Miranda, amanda — and dux femina facti, you damn betcha.

La Divina Sara

It will surprise none of you, candid readers, that la divina Sara‘s new memoir Going Rogue: An American Life, with six weeks to go before release date, has already rocketed to number one on Amazon and Barnes and Noble.

Yes, Governor Palin, that most potent mixture of Laura Ingalls Wilder, Magna Mater and Britomart, to name just a few of her coruscating personae, is a rock star, who leaves bourgeoise hags like Miss Hell Obomber and lumpen lesbians like Hillary Clinton in the dust.  She’s a scintillating ball of energy and blooming good health — in addition to being a blend of William Jennings Bryan and Robert Alphonso Taft, of blessed Old America memory — and she could draw 50,000 people to the opening of a hardware store, on an hour’s notice.

Beat that, Barack Hussein Ogabe, you gangling, crack-smoking pimp.  But then, I guess there are no chapters in Alinsky for dealing with forces of nature.  The affirmative-action incompetent in the White House and his loathsome Chicago handlers are way out of their depth dealing with Palin, as we saw last fall when her mesmerizing speech at the Republican National Convention sent Ogabe’s Potemkin village campaign into a tailspin (rescued, just in the nick of time, by the spectacular collapse of the Federal Reserve’s stock-jobbing house of cards).

Herewith, therefore, a link to SarahPAC, where you can donate a few Yankee dollars to our first female President’s political action committee, as I did this afternoon — yes, my widow’s mite goes to Sarah, and cheerfully done:


I trust Gov. Palin will continue to be the focus of support not only for us Constitutionalists, populists, paleoconservatives, libertarians, and values voters, but also for all you Republicans of good will out there who think McCain, Grahamnesty and Lamar Alexander (the last two voted to confirm Red Sonia Sotomayor) and the rest of those country-club Viagravators should get bent.


Grahamnesty : Does the depilated old queen imagine that thin, tight rictus passes for a smile? And that porcine nose, as though he were constantly scenting his own sulphurous fart.  Would that Mencken were living at this day, to satirize this high prole come up in the world, or better yet Catullus, with his Celtiberian nouveaux riches proudly showing their teeth on the slightest pretext, freshly brushed with Spanish piss.

Speaking of country clubs, the principle-free zone that is Mitt “Stop Me if You’ve Heard Me Deny the Divinity of Christ Before” Romney, and the rest of the Grand Old Plutocrats, better be nice to Sarah. Remember the last banker with a personality bypass who crossed us and thought he could still be president? The one defeated by Perot and succeeded by Clinton?

Scantily clad, but at least I’m not a pervert.


Er, HOW exactly does the sin of posing for a cheesecake shot rise to the level of pushing to sacramentalize sodomy? There’s a big difference between poking the body politic in the ribs with a fingertip and aiming hatchet blows at its knees, you’ll observe. Anyway, as Dr Johnson said, “You may scold a carpenter who has made you a bad table, though you cannot make a table. It is not your trade to make tables.”

And will MS-DNC, the pukey Today Show and the other house organs of liberalism can the phony prudery already?  Tasteless hypocrites — on normal days, the Left trips over itself in its haste to file for federal court injunctions so child pornographers aren’t inconvenienced returning us to Graeco-Roman moral filth (Stoics excepted).  As HotAir’s AllahPundit observes:

“It’s very late in the day culturally to be feigning shock at material like this — and yet NBC, the network that aired photos and video of the Virginia Tech killer glorifying himself, has decided that the pic’s simply too hot for the Peacock to handle. A cynic might wonder if they want viewers to imagine that it’s worse than it is. Good thing I’m not a cynic.”

Me too; you don’t think it’s possible the bores at NBC are bought’n’paid for by the Obomber Democrats, do you?  I thought they just reported the news.

Meanwhile, even liberal CNN’s reporter was forced to observe, with a nice dry wit:  “It was unclear whether pageant officials would consider that [shot] a semi-nude photo, in light of their standard requirement that contestants parade across stage wearing a bikini that arguably shows more skin.”  You think?  The HRC’s little gambit here is tepid and clumsy; it’s pretty clear they’re just lurching from expedient to expedient in handling Carrie Prejean and NOM (needless to say, the beetle-browed lesbians at HRC don’t have talent on the order of Robert George behind them, as NOM does).

Hats off to Maggie Gallagher and NOM for standing by Carrie in this faux-crisis, by the way.  The gay “marriage” lobby’s character assassins will have to get up a lot earlier in the morning than this, to buffalo a gritty sometime chairman of the Party of the Right at Yale like Gallagher (I know, I’ve debated a few).  She’s more man than “Perez Hilton” has ever had and more woman than he’ll ever be, except weight-wise of course; the loathsome Hilton weighs three hundred pounds if he weighs an ounce, or at least he did before ingesting a tapeworm in an emergency bid to shed a few layers of blubber.

En passant, can any Lusophones out there confirm that the ostensible family name of Mario Lavandeira (“Perez Hilton”) is Portuguese?  Fluent in Spanish, I know that if you reverse the “i” and the “r” in “Lavandeira” you get lavandería, which means laundromat or place where the poor scrub dirty linen on pockmarked rocks.  Oddly appropriate, when you see “Hilton” in the flesh — lots of it.  The little toadstool’s positively shrouded in fat — and won’t some humanitarian buy the squashy creature a bra?  Those moobs are heinous: