Karl Rove's Folly:
In the basement of his house, late at night, long after most people have gone to bed, Karl Rove sits at his computer, ready for another session. He's got a bowl of Doritos and a cold beer on the desk near his mouse pad. He's got a small vibrator shoved into his asshole, just enough to tickle but not put pressure on his prostate. Turned on high, he gets hard almost immediately. He is not wearing pants. Rove clicks on the YouTube clip he's got ready to go. And he grabs his erect dick, not much bigger than a ten year-old's thumb, and starts yanking as soon as Sarah Palin's voice begins.
Yeah, yeah, he says as he hears Palin accuse Barack Obama of "palling around with terrorists." Goddamn beautiful. Sure, it's complete and utter bullshit. Hell, if anyone gave a shit about truth, someone oughta say that William Ayers turned himself in for his crimes, ready to go to be punished. It just so happened that the FBI fucked up the case against him, so he walked. But truth is for losers who live in a real world. Palin is a dreamer on a win streak.
Oh, she's amazing, Rove thinks, slowing down, not wanting to come just yet, squeezing his balls to pain and turning the vibrator down.
Of course, McCain will lose this time, Rove knows. Now that Keating's come back, he's done. And as the top of the ticket, with two more debates for him to shake and sputter and fuck up, he's doomed. Schmidt blew it right after the convention, that idiot child. But that's not the point. The country's an impatient beast. Four years of Obama and a Democratic Congress trying to clean up the mess left behind by the Bush administration trashing the country like Keith Moon on a whiskey bender in an L.A. hotel suite, and it's over. How much can get done in such a short period? And who will be blamed in 2012? People will be begging for Republicans to come in and save the day. And Rove will be there, with Palin as his front, ready to storm the White House once more.
Palin is the perfection of Rovean cynicism. She is George W. Bush without the sense of royal privilege that wealth imparts. She is all context without substance. He watches her sneer at the notion that Obama, this high yellow intellectual with his faggoty ways, could dare be the man that John McCain is, that she is. Yes, as a thinker, she is a tabula rasa, but he will be Svengali to her Trilby some day. He will mold her skill at wielding the hunting knife and show her that the point is not to treat your opponent like a moose to be gutted, but like a pig waiting to be bled. He will hand her the scalpel; he will then give her the axe.
Rove clicks on a video of Palin at the debate, winking in slow motion, again and again, her lips parted just enough for rough insert of his dick, and he turns the vibrator back up, leaning into it more, trying to press it against his prostate, and he begins to viciously jack it, finally spewing stinking spooge all over the screen, all over Palin's 2-dimensional face and glasses.
He leans forward, sweaty, balls aching, asshole throbbing, and kisses Palin, rubbing his face against his own semen and against her cheek. "You are untamed and wild," he whispers to her phantom image, "but you exist only because of me."