Written by Tawdry Soup
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Wednesday, 12 January 2011

Nashville, TN - After spending years exercising her First Amendment rights to encourage the murder of someone who wasn't a "real American," Sarah Palin's media career has taken a turn for the worse after several real Americans were murdered by an anti-government kook.

The unflappable Palin, feverishly working on her big comeback, is working in a Nashville titty flop, the next stop after her recent spread in Hustler magazine, for which she was reportedly paid a whopping $127.50, which was about what Larry Flynt thought she was worth.

Tawdry Soup made his way to The Badaboomboom Room, the seediest strip joint in Nashville, on a rumor that Palin would be there yucking it up with her fan base. Lo and behold, there was Palin on stage wearing a beat-up pair of red stilettos and a scabies-infested red, white and blue G-string.

In a scene that looked like it crawled out of Dante's Inferno, she was in the throes of her novelty act, performing fellatio on a plastic replica of a M2 .50 Caliber Browning machine gun, as Rupert Murdoch and John McCain, wearing cheap fake wigs and moustaches, leered from a dark corner of the bar. The southern rock of .38 Special blared from the juke box.

This was followed by a pole dance that was actually pretty damn good, if you are a connoisseur of pole dances. She writhed a little, squatted a little and implored with her murderous eyes for someone, anyone, to please put a fucking dollar in her, or on her, or on the stage, or something. Although she was "dying up there," she finished the act with a "blow off" that involved ripping off her G-string, twirling it around her head a few times and throwing it into the audience.

It hit the floor like a wet mop.

Nobody moved.

A pitiful waif of a waitress, straight out of a Tennessee trailer park, rushed to pick it up, and placed it on her serving tray full of drinks. As she headed toward the table of patrons she was serving, they began waving their hands and objecting loudly, making her take the entire tray of drinks back for a redo.

Tawdry Soup slicked back his eyebrows with a spit-covered finger, walked through a plastic beaded curtain, and entered the dark narrow hallway behind the stage. It had black walls and a low ceiling reminiscent of a coal mine. The third door on the right was cracked open and Tawdry Soup could see Palin sitting in front of a mirror wearing only a satin robe.

She was taking a powerful fresh hit from a meth pipe with her eyes closed. She smiled and leaned back as the hand holding the pipe dropped to her side. She held it loosely in the once perfectly manicured fingers she famously used to jab at un-Americans under blazing klieg lights, but were now tipped with thick filthy jagged claws.

Tawdry soup lightly knocked before pushing the door open.

"Hello?" he asked, surprised to see a urinal stuffed full of tattered Beanie Babies attached to a wall in the tiny dressing room.

Palin opened her eyes and was breathlessly excited to see someone. She began to talk immediately and excitedly in her trademark screech. "Come on in here, fella! I was just taking a break from my latest book tour-you gotta read the latest-and this one I wrote myself..it's only 13 pages and it's called, (de)Cry Violence. Not my idea, but whatever…it's an E-Book, Todd is setting it up for me..By the way, have you heard from Todd and the kids? I think he runoft with all my babies! MY BABIES! HE DONE GOT MY MONEY AND MY BABIIIIIIEEEESSS!!"…

She calmed down a second, took another hit from her pipe, and began anew before exhaling..

"I heard he was fucking that Snooki bitch from Jersey Shore..but it don't matter cuz I got a whole new idea..once we bag that black bastard and I'm elected President, shoot, I must have lived such a doggoned sheltered life as a normal, independent American up there in the last frontier, schooled with only public education, I have a communications degree because obviously I haven't learned enough to dismiss common sense.. accountable, the public will not trust them to drill, baby, drill…violation of our freedom of the press..isn't that ironic..It's a disturbing trend...ONLY DEAD FISH GO WITH THE FLOW! LOCK AND LOAD! I MEAN RELOAD. SOMEBODY PLEASE KILL ME!"

Tawdry's face blanched as he headed for the door. "Don't forget me!" she screeched, "I'm having some business cards made and I'll send you one!" Then she said to herself as she began upending the room in search of something , "Where is that damn rock I thought Murdoch gave me this morning?"

Tawdry walked down the blackened hallway, through the beaded curtain, over the sticky red carpet and left the bar, the bright afternoon sunlight making him squint. "Hey buddy, need a date?" came a she-male voice from what looked like somebody's oma. A fat pale face looked out from under a helmet of fake blond curls. It was Glenn Beck.

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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