The television often lies to us. It lies to us about the number of blades needed on a razor so as not to shave like a pansy-boy (Five! Four is for troglodytes!). It lies to us about the marriage possibilities between man-boobed delivery drivers and Leah Remini (for the record, I like man-boobs, so please do not send me angry mail if you have man-boobs; I’ll probably just end up asking you out). And, most of all, it lies about why our vice president shot a 78-year-old man with exactly somewhere between six and two hundred pellets in a “hunting accident.” Even now, the details remain as cloudy as that 78-year-old man’s heart, if by “cloudy” I mean “disabled due to the BB lodged in it.”
It’s hard to believe the hoopla hasn’t ended, even three weeks after it happened (and by “it” I mean “that time when Dick Cheney totally fucking shot someone”). This is because I won’t shut up about it, but not for the reasons you might think — I am not a liberal-media Osama lover, no matter what my phone records indicate (come on, Osama=total opposite of man-boobs; therefore, unattractive). It’s because I happen to be privy to information that will revolutionize what you thought you knew about Dick Cheney shooting people. Much like the television recently revolutionized what you thought about razor blades, except not total bullshit. This might seem confusing right now, but that’s because it’s a proven fact that Dick Cheney has exactly a 45-second attention span, and in the interest of my not spending the rest of my life being tortured in a barbed-wire cage, I need to throw him off the scent of truth. Of course, I could probably do that by going “Hey! Is that a 78 year old over there? It’s coming right for us!” But I enjoy a challenge.
It all started when I was skulking around in the brush at Armstrong Ranch a few weeks ago, on a clandestine date with my new boyfriend, a semiretarded pen-raised flightless quail (the pen-fattened males have massive boobs, which make them both sensitive companions and easy to shoot). It was there I overheard a very disturbing exchange between the vice president and a 78-year-old man, and it’s not what you think. You see, it turns out that powerful Texas attorney and Republican money-giver Harry Whittington had given Dick Cheney permission to shoot him... and to eat him. Like that guy in Germany a few years back who paid the other guy to eat him one dismembered body part at a time. It turns out that the perverted Krauts are not the only people who get off on such acts. “First I want you to flay my testes and cook ‘em in one of them George Foreman grills,” Whittington insisted, “and then I want you to cook my pancreas in a balsamic reduction sauce. Yee-haw! Here’s a billion dollars.”
This was a win-win situation for Cheney, because he subsists entirely on human flesh. You think he gets his omnipotence from eating Weetabix? What are you, some kind of four-blade-razor-using Hun? Problem is, Cheney’s been enjoying a steady diet of Rotisserie Baby for the past six years, and the Bushes were afraid that would get out (whoops), and between that and his box-munching daughter, he’d alienate the conservatives’ core base, which itself subsists entirely on Applebee’s and codified bigotry.
Luckily, Cheney’s old hunting buddy made use of his own desire to be cannibalized, and luckily for all of you, I was there to hear it because of my new obsession with man-boobs. This continues to be a matter of national security, because if Dick Cheney stops eating human flesh for even five seconds, his new world order will collapse — and then what will happen? Unlike all of the things I’ve just described, it’s too horrifying to imagine.