:

Some try to learn polite Behaviour,
By reading Books against their Saviour;
Some call it witty to reflect
On ev’ry natural Defect…
But, sure a Tell-tale out of School
Is of all Wits the greatest Fool;
Whose rank Imagination fills,
Her Heart, and from her Lips distills;
You’d think she utter’d from behind,
Or at her Mouth was breaking Wind.

(Strephon and Chloe, 1731)

Oral wind-breaking — yes, that pretty well sums up May-gun McLame.  Back to your stall now, Old Bossy, and give that flapping jaw, and your sorely overtaxed hooves, a rest.

Meanwhile, why exactly is ass-ugly gossip blogger Perez Hilton allowed even to enter the presence of gracile beauties like Carrie Prejean, let alone question them?  Does anyone who doesn’t huff amyl nitrite even know who this coarse little scrub is?  Doubtless spawned in some estaminet of Huntington Park, a coffee shop drudge or simpering bag boy at Gelson’s until last week, Perez is stunted and beetle-browed, like so much East Side ethnojetsam washed up on the kosher West Bank of L.A., lately gone from working the corners of Santa Monica Boulevard on to modest fame among homosexuals.  Yes, look closely at the face: the joke stage name conceals low peasant origins, probably one generation removed from an auto body shop on Washington Boulevard, two from some shithole jacal in Jalisco.   Hardly a eugenic or edifying specimen, before one even gets to the illiteracy and repulsive Gay Mart couture.  Indeed, the little pouf’s relentlessly pinched face and lemony sneer suggest a shredded or prolapsed anus, or some kindred sodomite ailment — you see what happens when you shove Coke bottles, various combinations of your own digits, and multiple strangers’ penile Petri dishes up your backside on a nightly, drug-fueled basis.

Bra-less wonder Perez Hilton before emergency makeover: What shat that?


That’s precisely why bourgeois liberals’ push for homosexual “marriage” is such a joke — “gay” and “marriage” are contradictions in terms, as every candid queer from Mark Simpson to Camille Paglia has observed, and not just because marriage originated as a sacred union framed for the procreation and protection of children.  Everybody who’s not a Prozacked white lady in the Seattle suburbs, dutifully twitching when the Obamatards pull her strings, knows gay men are polygamous almost to a man.  No matter what claims they make in public about their “relationships,” they are except in rare cases industriously promiscuous unless body fat, clock-stopping ugliness or some other structural flaw precludes it, as with blobby toad Perez.

This is not speculation, friends — though a strict celibate myself, my oldest and dearest friends are two gay men, as are a constellation of lesser friends and acquaintances, and believe me, they bear me out unerringly.  Nor, I might add, do very many of them buy into this manipulative liberal “gay marriage” schtick.  Gay men of all people know that male lust, freed of any limits in female reticence, is for all practical purposes unbounded; it drives unerringly for the maximum number of sexual partners, stopping only when structurally limited by the physical exhaustions of age, disease or both.  Nor, they’ve told me for years, would they want it to be; it’s precisely their hedonist, libertine refusal of respectable social norms — the self-restraint and voluntary sacrifice needed for the protection and procreation of women and children — that keeps the gaiety in gayness for them.

And I’m not just picking on the gays here.  Consistent reactionary that I am, I zealously assert divorce must be illegal except in cases of proven adultery; separation, perhaps, but rupturing a sacramental union, never.  “Husband and wife are one body in the same way as Christ and the Father are one.”  (St John Chrysostom) And hetero fornicating is quite out of the question too, as is indeed marital intercourse not open to the transmission of life.

Get with the program, self-described Christians: either human beings wholly own their bodies and can use them any way we damned well please — or not.  Half-measures and casuistry, the hypocrisy of “Christians” who condemn homosexual acts while having hetero sex for pleasure, are just intellectual and moral flab — be for real:

The unitive aspect of sexual love, therefore, is a blessed and joyful corollary to procreation.  It is a gift for which we can rejoice and give thanks.  It is so, however, only inasmuch as it derives from the more fundamental purpose of Christian marriage, which is to participate directly in God’s creative work through the bearing and raising of children.

(Very Rev. John Breck, The Sacred Gift of Life: Orthodox Christianity and Bioethics, 90)

So is marriage a sacred institution framed to hallow the procreation and protection of children, or isn’t it?  As several Orthodox and Roman Catholic theologians have observed, married couples who copulate using birth control are simply masturbating; it is every human being’s duty to abstain from sexual acts not open to the transmission of life.  Husbands and wives who contracept are, therefore, as antisocially selfish and morally foul as the randiest sodomite.  How’s that for consistency and even-handedness?

