Between what is fast becoming chronic eye blinking, we marvel at the extent of popularity many in this country continue to bestow on former Republican vice-presidential candidate Sarah Palin.
What a joke if it weren't for the very sad commentary it makes regarding many Americans' taste in contrived celebrities repeatedly and forever exposed as all hat and no cattle.
In all reality, revering Sarah Palin is like voting Happy Gilmore into the PGA Hall of Fame. It's betting on Sponge Bob Square Pants in the Death Valley Marathon. It's adding Tiny Tim as lead vocalist for the Rolling Stones.
To paraphrase the late, great George Gobel, the whole world's a tuxedo and she's a pair of brown shoes.
Sarah Palin? Sarah freaking Palin from Wasilla, Alaska? THAT Sarah Palin?
The quitter in question (she bailed as governor of Alaska before her term was up) is now 100-percent self-absorbed touring America to fan the flames of her pseudo-celebrity (reportedly half the Republicans actually think she is presidential material!) to promote herself, her self-anointed spirit and grit, sit in the Big Chair on many TV talk shows and, oh yes, sell her book at $25 a pop to all her inexplicable groupies who must already claim ownership of the Brooklyn Bridge and a time share in Bronson.
Yes, this is Capitalistic America. And you are worth what anyone is willing to pay you. We know about her beauty and body, she has made sure of that. But where is her body of work? Heck, what is her body of work?
Palin's main schtick these days is bashing the very media that has made her a household name. She found out that tactic works and it's now her calling card. She even had the gall to lambaste television's darling Katie Couric, herself a mystifying "deity" whose soul journalistic talent is to mimic Jane Pauley and ask scripted questions of world and entertainment leaders in just the absolute cutest way a few minutes a day.
But when you're talking substance, Katie Couric is Shakespeare and Sarah Palin an overpass graffitist.