He Saw the FlapBy now most of you have heard about the mishap involving Dick Cheney, an attorney, a bird, and a big-ass gun. Details continue to alarm, as the attorney-mistaken-for-a-bird, Harry Whittington , has suffered a heart attack due to birdshot lodged in his heart muscle. God speed, brother. And God help you should you successfully pull through this crisis.
May God give you all the strength needed when men in black unmarked cars begin circling your neighborhood, and your wife starts receiving scary messages on the answering machine every day at precisely two o’clock p.m.
Not that I’m implying anything, you understand. Not at all. Far be it from me to suggest dirty dealings -- let the record show that I believe Mr. Dick to be a fine, fine man, a man deserving of great respect and admiration, and enormous amounts of fear. I understand that without the firm and ghostly guidance of Dick, our country wouldn’t be in half its joyous circumstances, and that without his strong determination and masterful way with theater wire, Mr. Bush might possibly be lying in the Rose Garden ‘neath a tangle of American Beauties, Wild Turkey spilt all over the front of his Armani suit and crying for his old mommy. Now that would just be embarrassing, wouldn’t it? Say what you will about Dick, but Dick has in fact saved this wonderful country of ours from undue humiliation, and possibly world war three. Yes, WORLD WAR THREE, people! Christ’s sake, if there were no Dick, Iranian president, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, or North Korea’s son of a lunatic leader, Kim Jong-il, would most certainly catch wind of Mr. Bush’s sad Rose Garden exploits, realize that our country is vulnerable, easy pickings, ripe for obliteration, and…I shudder at the thought. Can’t even finish writing that thought.
Where the hell was I, anyway? Oh, yes, the flap. Wait, I haven’t yet mentioned the flap, have I? Yikes. A little ahead of myself here.
Okay then. The flap. I have a theory about Dick’s head and how it relates to the shooting of Harry Whittington, and please, take a moment to pat yourself on the back right this second, folks, because you are about to witness history -- you are among the first to be privy to something that will soon be splashed all over the papers from here to kingdom come, and could, if I may be so bold, garner me the Pulitzer for online journalism. I’m sure you will understand that I cannot divulge the entire theory at this date and time, but be assured, I will come forth with every last embellishment when my lawyer gives the okay, and you will be the first to know the moment that happens.
What’s the name of this theory, you ask? Hold your horses and breathe real deep, cowboys…
The Dick Flap in Conjunction With the Shooting of Harry Whittington Theory!
I’ll get right to the meat and start by saying that I believe Mr. Whittington discovered, quite by accident, what was under Dick’s secret flap of synthetic skin, a flap that conceals, or once concealed, I should say, the truth of Dick’s existence -- Artificial Intelligence. As stated to me recently by an unnamed source in high position, “Dick is a robot.”
I laughed -- at first. I told my source, “Well, hell. So what? Everyone and their Aunt Judy Lou knows Dick’s a robot!” And my source replied with a solemn, “No, you misunderstand, comrade. I mean, Dick really is a robot. An object made of metal and staples, a box of bolts, a whirring mass of circuits and frightening spinny, twirly things.”
As you can imagine, I began to imagine, then I imagined some more, and then I began to theorize, began to imagine and theorize, and then, and then…
The following scenario is solely my own interpretation of the events that happened on February 11, 2006, and I take full responsibility and credit for any and all awards and accolades that surely are to come:
In some creepy South Dakota woods, February 11, 2006, during an annual bird-killing adventure that involved Vice President Dick Cheney and Mr. Harry Whittington, an attorney and personal friend of Cheney’s, Whittington accidentally knocked the back of Cheney’s hunting cap while reaching for his coffee thermos. Upon doing so, the rough inner lining of Cheney’s cap somehow caught on the curious flap of skin positioned at the posterior part of his skull, a flap that, although unknown to the general American population, has been subject to wild speculation by Washington insiders.
Anyway, as the cap lifted, it snagged on the lip of the flap, whereupon said flap snapped open and revealed a sight so startling, Mr. Whittington dropped his thermos, said “Fuck” about forty times, then ran like a wildebeest as fast as his rubbery legs would allow.
But he was not fast enough. Suffice it to say, Mr. Whittington saw, with his very own eyes, the horrendous innards of Dick Cheney, the wires, the chips, the womb of American political machinations, the little cuckoo bird…And now Mr. Whittington lies in a hospital bed, lucky to be alive yet fearful of what the future may bring.
And that’s all I am at liberty to say right now.