Can Sarah Palin really see Russia?

Or maybe she didn’t want her swarthy husband to know about her audacious and passionate ice floe tryst with Vladimir, ended too soon by an early thaw. “Vladimir, your pants!” “No,” came his reply. His usual steely tone was softened somewhat by the almost unbearable emotional charge dissipating between them, much as the winter ice had given way under the brutal onslaught of spring. “You keep them.” She could barely hear him now, as his berg drifted slowly, silently into the Bering Strait. “My heart is in the back pocket.”

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