Several months ago, a little bird told me Scott McClellan was writing a book about his time at the White House. I thought, hey, no problem, every ex-staffer writes a book about the what it’s like “inside the presidency” or some shit like that. Hell, ex-speechwriter David Frum wrote one already. And his was exactly the kind of book I like to see my old employees churn out—it even had “War on Terror” in the title!
Dick Cheney is George Bush's right-hand man, an intimidating gentleman who would surely strike fear into the hearts of his opponents, if only they knew where to find him. He has extended the powers of his position more than any of his predecessors, which is scary considering that he sustains himself on Arab blood.
By Dick Cheney
Fuck!!!! Fucking Mississippi! Fucmoaijdsaatjliugdkaerjktakgaa
Sorry. That was my forehead hitting the keyboard. As you can tell, I'm a little upset about losing a House seat in Mississippi in this special election. I'm not sure how it happened. We spent more money, we got big names from Huckabee to Lott to Yours Truly to go down there and to top it off, it's fucking Mississippi! All a Republican needs to do to win an election down there is to accuse his opponent of being a Democrat!
And now all my maggoty buddies on the GOP blogs are saying we need to purge the leadership, that we can't beat either the black guy or the woman in the general election. Well, you know what I say to that?
Who says there's gonna be a general election? November's a long ways away, and who knows what could happen before then? Maybe another "terrorist attack" will force us to suspend the Constitution.
Finally, after a load of crap about global warming and crying polar bears, scientists have wracked their brains and fondled their calculators to come to a conclusion that most morons could have easily figured out by watching just one episode of the bitchfest known as "Countdown with Keith Olbermann": conservatives are happier than liberals.
According to the report, "right-wing individuals reported greater life satisfaction and well-being than left-wingers".
That's right, according to an NYU study, I'm much happier than a poor minority. And I very much agree, for once, with science. The group of pocket-protected virgin nerds go on to say that their study shows that conservatives "scored highest on measures of rationalization, which gauge a person's tendency to justify, or explain away, inequalities."
Well, I'm not sure about all that scientific gobbledygook, but one thing is for sure: I don't give a shit about the problems of most people, including my friends and family, and it pays.
Do you think I lose sleep in my vice presidential mansion worrying about how poor people will cope with the mortgage crisis? Nope. Do you think I spend time weeping quietly for the environment as I jet around the world on Air Force One? Hell no. And the clusterfuck over in Iraq? Shit, most days I forget that there is an Iraq. Every time I get handed one of those stupid memos that says that something exploded in Sadr City or a bunch of people got killed in Baghdad, I fold it up into a sweet paper airplane, draw some cool Air Force decals on it, and let it rip.
Don't get me wrong, there are certain very critical problems in the world that I care very deeply about. Like money. And how to get more of it. And power. And how to get more of that shit, too. But most problems that I hear about, like the economy, housing, and education, are simply not my problems. I have a shit load of money. I've got a bunch of houses. And as for education, I'm smart enough to get myself to the position of vice president, which means I'm smarter than you.
Is it really that hard? Is it, Pandora? All I want is a radio station inspired by my absolute favorite singer. You can honestly look me in the eye and tell me Michelle Branch possesses the same high level of pop sensibility and artistic integrity as a one Hilary Erhard Duff?
I guess Pandora thinks that lazily clustering a bunch of young female singers will satiate my musical needs. Jessica Simpson? Are you nuts? You think she can hold a candle to Jo Jo? Look, I don’t mind actress/singers, but I still have TASTE. I applauded you when you played Lohan’s “Drama Queen (That Girl)”, but you then had the gall to play some Jennifer Love-Hewitt? Like she can even sing! And what’s this? Salt in my wounds when you decided to play more JLH just three tracks later after I had already given her a thumbs down? I know you have rules but when Dick Cheney hears an artist he does not like, Dick Cheney does not want to ever hear that artist again.
I can't believe I have to take up valuable blog time to exonerate myself and my sunglasses in this phantom naked lady story when I could be explaining about all the cool, torture techniques I approved of. (Real quick, French Quartering is making a comeback)
There's no way the image reflected in my sunglasses is a naked lady. Do you realize how small she would have to be? We're talking a couple centimeters. Even dwarves are a few feet. I'll be the first to admit I have an "eccentric" sexual imagination. I'll role play as everything from a Prussian war general to Norman Warlord. But mini-dwarves? Come on now.
