Note: we, the good people of Et tu, Mr. Destructo?, like to broaden our coverage of the national discourse by occasionally turning to voices and viewpoints not represented by our regular contributors. To discuss the Obama administration's health care bill and its impact on the unborn, we turn to Sarah and Todd Palin's potential sixth child, TARP Palin.
I'm Pretty Sure I Can Ace This Death Panel
by TARP WOLVERINES DICK VAN PALIN
Sarah's been making a lot of noise in the news lately, and I wanted to share something she said that I was pretty surprised to read: "The America I know and love is not one in which my parents or my baby with Down Syndrome will have to stand in front of Obama’s 'death panel' so his bureaucrats can decide... whether they are worthy of health care." Now, I don't know if a Death Panel is real or not, but I'm pretty sure I can fucking nail it.
Look, my quality of life is virtually nil. For one thing, just go by definitions. I haven't been born, and I haven't been conceived. I'm just a little spermatozoa, so regardless of the quality, I'm not life yet, I guess. But the quality is bad. Really bad. Imagine being inside a library that's slightly larger than a coffin and only has one book that's nothing but pictures of F-14 Tomcats that someone's drawn on with a pen to make it look like they're shooting lasers at Godzilla and shit. That's what it's like in here, apart from the smell, which—well, I'm in a fucking testicle, you figure it out.
My only goal should be to get "out there," but I don't wanna be out there, for a lot of reasons. For one thing, it's cultural. I don't know what my dad does all day, but I'm pretty sure that it's slouch so far down the couch that his back is parallel with the ground and his balls are just prominently displayed at the TV screen like he's making the outside world a glorious offering of his own fertility. From here, I've watched Red Dawn about 53 times, by my count, and I can only guess my name Wolverines comes from Todd's reflexive need to squeeze on my ball every time another commie gets waxed. I literally do not want to meet this dude, like, ever, and that's even before he started putting the DVD of Gymkata in heavy rotation and jumping up and down and falling over and shit while doing "kah-rah tay," and in the process making my small universe shake like a de-toxing Wasilla meth-head inside a rock tumbler.
I'm serious, I want nothing to do with the guy. Forget the jostling: homeboy does not read. I can absorb data sort of osmotically by whatever he experiences, and apart from the display at the ATM, the furthest experience with literature he's had featured him whipping out his hog and placing it over the fish in every photo of a Field and Stream and saying, "Y'all wanna see a real trout?" So basically we're back to movies, but his entire movie library is post-Star Wars and pre-Brokeback. I assume he thinks the first one created cinema, and the last one destroyed it, but that's all he watches. I know Sarah tried to get him to watch a black and white movie, but he said it depressed him to see people living "without color back then." I guess he thinks Ted Turner managed to fix some movies via time machine. I don't even want to know how he would have coped with watching Pleasantville. Thank God he passed out all three nights it was on TNT.
The other reason I don't want "out" is that I feel very unsafe even here. Out there, there's more than two people who're gonna get their hands on me. My current treatment ain't exactly inspiring. For example, like six hours of every day taste like nothing except Rainer Ale. Add to that the fact that I know Todd doesn't wash his hands very often, because he spends at least one hour a day cleaning his guns, and he gets cosmoline on everything, and then he, like, just sticks his hand in his mouth for some reason??? I feel like I'm sucking off a clean Winchester every afternoon, which wouldn't be bad on its own, but Todd likes to put his hands in Sarah's mouth — does he think she's a horse? — and you can just imagine what that shit would do to a fetus.
Speaking of which, I want nothing to do with that terrifying chasm betwixt those legs. I know the Sarahcuda can keep that joint sealed tight for a 12-hour flight from Houston to Juneau to Wasilla with a stop off in Seattle to eat at that restaurant that rotates, but everything else I've heard about it has taught me to fear. You know that scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark — maybe you don't because you haven't seen it weekly for fucking ages — where there's that long tunnel that's falling apart and raining debris and then this giant BOULDER OF DEATH comes rolling down like it's time to kill everything? That's what I picture it being like inside there. I mean, did you even see how that last kid, Bort or whatever, came out? Jesus Christ.
I'm not saying the danger is deliberate, it's just that sometimes you don't want to move into a fixer-upper, you know what I mean? Even if what happens in there is accidental — maybe adults can't taste gun oil or something — I suspect deeply fucked up things happen to development once we land in there. Don't even think I don't notice her referring to Bort as her "Down's Baby." Yeah, real encouraging. I can't wait to get out of here and become a demographic showpiece for the stump. Maybe I can be the baby that appeals to voters who hate stupid bullshit and Patrick Swayze. If I even live that long, because I'm guessing we're not talking about a craftsman with a lot of respect for her tools, here.
Let me go back to a comfortable analogy for me: sports, basketball. A good point guard drives through a full court press, protecting the ball, keeping his eye on the basket, and he knows exactly when to pass the ball so that the team can win. And I'm doing that: keeping my eye on the ball that represents sound priorities. And I know when it's time to pass the ball — for victory. My point? Imagine the ball in this analogy represents my fetal brain. Only now picture homegirl drilling the rock up and down the court, crashing the boards with it, screamin', "WE MUST PROTECT THIS HOUSE." Of course, what's inside the house can go get fucked, apparently.
(Oh, God, I don't even want to think about how that works.)
Look, I don't want to be born, and I don't even want to get in line for thinking about it. From what I figure, I'm relatively normal now, but who knows what happens after that? Todd keeps watching this movie called Look Who's Talking and yelling back at the babies on the screen, but he couldn't have picked a bigger cautionary tale for me to absorb. Here we are, safe inside, but then we get out and forget what we already know. Worse, we wind up pissing and shitting all over ourselves for a couple of years; and after taking another cosmoline cocktail and looking at my brother Bort over here, I guess there's a chance that stuff will go on for a couple decades.
I have my dignity. Kill me. I'm sure some liberal Death Panel can get that lossless-suction Dyson dude on the line and get him to jam a wand up mom's Northwest Passage and end it, but why put it off? Give me a lossless outcome, and let's get this ball spiked preventively. I wanna talk to these Death Eaters or whoever they are. I demand my rights now. I didn't ask to be born. I'm specifically asking not to. Todd and Sarah don't need any more kids anyway; five is enough. All somebody needs to do is to put Todd on the pommel horse and tell him the Gymkata ninjas are coming. He'll take care of the rest.