Dick! Why so serious?
Politics is a cruel and shallow money trench, a long plastic hallway
where thieves and psychopaths run free, and good men die like dogs.
There's also a negative side."
—Apologies to Hunter S. Thompson
Last night after the zolpidem kicked in, I found myself dreaming about Dick Cheney's colossal twenty-two story made-of-innocent human flesh funeral pyre. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
I had managed to slip into his top secritt Wyoming headquarters, when news of his latest weird emission on U.S. foreign policy suddenly started spewing forth like a mini-tsunami of creamed corn, quickly inundating our stagnant and putrefied 24/7 Media stream.
Off in the distant dark I could hear the crazy coyotes, but the yipping morphed into the sound of thousands of morbidly obese Caucasians wheezing and chanting, "Peace through Strength!" “Restart the Iraq War Machine!”
Dick rolled out of the elevator and mounted the titanic pyre. Far below, a select group of Republican humanoids put their noses in the air, staring up at the hunched figure silhouetted against a gigantic blood-red Halliburton banner. Dick intoned in his familiar, grating Wyoming patois right through a nasty smirk:
"If you don't have your boot up someone's ass, they think you're weak. You invite aggression. You wind up getting people killed." Down below, heads were already nodding in agreement.
"Now listen up, you saps: another 9/11 is inevitable; only this time it wont be box cutters and airplanes. It'll be the whole nucu-lear enchilada."
Murmurs of agreement spread into the night like crude into the gulf. He continued.
“We need to dramatically reverse course on our defense budget— suddenly a shrill voice cut through the dark: "You're a FUCKING WAR CRIMINAL! You should be ARRESTED!!"
It was Code Pink. They were everywhere; they had torches.
As often happens in the amorphous haze of dreamland, Dick had been convicted of betrayal of governmental trust— by the International Criminal Tribunal of the World Court, no less— and whisked back atop his wretched funereal precipice.
And you might ask: Where is some of that compassionate conservatism when you need some.
Lite that sucker.
