Working through a Sarah Palin fantasy

I'm not gonna lie to you, I'm a little bit wine-drunk, and this VP debate is killing me. I really do want to make out with Sarah Palin, though. But I want us to be wasted off shared swigs from a sticky flask, and I want something sharp and hard and preferably plastic to be poking her in the back. I want Def Leppard's "Pour Some Sugar on Me" to be playing on the stereo of my IROC-Z, and I want us to be sitting in it on a road that runs through a cornfield. And I want her to be really impressed that I have a sweet IROC-Z. I want it to be 1986. I want her to be 17, but look just like she does now, and I want her to be snapping gum and wearing at least one wrist-band, and if we're really telling it like it is, leg-warmers and hotpants and a Depeche Mode t-shirt that's way too big. I want us to share a Newport Medium, and I want her to blow smoke into my mouth because I want her to, and not necessarily because she wants to, although she's certainly curious. I want her to be blind without her glasses, and lose her glasses in the cornfield, and I want to watch her wander, frantic, through the stalks, groping and grasping at straws and stems. I want to laugh under my breath, and I want her to think maybe I'm laughing but not be sure, and not feel self-assured enough to call me on it. I want her older brother to stumble upon us, and threaten my life. I want her to cry and apologize, first to him, and after he leaves, to me. I want to say, "whatever," and screech away in my Camaro, leaving her knock-kneed and sobbing in the dirt.

And I want to have a sweet peach-fuzz mustache.

And I want to be wearing Wranglers.

And I want to have a guitar in the back seat.

And I want her to never run for public office because of this sole traumatic event, and become a failed conceptual artist who makes installations about how much she hates me, and then, when she runs out of money and her parents won't help her anymore, a hot, mean kindergarten teacher.