Sarah Palin Rocked My Giant Uvula

I'm fighting a cold. It makes me kind of grouchy, and more then a little pissy. It's not strep throat or anything too terrible. In fact, it is a totally normal crappy head cold EXCEPT for that the fact that two days ago my uvula swelled up to four times its regular size.

Perhaps you don't understand the particularly nasty implications of this. In case you don't know, the uvula is the thing that hangs down in the back of your throat. It's that little dangly-do back there over the tongue. Nobody knows what it does but in cartoons when somebody screams and the camera zooms down their throat what you always see is the little uvula vibrating like a tiny gong. If you need to go and look at it in the mirror and then come back to reading.

Got it? Good.

Well, two days ago when I woke up my throat felt like it was on fire. I could barely swallow. I also felt like I had something stuck in the back of my throat. It was as if somebody was sticking their finger on the back of tongue and holding it there. Whenever I would try and hawk up whatever was blocking me up back there my whole throat would shut closed and I would just do a weird sort of silent-body-dry-heave that I'm sure looked to an outside observer like the aliens had just turned remotely detonated my central nervous system.

So I drag myself into the bathroom and look in the mirror. I open my mouth and peer inside to look for white spots, which is the normal sign for strep and what I assume I have. What greeted me was horrifying beyond all recognition.

My uvula didn't look like it should. Instead of the tiny, easy to forget piece of nothing just chilling in the back, mine looked like a giant fat limp penis hanging in the back of my throat. I really wish I could use some other words to describe it but that's how it was. It was so long, and so fat that it was RESTING on the back of my tongue. And not a little bit. A huge amount of it was just lying on my tongue like a half-lynched snail. That's why I felt like I was choking. I basically was choking, on my own uvula. It was so wide I couldn't see anything else around my throat. It was blocking my whole throat. It was beyond scary.

I started to look for doctors right away. Unfortunately, I had a big meeting with a literary agent that day so I need quick results. I'm calling around but nobody can see me and I won't make it to a clinic and be out in time for the meeting. I call my manager and say I'm sick (she doesn't need to know about my giant uvula). It's very hard when I speak not to hack like a cat with a hairball in its throat because I constantly feel like somebody is sticking their finger in my throat Karen Carpenter style. Also, I'm being so careful not to hack or choke on my own uvula that I'm talking in a manner that is overly slow, overly cautious and slightly muffled because of a nearly blocked throat. The result is I sound like I'm deaf. I'm serious. I could have auditioned for "In the Company of Men 2". This isn't good.

Despite my newly acquired handicap my manager explains it's to late to cancel without looking bad. I'm too embarrassed to tell her about my uvula. I agree to go. I hang up the phone. The clock is ticking. I need to be out the door in two hours and I need to get my uvula under control. I can handle twice the normal size but four times is just too big. I feel like I got the sand worm from Dune erupting out of the back of my throat and I'm talking like Marley Matlin.

I check the internet for a diagnosis. Of course one of the options is cancer. But that always happens when you diagnose online. Option one will always be "cancer of the something horrible". But that can't be it. I dig around more. What seems more likely is that it is the result of extreme dehydration. Ah-ha!

I had not drank enough the day before. I had slept with my mouth open and on my back (both contributing factors). Also, most importantly, I had taken a Hydrocodone the night before to help me sleep (left over my botched wisdom tooth extraction). And that can cause dehydration. So there you go. With an hour left until I have to be out the door I begin to try and hydrate my uvula.

I drink about 18 gallons of water in ten minutes. I take more ibuprofen then is probably safe. I try gargling with salt water. The first three times I try it immediately kicks my gag reflex because of the swollen uvula. I wind up dry-heaving into the kitchen sink three times before I get it to work. Of course, the neighbors kids are playing in the courtyard of my building and I'm loudly making puking sounds and dancing around my kitchen like Fred Astaire with MS. And that is much more fun to watch then whatever doll they were playing with so every time I turn their are more and more children watching me try to gargle the salt water that is making me dry-hack. They think it's funny that I'm doing this to myself over and over. I'm thinking about places I could hide their bodies after I kill them.

Nobody ever goes into that crawlspace under the deck right?

