|Fucking Big Gulps, how do they work?|
Maybe there was complimentary Maalox at the breakfast buffet. But, you know, it's a convention, a party, and as such, Trump shoulda known better than to take the 8:45AM slot. Even morons like to get shitfaced and (try to) get laid at a convention. It was the first slot of the day, though, and our boy just couldn't help himself.
And of course it wouldn't be a par-tay without the Tila Tequila of conservatardery, the one and only Saint Sarah. Palin can't even get her "jokes" straight, but what would you expect from someone who once, for a notoriously cheap sight gag, actually wrote "energy" and "tax" on the palm of her hand. See, the Big Gulp works on many levels, who cares if they're just about the only thing stupid Nanny Bloomberg didn't regulate with his stupid nanny regulation, so shut up you guys!
Extra points to the butthurt common taters and conserva-tweeters at the usual sites. It is actually possible to be "liberal", and to both view Bloomberg overweening nannyism as borderline retarded, if not simply useless, and to see Palin for what she really is at this point -- a garden-variety jackass, reduced to split-second attention grabbers like sipping on a Big Gulp (way to stick it to The Man, Truth Teller!) and cracking wise about her own tits. (See, Todd got the guns, Sarah got the rack. Ahahahaha. I know, right? Fucking George Carlin must be spinning in his grave, going, "Why didn't I think of that one? It's fuckin' genius!")
But then again, these are people for whom buying a Chick-Fil-A sammich last summer was a brave political stance. They can close their eyes and pretend it's stil 2009-10, Palin's schtick is so well-preserved and unchanged. Surprised she didn't say something about "pallin' 'round with terrorists." For the believers, this is manna from heaven; for Palin, this is just a paid breather between reality shows, now that Fixed Noise cut off her allowance. They'll turn out in droves later in the year for her War On Xmas book, coming this 1998.
Someone needs to explain to these bozos (like it'd even be worth the time) that "humor" tends to work better when it's grounded in reality. Since no one has done anything to the Big Gulp, sacred avatar of 'murkin freedom and consumerist self-actualization, all that happened here is that someone took a drink of a sodypop (no word on whether it was Faygo or not, or if she sprayed the oldsters with it), and no one but Miss Thang's laughing-and-trying-a-bit-too-hard fan club really gives two shits. Enjoy your adipose deposits of sodium benzoate, laughtards.
|Sarah! Sarah! I maded dis for youse!|
[Update: The Guardian has a pretty good live blog of this hot mess. I didn't realize just how spot-on the comparison with the GotJ was. Jay-zus. If I'd been thinking, I would have printed up 5,000 cheap-ass tee-shirts with Big Gulps on them, and sold them for $40 each outside the, ahem, ballroom. You know, at the Gaylord.]
|Yep. You really showed 'em, honey.|