A Bridge To Fargo

I knew she was trouble the first time we met in that seedy karaoke bar to cement the deal.

"Ya der hey. I'm Sarah." I scolded her for her tardiness, introduced myself and my associate Black Bart, and then asked if she brought the $40 grand. "I made it clear to Phil (Gramm, the middleman in the deal) that it was the Ciera up front, and then the $40K after the ransom is paid." She was wearing her trademark revealing white blouse and tight skirt, so I was in no position to stand up and argue. At least not comfortably or without embarrassment.


"Okay, let's go check out that Ciera, Sarah (I couldn't help but chuckle to myself at my clever play on words)."

I knew little about her, other than she had once placed second in a beauty contest, was a weather girl on TV, and apparently served as governor of one of the more insignificant states somewhere west of Brainerd.

Maybe I was better off knowing as little as I did.

And thankfully in retrospect, much of what subsequently transpired was a blur. I'm in a much better place now. The mind works in mysterious ways and decides on it's own what should vividly be remembered. For me, one thing in that particular category was the long drive in our Ciera to the Twin Cities.


I chided Black Bart for lighting up in the new vehicle and exposing me to carcinogenic second-hand smoke. Bastard could've at least cracked open a window. I tried to make small talk about downtown Minneapolis skyscrapers, and asked if he'd ever been there. Nothing but silence in return. "Would it kill you to say something?", I said. Not a word. Screw it. Here I was, doing all of the driving with no conversation to break up the monotony, while all he could do is chain smoke Marlboros and sneer like Sting.


Fine. Two could play that game, fella.

As I later found out, Sarah had made a series of poor decisions that led to this fateful one, and continued to compound the misery and stress with further bad judgement.

For instance, the state auditor started to make inquiries about 2-motor pool vehicles that were unaccounted for. The VINs on the paperwork were not legible, due to the low quality of the faxed submissions. And despite the auditor's repeated insistence on clearer copies and no more faxes, Sarah continued to fax ones of increasingly bad quality. Rumor has it that Sassy landed her recent promotion in much the same manner (unreadable resume and transcripts, plus lord knows what other chicanery), but that's a Coen Brothers story for another day and an audience with a stronger collective stomach.

Anyhoo, the job was to kidnap her husband, who by all accounts was a meddling hayseed with no apparent career of his own.


She could no longer manipulate the rube into participating in fictional cross-state snowmobile endurance races in order to buy weeks of blessed domestic solitude, so she devised another plan. We would kidnap him and demand a quick ransom before his true market value could be assessed (a tactic brazenly stolen from NASDAQ and NYSE operational models). We would get our 40-G's (plus another 10 for NOT returning the hubby), and Sarah would keep the rest.

All initially went according to plan, until Black Bart and I were pulled over by that State Trooper. He noticed we were driving a fuel-efficient, American made product, which aroused his suspicion. A quick glance at the name plate on his uniform made Black Bart and I do a double-take, as we both realized he was Palin's brother-in-law. His disappearance would net us a $20,000 bonus, per Sarah. Cha-ching. In the trunk he went.


In addition to her state motor pool audit woes, Sarah now had another problem. She had gone to John McCain for the ransom money, but the old curmudgeon wouldn't simply give it to her "no questions asked". Despite his woeful interpersonal skills, the damned coot insisted on being in on the negotiations, also demanding that his confidante Carly Fiorina be included in every aspect. Carly suggested merging another current yet unrelated ransom deal into this one, in order to "maximize the synergies" between the two. What a nutjob.

We pressed on to the big city. The hubby started to whimper again from the back seat like the wuss that he was. "Shut the f*ck up, or you're going in the truck too!" shouted Black Bart.

"Jeez, that's more than I've heard you say all week," said I.


Back in Brainerd, a very pregnant Sheriff Serena received a late night call. A State Trooper had gone missing in her jurisdiction. She tumbled out of bed, soldiering on despite her perpetual morning sickness. Her highly-domesticated, balding artist husband /t. insisted that she eat a meal of runny scrambled eggs before heading out, mentioning with every bite she took that he needed her to pick up night-crawlers (which he described in great detail, to ensure she'd select the right ones) so he could go ice fishing later on.

At the scene of the empty State Patrol car, Deputy Boneman offered Serena a coffee and a damp, doughy red-jelly-filled cruller. With each bite she took, the Deputy explained how grisly traces of blood and flesh had been found close by, indicating a possible skirmish or gator attack.

