Dear Diary,
Had my yearly appointment with my accountant regarding this years tax returns. It was the usual meeting. He slid a blank piece of paper across the table to me and told me to write out how much I made last year. I thought for a moment and jotted down $18,500 and slid it back to him. He looked at it, put the paper in his pocket and we both laughed hysterically as we smoked Cuban cigars and drank sherry for the rest of the meeting.
All seems quiet on the Stinky Libby front. He’s taken over the third floor of the residence with one room dedicated solely to his collections of video games and porn. I’m resigned that he’s become a de facto member of the family. But he’s good company for the Ol’ Ball and Chain and helps drag her to bed when she passes out so I’m not complaining.
I was working at my office in the East Wing the other day trying to develop new ways to personally capitalize on the recent rise in food prices when suddenly the door opened and a familiar diminutive figure stood in the doorway.
“Kucinich! You’re back. I thought we elimated you in the primary contest for your congressional seat.”
“Sorry to spoil your plans Cheney, but I pulled some election day chicanery of my own. Since you only watch Fox, I’ll let you in on some real news… I won. Oh, and that little thing called impeachment? It’s back on the table” He slammed his tiny fist on my desk and laughed maniacally.
My ears started to burn and I began to grind my teeth as my hand slowly made its way to the button under my desk that released the trap door under my petite visitor’s feet, which would send him falling into my private shark tank. The sharks hadn’t been fed in days and they were hungry, real hungry.
“See ya, Shorty!” I said as I pushed the button. Nothing happened.
“No shark food today, Cheney. Little do you know that in high school I got straight A’s in electrical shop. I hotwired your desk.” he cackled.
I quickly pressed the second button that released the molten lava from the ceiling but it too, was jammed as was the button that flung the deadly buzz saw from behind the oil portrait of Daniel Webster and the one that released the deadly tarantulas from the 17th century Louis XIV chandelier over his head.
“Damn you, Kucinich!” I yelled as I jumped up and lunged for his throat. But the elf was quick as he sidestepped my parry and I tumbled onto the floor. He stood over me and began slapping my face back and forth saying “Take that… and that… and that”. It didn’t hurt, but it was humiliating as hell. I wondered how this would look on the security screens manned by my Blackwater Boys.
Blackwater! I had almost forgotten about the panic device Erik Prince had given me for Christmas. I reached into my pants pocket and pressed the tiny remote control. Almost instantly the secret panel behind Trumbull’s classic oil “Surrender Of Lord Cornwallis” slid open and two burly agents rushed into the room. A startled Kucinich backed off as the Blackwater boys advanced. One of them laughed in his deep monotone “Dis is gonna be fun Boss,” as they put on their brass knuckles and cornered the jug-eared pixie into a corner.
Suddenly Kucinich yelled “Honey!” The door to my private bathroom burst open and his redhead Amazon wife dressed head to toe in black leather strode into the room. “So you want a real fight laddies?” she purred in her English accent. “Why don’t you blokes pick on someone you own size?”
The thugs stood in awe of this towering specimen of womanhood as she ran toward them, leaped and kicked both of them in the head with her steel-toed boots. The guys were in palookaville as she grabbed their heads and smashed them against the marble bust of Spiro Agnew like a couple of honeydew melons. They were out cold.
I quickly tried to crawl under my desk when I felt her hand grabbing the back of my trousers. “Oy! And where do you think you’re heading? To the loo?” she laughed as she picked me off the floor. I could hear Kucinich cackling as his wife lifted me over her head and began twirling me around like the rotors of my private helicopter. I was getting nauseous. “Put me down!” I sputtered. “As you say, mate” she said and she threw me across the room, smashing into my aquarium which was filled with rare, flesh-eating Brazilian piranhas. I collapsed in a heap.
Kucinich waked over and held out a fistful of documents. “You recognize these Cheney?” he smirked as shoved them into my face. “Yeah, your fantasy football cheat sheets. Not doin’ so well are ya?” He turned to his wife who was peering into her compact, powdering her nose. “Sweetie, Mr. Cheney still hasn’t learned to show proper respect”.
She snapped her compact shut, walked over, placed my head between her thighs and began to squeeze. Hard. Real hard. I was starting to lose consciousness as Kucinich waved the papers in front of me “Now do you remember what these are? Say it! Say it!” “The… articles… of … impeachment” I gasped. “That’s right Cheney. And I’m gonna use them… if Pelosi will let me.”
Mrs. K loosened her stranglehold and I collapsed on the water soaked antique Bakshaish Serapi rug. They both laughed and then started to make out on my desk. Finally they turned toward the door. “You haven’t seen the last of me Cheney. I’ll be baaack” he guffawed as they left me alone with the flopping piranhas on the floor.
I staggered to my feet, surveyed my decimated office and carefully placed the piranhas in an open can of diet soda. “And you haven’t seen the last of me, my little friend” I muttered. And then I laughed and laughed… until it started to hurt.
Dick
