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Ah, Sarah Palin, I miss the way you just strode in and took ownership of my 57-inch TV screen, the camera absolutely adoring you. I miss Tina Fey aping and imping you. You were larger than life with your full pit-bull lips so vividly glossed (I could see their little creases in HD) and those prominent cheekbones and windshield glasses and that upswept 'do with the so-casual seeming but really carefully teased bangs. That $165,000 you spent on stylists? Cheap at half the price, Ms. Barracuda. I loved your brass and sass, your hockey mom persona not shy about high-sticking a political opponent--charming, disarming, alarming. "Can I call you Joe" you didn't really ask. If you were to have an audience with Pope Benedict, you'd say "Can I call you Benny," wouldn't you? Yes, I know you would, you scamp. I loved how, at the podium, you treated a question like a bit of time-passing small talk. You might answer it, you might not, you might refashion it into something you could slapshot from your wheelhouse. You didn't debate--you'd iterate or obfuscate in such a delightfully chatty way. Your sentences set off on a journey, an Alaskan trek, then often lost sight of the North star and failed to arrive at what we were trying to guess was their intended destination--but no matter, with you the journey was the destination, it was your shout-out to freedom and this great country of ours, and we were thrilled to be your traveling companions. Sarah, sing to me again your paean to America with all your lyrical "gottas" and "gonnas" and "betchas." Belt out your rousing chorus--"Drill, baby, drill"--and tickle me once more by reciting the inventive names of your children: Track, Trig, Bristol, Willow, Piper. Sarah, I could listen to you talk all night. You, my dear, are the life of the (Grand Old) Party, and when you told us about being able, through those limpid hazel eyes of yours, to see Russia from Wasilla, I got all tingly and, I swear, suddenly I could see Mexico from my modest manor in Mesa.
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