You're not gonna believe it, I know, but listen to this! Saturday night I go down to Kells Irish Pub, near Pike Place Market. See, I've been on a little ghost-hunting mission and I read somewhere that Kells occupies part of what used to be the E.R. Butterworth and Sons mortuary (specifically the embalming room and crematorium). When I got there, the downstairs was supercrowded, so I thought I'd sneak upstairs to see if it was any quieter. Well, instead of a ghost, guess what I saw?! That's right! Todd-motherfucking-Palin (for some reason dressed as a sheriff), drink in hand, dry-rubbing his weenie all over wife Sarah's $3,000 Neiman Marcus skirt in middle of the dance floor. T'was unbelievable! He was spilling what looked like vodka, and the VP-hopeful was drinking some sort of Anheuser-Busch product. Hoo. And were they were shit-canned! When I tried to approach the Palins, a bodyguard (for some reason dressed as a panda) stopped me in my tracks. I pleaded with my northern Midwest accent, but it didn't matter. They were quickly whisked away.

I guess it just goes to show, you never know who you're going to run into down at the Market.