Queef Olburpmann: constipated from all the bagels and cream cheese?  He has the faraway look.


Oh man, this is too good to be true: Ann cruelly outs the insufferable douchebag and pious fraud Keith Olbermann, who did not in fact attend Cornell as he claims but only the Cornell Ag School, or SUNY Ithaca as they say over in Myron Taylor Hall. (That’s the law school, for all the status-conscious schoolyard pantswetters and locker room punching bags out there who’ve grown up to be liberals — p.s. you deserved the beatings and abuse.)

Says Ann:

“The sort of insecurity that would force you to always say “trebled” instead of “tripled” could only come from a communications major with massive status anxiety, like Keith. Without even looking it up, I am confident that Harvard, Yale and Princeton do not offer degrees in “communications.” I know there is no “communications” major at the Ivy League Cornell.

“Communications” is a major, along with “recreation science,” most commonly associated with linemen at USC. But at least the linemen can throw a football, which Keith cannot…”

Against the gathering darkness of the Left’s resurgence, as the wolves outside in the dark sniff and whine closer and closer to the firelight, the cultural Right is nevertheless warmed and lighted by an iconic tableau: the simple, powerful image of Gov. Sarah Palin carrying her infant son, Trig.

Little Trig, as everyone knows, was born with Down Syndrome.  So this tableau is iconic in the sense that it figures the unqualified, compassionate love of a normal mother for her child, especially one who’s weak or vulnerable.  But this tableau is also iconic in the religious sense, for it strongly, almost uncannily suggests another icon loved by millions, both living and dead, for nine hundred years: the Theotokos (Our Lady) of Vladimir:

Here is more on the Vladimirskaya icon.

What is it about a mother’s compassion and love for her helpless child that, in the form of the Vladimirskaya, has for a thousand years lighted the minds and lifted the hearts of Orthodox Christians (and others who honor the Theotokos)?  And what is it about a mother’s compassion and love for her helpless child that, in the form of Gov. Palin and her infant son, has darkened the minds and filled the hearts of the American Left with a spitting, hissing frenzy of malevolence?  (You can often hear their teeth, set on edge, grinding right through their blog posts.)  The answers to these questions are closely related.

I recall the second epistle of St Paul to the Corinthians, in which the apostle candidly admits his powerlessness, like an infant’s, to preserve his own life — and yet his very debility is, paradoxically, what he secretly shares with the Source of life: “And lest I should be exalted above measure… there was given to me a thorn in the flesh… For this thing I besought the Lord thrice, that it might depart from me.  And he said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness.” (12:7-9)  What does this mean?  St Paul acknowledges that even he is debilitated and weak, like Trig Palin and all the other little children who, except one receive the kingdom of God as one of them, he shall in no wise enter therein (St Luke 18:17).  In this, the apostle tries to imitate the God whom he believes had, by descending to Incarnation and Crucifixion, Himself experienced the most appalling weakness: human birth and death.  St Paul had for years prayed to be healed of his personal, unnamed chronic debility — but at length he understands that the “thorn in the flesh” he first thought a disability, is in fact a means of keeping him from a false (and deadly) sense of security.  Compare here Kallistos Ware’s observations on fasting in The Lenten Triodion:

The purpose of this is to lead us in turn to a sense of inward brokenness and contrition; to bring us, that is, to the point where we appreciate the full force of Christ’s statement, ‘Without Me you can do nothing’ (John 15:5). If we always take our fill of food and drink, we easily grow over-confident in our own abilities, acquiring a false sense of autonomy and self-sufficiency. The observance of a physical fast undermines this sinful complacency. Stripping from us the specious assurance of the Pharisee – who fasted, it is true, but not in the right spirit – Lenten abstinence gives us the saving self dissatisfaction of the Publican (Luke 18:10-13). Such is the function of the hunger and the tiredness: to make us ‘poor in spirit’, aware of our helplessness and of our dependence on God’s aid.

