Emotional growth stopped right about… here

Hi. Welcome to RedState.

Or not.

One of the perks that Vanity Fair’s contributing editor James Wolcott receives from VF (besides getting first dibs on Graydon Carter’s used cummerbunds) is getting an early edition of the magazine each month so that he can peruse his fellow writers work (about twenty pages worth) amidst the 300 plus pages of perfume ads and pictures of pore-less Ralph Lauren models. So while VF teases us with niblets from Levi Johnston’s upcoming Me and Mrs. Palin (which sounds more than vaguely like a MILF fantasia. " Hi Mrs. Palin. Is Bristol hom—-. Um. Is that a strap-on, because I can come back at a better time…") Wolcott has the real moose and potatoes from Johnston’s New Journalmalism:

After Tripp was born, Sarah would pay more attention to our son than she would to her own baby, Trig. Sarah has a weird sense of humor. When she came home from work, Bristol and I would be holding Trig and Tripp. Sarah would call Trig–who was born with Down syndrome–"my little Down’s baby." But I couldn’t believe it when she would come over and sometimes say, playing around, "No, I don’t want the retarded baby–I want the other one," and pick up Tripp. That was just her–even her kids were used to it.

Now I’ll be the first to admit that Sarah Palin is a dim-witted opportunistic grifter who would climb over the still-warm bodies of her own children to grasp the golden ring of fame and fortune, a Lonesome Rhodes of the Icepack peddling bullshit homilies to the uneducated bitter clingers with attention spans slightly shorter than the time it takes to recite the pledge of allegiance, a quitter, a liar, a fraud, an emotionally stunted  woman-child who thinks she can dazzle the big city folk with her small town beauty queen runner-up status… but I don’t think that she’s ever called Trig, even in jest,  "the retarded baby".

So there.

She can thank me later.

A note on her Facebook page would be nice…