Fifty Years Young

Purchased from the Russian Empire in 1867 for $7.2 million, Alaska has since proven to be worth at least twice that amount. As a result, instead of lamenting our idiocy at giving it back, today marks the 50th anniversary of Seward's Folly becoming the 49th American state. Now I know you all have elaborate festivities of your own planned (speaking of, who's playing Eisenhower this year? Why not mix things up and try a woman? Cross-dressing is SO fifties...), but let's get to the heart of the matter here and ask the tough question Americans want answered: what is foxiest governor of the year Sarah Palin doing to celebrate?

Insulated by her powerful politico-business allies, fierce entourage, extreme wealth, and remote location, I am sadly only able to speculate on Ms. Palin's planned festivities. That being the case, there is a lot to be said about educated guesses, so here goes nothing...


Ms. Palin's day began at 10am, when she begrudgingly awoke from her favorite recurring dream--in which she becomes the oldest woman to win the Miss Universe pageant by successfully blowing the heads off every delegate at the United Nations Climate Change Conference in Copenhagen during the always-crucial talent portion of the evening.

She was just getting to the best part, where Hawaiian-Tropic-supplied prize George Clooney and host Mario Lopez coax her into a wet and wild double-team in the hot tub backstage after the show, when her good-for-nothing asshole of a husband, Todd, woke her up with breakfast in bed.

The real treat was not the breakfast itself, though fit for a queen, but rather its unfamiliar and magnificent vessel--an elegant, velvety tray made out of the noses of hundreds of baby polar bears Todd and his BP cronies ran down with his company Hummer last month while on a vicious backwoods-oil-man bender the likes of which George Bush could not even imagine. The fact that he would do all that hard work for her meant so much more than if he had just bought one from the Halliburton catalog like all those rich, big-city Anchorage bitches had done. Her love for Todd Six-Pack was briefly restored.

Karima, her beautiful young Eskimo slave, brought in Ms. Palin's favorite Versace pantsuit--freshly laundered after the accidental spilling of an entire 5-liter bottle of Carlo Rossi Merlot on the crotch when she fell asleep while watching Wheel of Fortune on her lunch break the other day--and Ms. Palin giggled with delight, clapping her hands together like a baby seal. She was going to be the best dressed woman at the Wow-Wow-Wasilla Beauty Parlor for the 60th consecutive day.

After Karina sponge-bathed her (she has a deep-set fear of running water), brushed her teeth, blow-dried her hair, troweled on some makeup, and clothed her, Ms. Palin smacked her across the face with a decorative bronze moose that she always keeps next to the sink, has since college, because she suddenly thought that Todd might find Karina more attractive than her and she couldn't stand it.

On her way out the bedroom door, Ms. Palin stopped to urinate on her uneaten breakfast, lest Karina think it fit for her lips and enjoy it and not let it go right to her hips, the little bitch. Ms. Palin didn't realize it, but a small stripe of wetness would be visible on the seat of her pants for the rest of the day, and everybody would laugh about it behind her back.

Just as Ms. Palin zipped up and smiled at her work, her 17-year-old daughter, Bristol, came running into the bedroom with screaming newborn baby Tripp.
"Mom, what do I do? He's crying and he won't stop and Track and Piper and Willow and I are all going crazy and Track said he'll kill it with a knife if it doesn't stop."
"I don't know--did you feed it?"
"Ewww. No way... I don't want my breasts to get all big and saggy and gross. Besides, I wanna go shopping. Can't you do it?"
"Ugh--tell Karina to stop all that racket and start pumping. Trig--you retard! Get back into your cage! Karina! Get down here and do your job! Jesus Fucking Christ, I need some goddamn quiet. I'm going to the office."

Little did Ms. Palin know, Karina was already lactating. She was six-months pregnant with Todd Palin's child and at her wit's end. She hoped the vicious blow to the head this morning would cause a miscarriage and maybe even help her to forget that awful night Todd raped her on the air hockey table in the basement. But she knew that she probably wouldn't be that lucky, so, as she tried to stop the flow of blood from her head and fed the screaming infant from her swollen bosom, Karina continued brainstorming ways to kill the entire Palin family and get away with it.

As Ms. Palin revved up her Chevy Suburban in the driveway, and sang along with the latest Travis Tritt joint---so delicious---she smiled to herself. She is such a good mother. This smile lasted the entire ride to the nail salon, the duration of the soothing mani/pedi (comped in exchange for protection), and the 50-mile drive to her office in Anchorage.

After spending her $58 in taxpayer-funded per diem (since Anchorage is neither her home nor the capitol) on a box of Franzia Chillable Red, a See's Chocolate sampler, and a handle of Jim Beam (to help finally convince her second assistant to do dirty things) at the sundries shop in the lobby of her building, Ms. Palin rode the elevator to her second-floor office.

Sean Parnell, her plucky Lieutenant Governor, was all smiles upon her arrival.
"Hey, Sarah, can you meet us in the conference room? We have a special budget meeting planned."
"Oh, Christ, Sean--can't that wait til later? Dieter is coming by in like 10 minutes to show me some new automatic rifles he just got in."
"Oh...uhmm...okay...well...can you just come in for a second? I just need the ole Jane Hancock on an executive order banning trees in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge."
"Alright..."

And so Ms. Palin thrust open the doors of the conference room to find her entire staff waiting for her, gathered around a large chocolate sheet cake. Confused, knowing it was neither her birthday nor the anniversary of her coronation, she looked closely at the writing on the cake:

"Happy 50th, Alaska, you sly sled dog!"

Her mouth agape, still making no sense of the situation, she looked over at Sean.
"What does that mean?"
"Well, as you know, today is the 50th anniversary of Alaska becoming a state..."
"Wait---I though we were a country?"

Before anybody could think of an appropriate response, Ms. Palin, having eaten nothing all day in an attempt to fit into her high-school bikini for the upcoming Miss Universe pageant, passed out and fell directly into the cake. Everybody laughed and went to Chili's for an earlier-than-usual happy hour.

Happy 50th, Alaska!