Well, now we know why she was nicknamed Sarah Barracuda. Last night Governor Palin proved that a former small town mayor from Alaska could hold her own with the former mayor of New York, Rudolph Giuliani, in the big time partisan red meat sweepstakes, as they headlined a Murderer’s Row of GOP speakers who methodically eviscerated the twin scourges of conservatism today: Democratic candidate Barack Obama and the liberal elite media. In these politically swift moving waters it should come as no surprise that Palin- Palooza replaced Obama- Rama in the hearts and minds of America. Well, at least on their TV screens. We’ll find out about the latter later. In her almost- but- not- quite acceptance speech, presumptive Vice Presidential nominee Palin established herself as a formidable power hitter gunning for noted hardballer Joe Biden in their upcoming debate. But in her coming out party, she was as pert as a Meyer Lemon and as easy on the eyes as Key Lime Pie. Like Tiny Fey crossed with a shark. Pat Buchanan in heels. Christie Todd Whitman in a skirt. Apparently, being a hockey mom means chewing your opponent’s stick. Or as she said; a pitbull with lipstick. Must be all that body checking and pucks to the head. She got the crowd frothing by disemboweling the irresponsible media for having the audacity to question her experience. Apparently that’s sexist and you can’t ask her new boss about how many houses he owns because he was a POW. Wow. The first off limits ticket. Nice work if you can get it. I’ll tell you one thing, I’d hate to be John McCain and have to replicate that performance tonight. Think Loudon Wainwright Jr. trying to follow the Rolling Stones.

Add new comment

By submitting this form, you accept the Mollom privacy policy.


Trump's politics are not the problem.

The fiery Milwaukee Sheriff is on the shortlist to head the Department of Homeland Security.

By Wendell Berry

Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front

Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more 
of everything ready made. Be afraid 
to know your neighbors and to die.
And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery 
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card 
and shut away in a little drawer.
When they want you to buy something 
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know. 
So, friends, every day do something
that won’t compute. Love the Lord. 
Love the world. Work for nothing. 
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it. 
Denounce the government and embrace 
the flag. Hope to live in that free 
republic for which it stands. 
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man 
has not encountered he has not destroyed.
Ask the questions that have no answers. 
Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.

Say that the leaves are harvested 
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.
Put your faith in the two inches of humus 
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.
Listen to carrion—put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come. 
Expect the end of the world. Laugh. 
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts. 
So long as women do not go cheap 
for power, please women more than men.
Ask yourself: Will this satisfy 
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep 
of a woman near to giving birth? 
Go with your love to the fields.
Lie easy in the shade. Rest your head 
in her lap. Swear allegiance 
to what is nighest your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and the politicos 
can predict the motions of your mind, 
lose it. Leave it as a sign 
to mark the false trail, the way 
you didn’t go. Be like the fox 
who makes more tracks than necessary, 
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.

Wendell Berry is a poet, farmer, and environmentalist in Kentucky. This poem, first published in 1973, is reprinted by permission of the author and appears in his “New Collected Poems” (Counterpoint).

Public School Shakedown

Progressive Media Project