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Contributed by John Sammon
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Thursday, 23 February 2006 (read 1703 times) |
He steps from his polished limousine, secret service agents fanning out around him.
Deadeye Dick Cheney.
He holds in his hand a gleaming black beauty, a pump action, $12,000
dollar shotgun with a hand engraved stock showing a scene of pheasants
in flight.
Love me. Kiss my gun.
This isn’t just any man’s hobby, like painting a painting. This is life
or death. Nearby, a little dust covered quail cowers under a bush,
trying to live out the remainder of its miserable short life.
Cheney isn’t going to eat the quail. He doesn’t depend on the quail for
food. He doesn’t like quail and besides, who wants to crunch down on a
shot pellet and possibly ruin their expensive, government paid-for
dental bridge work.
Cheney is a self-proclaimed patriot. Because I’m writing this, I’m a traitor.
Love me. Kiss my gun.
Dick is keeping alive the spirit of the pioneers. Unlike Dick, the
pioneers had to hunt to survive. The westward migrants were Argonauts,
they were pathfinders, they were trailblazers….they were MORONS!
Love me. Kiss my gun.
Dick Cheney, the man who helped turn the US into the world’s most
powerful terrorist state (next to China). The world’s leading weapons
supplier, running a gulag of torture camps (even Herman Goering at
Nuremberg had access to a lawyer).
Illegal spying on Americans. Cheney said Lincoln did it too, so did
Washington, even Caesar (listened in on his troops by hooking stands of
dried spaghetti to a tin can).
It’s legal. It’s moral.
Love me. Kiss my gun.
A gun is power….like a penile erection. The erections are fewer these days. But not the gun.
The power of life and death. When you kill something, for pleasure, not
for food, necessity, survival. The thrill of the hunt, on an expensive
junket ex-lawyer dude ranch. Sip cocktails. Joke with cronies.
Share the experience of a good clean kill.
Love me. Kiss my gun.
It’s a good thing Dick doesn’t have to throw a spear or run after the bird.
It’s a good thing the little speckled budgie sits still like posing for a portrait.
A man is a man is a man who deals death….to things.
Wait a minute! The bird tries to save itself and flies. Dick has to
react quickly…and shoots his partner…..also a gray-haired, lawyer
patriot.
For the first time, Dick feels horror.
We did an air strike on a rural village in which two suspected
terrorists were killed…and also five children. Dick didn’t feel horror
for the children. They deserved it. Those children were just nameless,
faceless faces.
Dick! You once had five draft deferments. You were too busy to serve in
the military while amassing a fortune. You always let some other guy do
the fighting while you sat warm and comfy. This is your first up-close
experience seeing for yourself what happens to somebody who’s on the
wrong end of a barrel. Your barrel.
Dick! Dick! It’s almost like you’re in combat.
Friendly fire.
Love me. Kiss my gun.
Dick will try to hide what happened, like he does everything else. Until forced to come forward by criticism.
Until the next hunt, he’ll mount his gun on a wall in an honored place next to a religious icon, a crucifix.
Love me. Kiss my gun.
©2006, SammonSays.com. Reprinted with permission.
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Monkey Pile 