"I'm not sure that I agree with you on your police work there, Lou." "Yah?" "Yah, ya see, there are no gators in Minnesota. It's way too cold." "Yah?" "You betcha." "I'll be damned."


Back at the Police Station, /t. brought Serena lunch from Arby's. As she struggled to consume her cheddar melt, /t. rifled through the bag of night-crawlers the wife had picked up, carefully inspecting each one in front of her and the light on her desk while shrieking with delight.

At this point it was revealed that /t. was a "Code Poetry Painter", and had been feverishly working on a digital Looney motif for the 3-cent eStamp. He was worried that Foam would beat him out of being awarded the design, so Serena had to constantly reassure him, which tested even her considerable patience* (* comparatively speaking, being that she was a natural redhead).

Just then, Deputy Boneman informed Serena of a report that 2-pugs in a Ciera stayed at the Blue Ox Motel last night with 2-girls they hoped would help ease the pain of their recent dumpings by Cathy and Dianne.

Sheriff Serena met the 2-girls at a local watering hole for questioning. Both seemed naive and wordly all at the same time. Britney mentioned how she was with the little fella, and that he was funny lookin'. "How so?" asked Serena. "Well, he looked a lot like Steve Buscemi if he were a canine." "Oh, I see ... will you excuse me one moment? My morning sickness seems to have returned."

Serena then asked Paris what she could remember about the other fella. "Well, he was taller and uncircumsized. The little fella called him 'Black Bart'. I called him the 'Malboro Pug' because he chain smoked Marlboros and wheezed a lot. Plus he insisted on wearing spurs and having his horse join in." "Oh, I see. Well, thanks for coming in, ladies."


Calls from the Blue Ox were traced to Phil Gramm, and in turn, calls from Phil's home were traced to Governor Palin's office. The noose was rapidly tightening. Sheriff Serena decided to pay Mrs. Palin a little visit.

"May I call you Sarah?" "No." "Okay b*tch, have it your way. MRS. PALIN, have you noticed anything missing lately? A couple of cars from the motor pool? Your husband? Your soul?"

"Look, Sheriff, this is obviously an attempt by:

- the Democrats

- my opponent

- the "gotcha" media

- Georgian artists

- informed, biased citizens

- people who watch MSNBC and Comedy Central

- people who produce and appear in MSNBC and Comedy Central shows

- ugly folks with self-image issues

- "Big Oil"

- Washington insiders

- lobster poachers

- library patrons

- non-hockey moms

- pitbulls

- Katie Couric

- lamb mistreaters

- Tina Fey

- Californians, Oregonians, Washingtonians (the state), New Englanders, Midwesterners, Mid-Atlantic staters

- blondes

- Floridians who still know what they're doing

- people who wear contact lenses

- former city employees

- former state employees

- former pageant competitiors

- Russians

- hot Obama mamas

- bridge builders to nowhere

- [your name here]

- anyone else I haven't mentioned

to slander my good name; because John McCain, James Garner* (* but not Mel Gibson), Tom Cruise in 'Top Gun', a former Ford Motor Company product, and I are all "mavericks". Would it make you happy if I perform an internal investigation of these allegations?" "No, not really, since it would obviously reveal nothing and claim to exonerate you." "Darn tootin'. Okay then, I'm off to perform the investigation." "I can't believe it!  She's fleeing the interview!"


Meanwhile, I was on my way to pick up the ransom money at our arranged meeting spot, adjacent to an Obama rally at the local Elks Club. Little did I know that McCain himself would be making the drop, making disrespectful facial gestures the whole time, and referring to me as "that pug". Though he was packin' heat, I took advantage of his inability to look down due to the lack of a neck, and snatched the satchel from below.

I then returned to our cabin hideout yonder at Moose Lake, where I discovered that Black Bart had "offed" Mr. Palin. "He was being a pain." I couldn't argue with that statement: I had seen the news footage of him and realized Black Bart's reasoning was sound.

We then started to fight over who got the Ciera. Being an American auto, neither of us wanted to be stuck with it, and there was no budging. As I was already wounded due to McCain stepping on my tail, I could only offer feeble resistance as we grappled. Black Bart dragged me to the wood chipper and started it up.

He then held me directly over its gnashing blades.

Fortunately, just then Sheriff Serena (who had spotted the Ciera) raced toward us with her gun drawn. "DROP THAT PUG!"


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