Here's what you need to do.
You should start a whorehouse. You'd be good at it, if only you could find your inner prostitute.
Seriously, I think this is your calling, Sarah. You're a born madame. You'd keep the girls in line, I'm sure.
And the boys, too.
All this nonsense about how you need to be President is so silly. Honey, deal with it...You're all about sex! That's your talent.
You are so good. Really, even a straight girl like me, goes "Whoo!" lookin' atchoo, Sarah.
Sarah, think of it. Think of what it would be like to have a house of sex with a madame who was really pretty and had seven kids, or however many you have now.
(I'm sorry, Sarah, I should be keeping better track, but you know I think you wrock with your great procreativity!)
Really, it would just say "sex." You'd make a mint. You're all down the wrong road with this political shit. Your true talents lie elsewhere, dear, stalwart Sarah.
Think about it. When you first got McCained, what I started reading everywhere first was not "This woman is crazy." It was "This woman is hot."
Go with your strengths, Sarah. And if you wind up in the underground place, well, some of us will perhaps be waiting for you there.
The fire will be warm, the sex excellent?
What are you waiting for, Sarah?
Not to worry, the moose are going elsewhere. That required a separate bureaucratic intervention after you showed up. You still get to go to the nice place, the warm place.
I've also heard that the dogs want to go where the moose are...well, there you go. Senseless animals are so stupid, don't you think, Sarah?
Oh, wait. I just heard that there won't be guns in Hell. In fact, there won't be guns in the afterlife at all.
Well, holy shit Sarah! You're just going to have to live forever. I'd buy up on radical health insurance shit now. Nowhere to go without your guns?
I'd give this some serious consideration, Sarah.
You need to rewrite all this religion shit to make sure you get to take your guns, and your wall-mounted mooseheads and your stolen garments and your tormented children and whatever other stuff you think you need to go to hell.
What, Sarah? You think you're going to Heaven?
I hear things are quite paltry up there, Sarah. Lots of angels and harps. Doesn't sound quite your style. You're not going to get forty-seven virgins in Heaven, Sarah. Ain't gonna happen.
Go shoot a moose, Sarah. Get it out of your system.
Do it on me.
And then give up all of this business of your being important, because all you do is waste people's time and screw up your children.
Give it all up and then go do something real, Sarah. Go volunteer for a homeless shelter. Go give some desperate person some kindness.
Do something besides going around trying to work everybody to your own selfish personal advantage, Sarah, because as far as I can see, that's all that you're good for, sexy selfish narcissistic pathological hot bitch that you are.