Washington-Vice President Dick Cheney was treated for injuries to his larynx and stomach muscles last night, after laughing diabolically at President Bush’s proposed budget and the response to it.
“Vice President Cheney should make a full recovery, and was doing well when I left him last night,” said a White House medical technician who preferred to remain nameless. “The budget just seemed to touch a nerve. I think the realization of the unabashed abuse of the poor–I think that’s what really got him.”
Reports surfaced in the early morning hours about Cheney being unable to cease his own laughter even hours after being given medical attention, and muttering, “He cut it all… He cut it all… My glorious apprentice cut it all…” The reports were roundly denied by White House spokesman Scott McClellan.
“That is untrue to the point of being libelous,” McClellan bellowed during a briefing about Cheney’s condition. “You liberal media people… Well, let’s just say I’m glad we know who you are.”
In a related story, a White House beat reporter for the Peeksbury Times has been reported missing. This newspaper loves the Bush administration and everything it stands for.
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This story begs the question, ala Sarah Palin…Just what is it that the VP does, every day?
Arteries permitting, our VP makes it to another day, and awakens to a vicious headache and a crushing pain in his chest, sporting that trademark sneer etched upon his face. He takes stock in his broken body parts, and says to himself, “I love the smell of napalm in the morning”. His day begins, and there are places to go, things to kill, and faces to shoot.
With a growling stomach, he does what you or I or any gentle and loving sentient being would do, he consults the current endangered species list and then clubs a couple of baby seal pups to death for his morning protein. His second course consists of fresh testicle du jour of young poor boy, sold to market by downsized, downtrodden mothers just trying to put food on their table. His feast is washed down with the blood of innocents.
Feeling well fortified, but still sneering nonetheless, the VP along with his taxpayer paid real estate broker set out in search of new exciting properties, that is, high end undisclosed bunkers and caves that may have recently come on market. No way, no how will he risk having one of these babies snapped up out from under him by one of his indicted cohorts on the lam, or god forbid that Bin Laden scum bag, although he must begrudgingly admit the two of them do share similar tastes in their digs.
Having secured a pristine 10 million year old underground grotto heretofore preserved under strict protective status by the National Park Service and untouched by man, our boy then orders the secret service to rip out all the signs and barriers and commissions his personal taxpayer paid decorator to draw up plans to remodel the national treasure into a sort of underground Playboy Mansion and get it prepped for some wicked pajama parties, bunnies and all. This coup improves his mood as his sneer upgrades all the way to a scowl.
During a grisly and bloody lunch with some of his favorite felons, scalawags, and scarier still, investment bankers, he carves out pieces of other people’s countries for expropriation, always with oil and mayhem foremost on his mind.
He wraps up the day by calling in orders, commands, and threats to W’s handlers who keep him closely tethered and muzzled on days like these when he has better things to do.
It’s off to home to spend time with his new grandson, suck up a fresh infusion of other people’s plasma, and retire to his coffin where he dreams of new wars, tortures, and God.