On HBO’s “Real Time with Bill Maher,” Andrew Sullivan, for whom normally I have no great love, at all, made a great point. We ALL every last one of us need to vote, and we HAVE TO CONVINCE five friends to also vote. We have to NOT LET THIS WOMAN BE VICE PRESIDENT.

Pretty much my readership of three here features two voters and a foreigner. But, if there is anyone unsure, vote early and often against Sarah Palin. I won’t say you gotta vote Obama, but my womb, strangers’ wombs, polar bears, the Russians outside her kitchen window, and anyone ever who thought “What a fucking idiot” should all be considered, and the right thing must be done.

(Hbee, I’m looking in your direction. Put aside the retardation of DNC squabbling. Just say to yourself “President Sarah Fucking Palin.”)

Have we learned nothing from the Hey, he seems like a great guy that you could have a beer with school of political thinking?

She’s a neo-con, she’s a fucking Pentecostal, which even other Christians think can get pretty freakshow what with speaking in tongues, faith healing and charasmatic multi-day prayer fests (which I’m sure help you along to that “drunk with the spirit” state).

Politics aside, though, what irks me is she’s apparently a wiz at pop culture, ‘cuz that will really fucking help at state dinners, and worse she still is living in her high school yearbook.

Old Sarah and I are the same age. At 44 years young, she’s actually about two weeks older than me. You know how many people I still talk with from BHS class of 1981 at all, let alone with frequency? Two. (Not including my immediate family.) You know how many I would give cush, appointed government jobs without any relevant experience apart from a love of cows? Yeah.

I come from small-town, middle-class white America. (Although, my small town is ginormous compared to Wasilla, AK.) I’m pretty sure most of my high school graduating class have gone on to do a few other things. I’m certain not many of them are still boosting their championship ball handling over a quarter of a century ago as a resume highlight.

Fucking, GAH. Seriously. If you met someone at a party or cookout or bar or a prayer service or grocery store who was over 40 and talked about the lessons they learned as the “Barracuda” in the high school gym, you’d think “What a fucking loser,” and you’d move on. Hell, by college, I remember going on two dates with a guy who kept talking about his disappointment at prom (only a couple years before) and I thought it was a bad sign. Insert 20+ more years, and I’d be running to the door.

My resume goes back 10 years, because I’ve had, you know, jobs and experiences and shit in the last 27 years. My high school isn’t on it. (Maybe the discrepancy is I graduated in 1981, and she graduated in 1982. That could be the essential cutoff year.)

You know what a local, inexperienced, talkative, charasmatic hockey mom with a vague interest in politics and aspirations beyond her town would be great at? Community organizer.