Viceman Darth Cheney gets more and more scare-tastically chilling by the second! Women and children screaming! Goosebumps the size of duck-eggs! He’s like a big haunted rollercoaster full of omnipotent serial-killers in hockey masks! He’s lurking behind our hot-water heaters with a robotic Ginsu-glove!
Vice really started looking like the World’s Most Dangerous Turnip sitting next to Madam Speaker Pelosi during the State of the Union address, which was – despite the presence of the guy who heroically threw himself under a New York subway – a joyless and turgid affair. It was like watching Lawrence Welk, but with all the musical parts censored out by an especially fearsome, Taliban-level V-Chip.
Vice Cheney, the ticking, glowering hate-bomb over the President’s right shoulder, was the breakaway star of the evening. It felt from the start like you could read everything going on in his murky black cloud of a thought-balloon, in spooky red Gothic letters:
I can turn Mexicans into salt with my eyes! Why is Nancy still moving?
Later, as more boredom set in, and his face shifted mood from murderous rancor to hideous malice:
I will invade Iran, then pre-empt the news cycle by confessing to the JonBenet murder. Better yet, make Reagan’s pansy son do it. Better yet, make my daughter’s wife do it.
Later still, as the end of the endless speech was in sight, he began to look…. a little wistful.
Come, sweet Armageddon, I want to eat jerky in my subterranean bunker. Spicy teriyaki jerky…made of “Peace Mom” Cindy Sheehan.
Later in the week, it was fun to watch him turn his wrathful Eyes of Murder onto Wolf Blitzer, until Wolf’s beard shrunk around his own throat and started choking him.
Vice, in terms of inflicting actual visceral horror, is at least equal in Death-Star power to Polonium 210.
He makes Osama bin Laden look like a friendly bus driver.
This is a powerful tool to have on our side, as Americans in wartime. I think we should play it up and let him wear a necklace of human ears.
Meanwhile, in a galaxy far, far away, Al Gore, bless his broad international appeal, was just nominated for a Nobel Peace Prize.
I wonder what Jesus would have to say about that.
Speaking of Jesus, there was a saucy little item from the UK Sun, claiming that Scientology leader David Miscavige had labeled Tom Cruise the Jesus Christ of Scientology, because “Like Christ, he’s been criticized for his views. But future generations will realize he was right.”
Nevertheless, Posh Spice Beckham was unimpressed, and failed to convert, saying (according to the NY Daily News) “There’s no way I’d spend any money on that nonsense.”
Maybe they should have compared Tom to Karl Lagerfeld, instead.
Anyway, the Scientologists released an official statement poo-poohing the whole quote, saying that not even L. Ron Hubbard was their Jesus, because Jesus doesn’t even register enough of a blip in their cosmology to be recognized as a point of comparison, or something to that Jesus who?-type effect.
And speaking of stigmatic feet in the mouth, Joe Biden (D-Del), pulled an incredible feat of narcissistic self-suckerpunching that trumped even John Kerry’s “stuck in Iraq” botch, by announcing his willingness to be a Presidential candidate, and ruining all chances of being elected simultaneously. Biden suffered from acute verbal blatherrhea all over Barack Obama, who, he said, was, “the first sorta mainstream African American who is articulate and bright and clean and a nice looking guy.”
He meant it as a compliment.
But….Lordy, Joe….”Clean?”
Had he just realized that the brown stuff doesn’t actually come off of the skin, given adequate showering? Or was he trying to suggest that Condi only bathes when her full body Kevlar-dip starts to peel, or what?
Needless to say, Al Sharpton will be eating Joe Biden for lunch for the next week or so …..hopefully blackened, Cajun-style, with sides of cole-slaw and fried Oprah.
Bon Appetit, Reverend.
Speaking of people who deserve to be eaten by Al Sharpton, MSNBC Anglo-Twerd Tucker Carlson borked his special spume all over Hilary Clinton this week, because she made a joke that went over his hyper-literal, emotionally tweenage head. Bloggers reacted by speculating that if children were to hit Tucker Carlson’s head with sticks like a piñata, they would “probably find it to be full of a kind of whipped snot-praline nougat fondant,”
and that “perhaps children find him cute, like Ronald McDonald, but grown-up adults just want to aggressively twist his bow-tie around and around like a propeller until his head falls off.”
Finally, on a sad note, three righteous, beautiful, kickass broads passed this fortnight: formidable Texas columnist Molly Ivins; John Waters star, author, and burlesque icon Liz Renay; and Munster Yvonne De Carlo have sashayed beyond the mortal veil, and will be sorely missed.
One can only pray they all found each other at the bar. Listen for a distant cackling from the direction of Valhalla.
Ladies, this Dreg’s for you.
[But the rich, savory Trash, Fiends, is always for Thee.]