Blogger Belated Cliff's Corner

The Week That Was 02/17/06
Another Week. More preposterousness to report.

Thankfully last week was a pretty quiet one. We had the Olympics, a snowstorm along the Eastern Seaboard, and what’s that other thing again…wait I almost had it…Oh yeah, the Vice President of the United States mowed down a friend with as many as 200 shotgun pellets he sent exploding into his chest cavity and skull. After boozing at lunch and before refusing to talk with local authorities who arrived on the scene. Pretty humdrum stuff if you think about it.

For Gary Busey.

Of course Wittington is not blameless in this affair. Didn’t we all learn when we were 12 that you have to be careful when you take your friend Dick out to play? Shouldn’t he know there is always that chance Dick might get over eager and shoot you in the face?

Luckily for Wittington, he still survived the Harry/Dick Brokeback Mountain Experience. Which is the closest Dick’s come to combat since piercing the skin of his right index finger while signing those 5 deferments during ‘Nam. Now I am no expert on warfare, but I think that if Dick had fought in that war he so believed in, he might know the difference between shooting a WASP and a bird. It might have also kept Dick just occupied enough to prevent him from climbing behind the wheel on mutiple occasions after shotgunning (no pun intended) more Stoli than Boris Yeltsin on two for one night at the Politburo cantina.

Regardless, Dick, being the standup guy that he is, didn’t have enough sympathy in that bloated Uncle-Fester-corpse-masquerading-as-a-body to go visit his friend at the hospital the night he shot him. He did have a nice dinner back at the ranch while Harry was fighting for his life, however. Let’s face it, you never know when a truckload of lost illegals will land on your doorstep to munch on with a nice foie gras. You can’t let a half-dead friend intrude on that experience. And Wittington is actually lucky he was not too close to Dick. As many might remember, Dick got pretty cozy with Saddam Hussein while CEO of Halliburton. Dick’s friendships can end up worse.

But many questions have yet to be answered, even if trained orangutan Scott McClellan keeps repeating ad nauseam how the American people are “ready to move on” until his head goes into a flat spin. Why wouldn’t Dick meet with the authorities until the next day? How does booze interact with the 214 known medications Dick takes to keep his organs from desiccating? Why did Ken Melhman break out in song when he found out Ken split with Barbie? Was Dick on this trip with a certain paramour who doesn’t look like Morely Safer or dream of girl-on-girl action? Why did Ann Coulter’s Adam’s apple register to vote in a different precinct than which it resides this past week?

We would know all of these answers in one of those open systems with a functioning press corps and Justice Department. What are those crazy societies called, with the freedom and good government? But getting answers from the coalition of the willing to be imbeciles running things is as out of style as planning to protect an American city from a Category 5 hurricane. Even if there’s a Woody Woodpecker marathon on The Cartoon Channel. Or it’s Twofer Tuesdays at Dominoes.

In the meantime I have one suggestion for anyone going out on prowl with Dick and a loaded weapon. Pre-order the embalming fluid. Or just tap one of Denny Hastert’s veins.