It will be as if Biden were, say, sporting hunting Palin from an aeroplane. Firing wild shot after wild shot until her tiny legs can pump no more and she is run to ground. Her heart pounding with crazed fear, she stares up at him, the droning of the flying machine filling her world. The pilot banks for one final pass as Biden draws bead, holds his breath and squeezes off the killshot.
Six months later he savors a warmed brandy in an oversized snifter. The light from the fireplace plays delicately on the walls of the East Wing as he chuckles softly in a murmured conversation with close, close friends.
Someone points to the taxidermied Palin, posed above the mantle. Her resplendent, yet revealing star-spangled two-piece teasing the imagination. The BB gun presented jauntily on her hip.
"Say, fellas," Joe begins, "I ever tell you about the time I brought her down?"
His friends groan and roll their eyes good-naturedly. Not this old chestnut, they think. But what the hell? This story never gets old.
"Go on, Joe. Tell it again. But you have to do the voice!" says Barry.
In unison the friends all exclaim "Donchaknow?!?" and laugh clinking their glasses together.
Good times.
