Sara(h) Smiles, Part 21: Rowe, Rowe, Rowe Your Boat

Naturally, I was only being mischievous, in that endearing way I have, when I suggested the other day that Donald Trump ought to be Sarah’s running mate in 2012. I can’t imagine one as vainglorious as he willingly playing second fiddle to a woman, not even one as hot as Sarah. But I’ve had another idea, and this isn’t a kidding-around one: Mike Rowe, from the Wrangler and Ford commercials — and from the Discovery Channel’s Dirty Jobs, which I’ve never watched because I’m squeamish.

Nearly everything about him is perfect. Start with his name — two virile, no-nonsense, all-American monosyllables, in the tradition of George Bush, but better, since “George” is a fairly…squishy sound, whereas Mike is as hard as a Louisville slugger. Mike’s a fearsome heavyweight champion’s (Tyson’s) name, or a hard-boiled detective’s (Hammer’s), or a tough-as-nails former Chicago Bears coach (Ditka’s). George is a curious monkey’s name, or a homosexual crooner’s (Boy).

Rowe is everything his name promises, as far — in his Wrangler jeans, facial crags, and baseball cap — as it’s possible to be from an elitist liberal who thinks he knows more than the average American just because he has a Ph.D. from an Ivy League university. He was an Eagle Scout, and has big pectoral muscles, but everything about him mumbles, “Aw, shucks.” He’s somebody the average American working man could easily picture hoisting a couple of cold brewskis with, and the gals already think of him as having a cute butt — an asset too few vice presidential candidates have offered in recent elections — because of the Wrangler commercials. Whether he actually has one is entirely immaterial, in the same way that Burt Reynolds’ having an undersized penis became immaterial after Cosmopolitan presented him to its readership as a sexpot.

I won’t say Rowe’s perfect; the skeletons in his closet include having sung with the Baltimore Opera at one point, and his living nowadays in San Francisco, that cesspool of homosexuality and Pelosi-ism. What I’m hoping is that his having lived there and remained straight (please, Lord, let it be so!) will make him even more attractive to common-sense conservatives, especially if he can be persuaded to manifest a little revulsion at his LGBT neighbors, Stacy and Kim.

(Speaking of the Chicago Bears, I have formulated a theory as to why commentators and coaches so love to say football — why, for instance, they’ll invariably say, “They’re a heck of a football team,” or, “He’s a talented football player, or, “If we can stop their running attack, we think we can win the football game” even though it’s redundant in each case; everyone knows full well that a guy predicting the winner of the Saints vs. Steelers game isn’t talking about lacrosse or synchronized swimming.

The reason you don’t hear comparable self-references in the other major team sports, basketball or baseball, is that football is just such fun to say, its first syllable being close to the sound boys make when trying to evoke the sound of an arrow or throwing star flying through the air and then hitting its target. And at the end of that first syllable, your mouth is poised perfectly to add ball, as it is with neither of the other two sports.)

In other news, Sarah has tweeted (God is that cute, or what? How could she be more adorable?) that Julian Assange, Mr. WikiLeaks, ought to be hunted down like a dog, a moose, or one of those wolves she, as governor of Alaska, had sharpshooters picking off from helicopters. Naturally, the lamestream media have been having a field day wondering where she comes off endorsing the de facto assassination of a foreign national. My only quibble — and I think this may have to do with the fact that Twitter tweets can comprise only a limited number of characters — is that she didn’t urge the assassins to save a bullet or two for that rhymes-with-witch Katie Couric, Jon Stewart, Michael Moore, or Bill Maher. Might as well take 'em all down at once, it seems to me.

Kill, baby, kill!