Sunday, September 14, 2008
Unknown Theater in LA had a call for short plays about Sarah Palin. I wrote this: Sarah Palin sucked the soul out of my cat. She did. I saw her do it. Blood was dripping down her fangs. My kitten, Fluffy by name, was torn open and her tiny guts were pouring out onto the pavement all over Sarah’s PTA dress. “Wait, I said. That’s my cat.” But by then she had picked up her automatic and semi automatic and strapped grenades to her chest and jumped on the back of a camouflage truck. “Northward!” she screeched and the tires kicked up dirt all over Fluffy as they sped away. Four years ago it would have been snow, not dirt. “The old man is dead,” she had said as they drove away. “Tomorrow we go to war with Russia and Pakistan and Switzerland. We will bomb the fuck out of them. But first, let’s go kill us some polar bears.” And she was gone. And my cat was gone. And my wife had gone the year before, because we were denied health coverage when it turned out she had cancer. I had nothing. Not even Fluffy. And that’s when I began to make the bombs in my basement. And that’s when I began to dream of Sarah.