But not now because my time is up! I have to get ready for my meeting! And the uvula is still huge! I take a long shower to try and let the steam from the shower work on my throat. That, more then anything, helps out. Thank you God. I get my uvula down to an acceptable level. It's not back to normal but I can deal with it. I just have to be careful not to do anything during the meeting to kick my gag reflex because I'll dry-heave at the slightest trigger now. I go to my meeting. I don't think they realized anything was wrong. Thank you God again. The meeting I will fill you in on later in my next posting about meetings and bad auditions (cause I've had a few recently). The meeting is not the real point. What happened afterwards is.

After I got home I was exhausted. My uvula is still big but not horribly so. But I just couldn't stop thinking about it or messing with it. It was a constant annoyance. So I started to read some political blogs while curled up in bed. I do this a lot. I've already talked about it in my last blog. They always make me angry but how I can't just STOP.

So I'm lying there alone in my room. In my nice big bed. Reading about something stupid and horrible that Sarah Palin has done. She called somebody a terrorist or got accused of something or didn't know who Margaret Thatcher was or something. And it makes me ticked off. I'm royally pissed off again. Like all good liberals I think she may be evil. But down at the bottom of this story is a photo of Sarah Palin. And I'm steaming. And I look at the photo and go...well...actually...she looks pretty damn good.

I'll be honest, I got a little twitch downstairs looking at her photo. A little shifting of the bits that tells me we might be on to something here. I think to myself, "well, well. What have we here?" Of course I think that to myself in a British accent because everything about masturbation is more fun with a British accent.

And I look back at the photo. She's sitting on a leather couch in Alaska. She's got a bear-skin blanket on the back of the sofa. She's showing a little leg. A little hint of cleavage. She's smiling. She's kinda MILFy. Oh yeah....it's getting sexy.

I check to make sure nobody is outside my door.

All clear.

I dim the lights.

You know, to set the mood.

I crawl into bed.

And I do my thing.

Oooooo yes.

Just me and the photo of Palin.

And let me tell you folks.

It was damn good.

Sarah Palin ('s photo) rocked my fucking world.

And not in an angry sex kind of way. I assure you this was no sexist liberal fuck-frenzy. It was delicate. It was romantic. And it was sensual.

Afterwards, lying spent in my bed, I got to thinking about what I had done. Two things really jumped out in my mind.

One:
Had I committed a federal crime by masturbating to a presidential candidate? Could the secret service knock on my door? I figured they probably could. But I would take my chances. And hell, I bet there are all kinds of housewives out there getting off good to the thought of Barack Obama. And they can't arrest ALL of us.

Question Two:
Why was that so fucking good?

Cause, seriously, I would have blinded a bitch if my sock had been a lady's face.

I thought about that for awhile. You know, just pondering during those few moments of total intellectual clarity men get after we orgasm. And then it came to me. Sarah Palin is crazy. And I love me a crazy chick. It's well known about me. The crazier they are the more I like them. And not in a "oh that bitch craazy" kind of way. I mean for real. I have dated more then one woman who has been institutionalized. Most have some kind of severe mental disorder. If I notice she's got scars on her wrists, I'm going to ask for digits. I like CRAZY chicks.

And Sarah Palin is one motherfucking crazy chick.

So it made sense. But then I realized something even more important. And that was that I hadn't thought about my swollen uvula for the last twenty minutes for the first time that day. Sarah Palin had made me forget all about the tiny penis slagging on the back of my tongue.

And that's why the democrats love her. She makes us forget about all the real problems with Obama's level of experience. Let's be honest, the guy has no real foreign policy or legislative qualifications for President. But at least he's not Sarah Palin levels of incompetent. She's just fun to pick on.

And the Republicans love her because she seems folksy and real and makes them forget about how scary, complex and huge the issues in this country are. They are comforted by the lie that somebody could fix everything just by cutting through all the bullshit. You know, "Maverick" style. That it's not the complexity of the problem but the levels of beaurocracy that are dragging down our country. And all we need is one straight shooter to sort it all out. You know, like in "Rambo".

But now when I hear Sarah Palin's name I don't get angry like I used too. Because I know the real Sarah Palin. The kind of knowledge that can only be shared by two people who have undergone an intensely erotic experience together. And all my anger is just...well, it's gone. Now I'm thinking that if I can manage to rub one off to John McCain (a feat of near impossible difficulty considering he looks like Zombie Wilfred Brimmley ate the old preacher from "Poltergeist 2") then I just might be able to get through the rest of this election without letting all the bullshit stick in the back of my throat like a swollen uvula.

It's not going to be easy. But I've got the time and the dedication to try.

I hope you'll join me.

D