Ok, time to explain to you what is reflected in my sweet faux-aviator shades. My spokesperson said it was my arm casting a fishing rod, but we know that my spokespeople are instructed to lie no matter the situation -- even the few times when the truth would clear things up. So it wasn't that.
It's actually a little more complex. It's the pixelated representation of sadness to the person looking into them.
Those of you who know me are aware of how huge a fan I am of Step Up. Huge! So you can imagine how anxious I was to see the long-awaited sequel Step Up 2: The Streets. Well, let me just start by saying: big letdown! Maybe I was too excited. Maybe I built it up too much in my head (I know I did.) Still, I can’t explain how disappointed I am.
Oh man, I remember sitting in the theater for the first film. I could hardly stay in my seat. Every scene just crackling with energy. All my old notions of dance and film where transforming before my eyes. The moves. The power. The raw heat! Tyler Gage ready risk everything while breaking all the rules. I’ve got that one song in my head now. LOL! I’m getting off track. Step Up 2 = poop.
Associated Press
You had no idea I was coming unannounced like this, right? You should see the look on your face, Iraq. Your jaw is practically on the floor.
I wanted to make a grander entrance; I could have popped out of a cake or maybe hidden in a deactivated missile. Then when it was dropped out of the sky and it didn’t kill you, you might have actually been happy to see me. I’m not an idiot, Iraq, I know you’d rather it was Angelina Jolie visiting you. Even though I know this is true, it still hurts a little.
Anyway, the reason I rushed over here without the formalities is, of course, to steal your oil. You didn’t think you could sneak a meeting about the allocation of oil fields by me, did you?
In the words of an Iraqi official, leaders will be meeting to “figure out how to exploit the country’s resources.”
This is why I love you third-worlders. You don’t mince words. In America we would have said, “massage the land to extract its surplus of organic gifts”, but here you might as well of added, “rape the land so hard it will never bear children.”
Hello patriots. I just wanted to let everyone know that I’ll be ‘modifying’ some things at the White House, just in time before those Democrats take over. You may have heard that the first Clinton administration removed all the ‘W’s on every keyboard when George and I took over eight years ago, so this is payback time. True, a man with a shotgun does not generally rely on karma, but I’ve been feeling creative lately.
First, I’m loosening every fucking screw in every chair and desk I can find. Those liberal hippie yoga-ergonomic maniacs won’t know what hit ‘em when they fall flat on the floor. I can just imagine Hillary’s flappy ass on the Oval Office rug — and while such a thought makes me wince, it will be worth it.
Also, I’ve contacted the National Rifle Association, and they’ve graciously (and very excitedly) agreed to continue sending their NRA store catalogs to the White House (incidentally, you will never feel fully-clothed until you order a boar-hide handgun vest). I’ve also renewed my (and in the near future, their) subscriptions to (partial list): National Review, The Weekly Standard, The American Conservative, The New American, The Daily Republican, Common Conservative, American Renaissance, and some others I can’t remember.
Quit laughing. Stop! There’s nothing funny about my office mysteriously incinerating. What jokes can you people possibly crack in good decency? My “gorgeous wood floor” is now “mostly underwater” for heaven’s sake!
Before I injudiciously round up and imprison Democratic Congressmen, I might as well just get this annoying insurance claim for my burnt possessions out of the way:
- Quilted blanket. Originally given to the Delaware tribe by William Trent, commander of Fort Pitt. Special Featues: Still infested with Variola Major smallpox simplex. Value: $60,000.
- 14 pickled blue oxen testicles. Special Features: Testicles belonged to virgin Blue Oxen only. Value: $4,000.
- My negro. Value: Purchased for $49.99, but admittedly there’s considerable depreciation.
Yes, I admit it. The video tapes that show in gory detail how we twisted, prodded and waterboarded confessions out of terrorists were destroyed by us. But not on purpose! Haven’t you ever dropped a video tape, then were horrified upon retrieving it to find the film came out of the plastic cassette? We tried to wind the white thingamajig, but the film was already twisted beyond repair.
Rummy suggested that we just re-shoot the whole torturing scene, which was a halfway decent idea until we remembered all the suspected terrorists we tortured were dead (another accident … long story).
Nevertheless he convinced me to try a Weekend At Bernies retake anyway. Rummy crouched behind the table and moved the dead terrorists arms. He thought it would be a good touch if he gave the terrorist a high-pitched French hooker’s accent. I miss Rummy, he could be so funny, in a weird psychopathic way.
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