And by Trig Palin’s very palpable “helplessness and… dependence” on his loving parent’s aid for life, by the instinctual love for her that moves his wordless heart despite his mind’s simplicity — indeed, because he exists at all, because his mother proudly cares for him in the course of public appearances — this tiny baby is a sharp, glowing stick in the eye to the big men of the secular Left: materialist professors, abortionist senators, journalist hypocrites.  Simply by nestling in his mother’s arms, Trig Palin is a particularly vivid rebuke of their culture of death; just resting together, he and his mother give the lie to modernity’s cult of the self, with its bestial rebellion against every form of self-restraint and self-sacrifice.

These cruel utilitarians are eager to kill people to help them: the unborn, the disabled, the gravely ill.  But mercifully their homicidal urges extend no further than their fellow human beings.  Many of the same far Lefties who hate Trig and Sarah Palin are right now spending millions of dollars in California to pass Prop. 2, a measure that would mandate chickens receive a two-bedroom condo and a yard on the farm.  Chickens.  But no surprise here — whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad.  And weeping for the plight of poultry while affirming that there’s a Constitutional right to stick a fork in a baby’s head provided he hasn’t been born yet, to borrow from Ann Coulter, is mad.  But for the secular Left abortion is of course, again in Coulter’s phrase, the holiest sacrament.*  To recur to Biblical imagery, recall the allegory of the woman clothed with the sun, her unborn child menaced by a seven-headed, ten-horned “great red dragon,” which “stood before the woman which was ready to be delivered, for to devour her child as soon as it was born.” (Revelation 12:3-4)  The child is miraculously caught up to heaven, but “when the dragon saw that he was cast unto the earth, he persecuted the woman which brought forth the man child.” (12:13)  Indeed.

But one can and should express Trig Palin’s iconic significance for a culture of life in positive terms too.  I choose the first stanza of “The Salutation,” a poem by the Anglican priest and poet Thomas Traherne, still dew-fresh after 350 years:

These little Limmes,
These Eys and Hands which here I find,
These rosie Cheeks wherwith my Life begins,
Where have ye been? Behind
What Curtain were ye from me hid so long!
Where was? in what Abyss, my Speaking Tongue?

(Here’s a link to the complete poem in plain Jane layout — a free site, you get what you pay for.)

Little Trig Palin, his little limbs and rosy cheeks, as yet without a “Speaking Tongue,” is the very picture of strength made perfect in weakness.  He is a living reminder to the hedonist Baby Boomer generation that love of family ends in new life, but love of self ends in nothing.

In passing let it be recalled, however, that far and away most young people, let alone all people, during the 1960s were much more Nixon’s Silent Majority than Bill Ayers’ bomb-planting scum.  Scholarly historiography’s only now coming to grips with this fact, since the tenured radicals who’ve hitherto written the history of the ’60s had their gazes lovingly, unshakably fixed on their own linty navels.  In aid of redressing this imbalance, just out from Harvard is The Sixties Unplugged: A Kaleidoscopic History of a Disorderly Decade by Gerard DeGroot, who teaches at St Andrews, Scotland.  (Hat tip to Septimus Waugh who reviewed DeGroot for The American Conservative‘s Sept. 22 number.)

But as for Humphrey’s Yelling Minority: they thought it would never happen, that self-absorbed and self-pleasing generation of ’68.  But the spoiled college kids who burned draft cards and bras, raised in and rotted by postwar prosperity, are shocked to look up now and find themselves graying, stiffening, bending every day, bit by bit, toward the grave.  Because they have worshiped strength, they are only made weak in their weakness; because they have loved what is corruptible, themselves, what they love vanishes and is forgotten.  What is at the same time more hilarious and more obnoxious than an untidy old hippie, still stinking in his tie-dyes, stringy, greasy hairs now turned white?  Compare this decayed old Berkeley special — mighty pretty, no?

But he and all his kind are fading, fading fast.  So smile and sing!  “‘Tis well an Old Age is out,/ And time to begin a New,” as Dryden said.  In the clearing cultural current that’s flushing out the flotsam and jetsam of the Sexual Revolution both hippie and yuppie, a wholly-other generation’s coming on strong — and there are signs that unlike its materialist predecessor, it’s awake to the freshness and wonder of life, especially innocent life, and compassion for it.  From Aledo, Texas (outside Fort Worth as I learned) comes today this charming and affecting story of strength made perfect in weakness:

Who says there’s never any good news any more?  Hurrah for the students of Aledo High School — and for little Trig Palin and his mother.

[* If you don’t already own it, buy Coulter’s laugh-out-loud funny and endlessly quotable Godless: The Church of Liberalism.]