Mallory, C. Brady

Several days ago while briskly walking home from Zesto’s, ice cream in hand, I haphazardly ran into a pregnant teenage girl. After rightfully berating her for making me drop my chocolate vanilla twist, I got to thinking about my old friend, Sarah Palin. Oh Sarah, with her sparkling eyes, bright smile and thick calves; she always puts a joyful song in my heart and a bounce in my step. She is the reason why I believe in God and also why I floss after every meal. Before pondering my statements, I just want to make clear that I want to skip the political rhetoric and spare you my personal viewpoints. I thought it best to keep this piece a light-hearted frolic, like a Taylor Swift song minus the teen angst and overbite. So, please, stop screaming because the people next to you are judging you, and we all know you never want to isolate yourself from the group.

Recently, Sarah and I enjoyed a fantastic dinner and engaged in serene conversation before this hectic media frenzy began. Since my mother raised me to be an ever-conscious gentleman, I told Sarah she could pick where to dine that balmy summer evening. She overzealously informed me she was supremely capable in decision-making and would love to choose the restaurant. Though she never picked a restaurant, I still give her ample credit for the executive power I think she would want me to think she has.

Later on during the peaceful hours of twilight, my polar bear hunting firecracker was shoveling in her meal with the precision of an inmate on death row. Between large bites of her moose burger, she enlightened me on her knowledge of hockey. By now, we are all aware of Sar-bear’s passion for hockey, and she weaved a wonderful yarn all about the icy pastime. She regaled for hours about the spelling of hockey, how the word was pronounced and focused on all of the superficial aspects of the sport, while never quite defining the subject at hand.

Upon the completion of my entrée, I politely asked my Alaskan cougar what the hockey term icing meant. Though she failed to answer my inquiry, she reassured me by forcefully, if not frighteningly, reiterating that she was very experienced when it came to hockey. Truthfully, I was skeptical of her actual comprehension, but I was so mesmerized by her Grecian-like beauty and her crisp new blazer purchased from Christopher & Banks, my uncertainties wafted out of the room.

Still, I wanted to obtain a slightly different observation concerning the term icing. I decided to probe Hillary Clinton on the very same topic while we waited in line to see The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2. Sen. Clinton told me that icing simply entailed the act of a player shooting the puck from the defensive half of the rink over the opponent’s goal line, but not into the goal, as a defensive maneuver to keep the puck out of the reach of attacking opponents, resulting in a penalty against the defensive team if the puck is then next touched by an opponent other than the goalkeeper. While I am fairly certain she made sense, I choose to believe that Sarah’s answer was more succinctly accurate, and certainly adding remuneration to my fragile well-being. After all, Sarah is prettier, and we all know that pretty people make more sense than a Yale graduate.

For those of you who are scratching your heads at what you read, I simply need to remind you that I am not disrespecting anyone’s opinion, and that the real injustice lies in the fact that no freshman has offered to purchase me lunch.