25 June 2007

Next Time, Not so Heavy with the Queso Before Bedtime

So, now that Deadeye Darth Cheney has declared himself an autonomous region, and has cast off the coils of law that have previously been holding him back from the Total Domination of the Universe(TM), I wonder what he's going to do next? Go to Disney World... and bite the heads off of all the cute and fuzzy Characters?

And I also wonder what his underling/superior, aka Dubya, is thinking. He must surely be quaking in his Tony Llamas - oh, I forgot, he wears Crocs with black socks now. Footwear (and non-fashion sense) aside, though, the Current Occupant must be frightened out of what little mind he has.

I mean, the only check and/or balance that Chimpy ever had over the Dick was his titular supremacy, and now that the president of vice is no longer in the Executive Branch, how can The Shrub hope to protect Barney, much less Pickles, as the Cheney MarkIV prowls the halls of the White House searching for tasty morsels with which to quell the hunger that his nation-destroying must certainly be engendering?

Let's face it, folks, once 43’s desiccated corpse falls to the once pristine carpet of the Oval Office, the ravenous beast that was once a Congressman from Wyoming will look through the thick, green tinted windows and see a whole nation of tasty, plump entrees with which to slake his insatiable hunger.

Furniture will begin to swirl around his Brobdingnagian body, as his mass increases and acquires a measurable gravity of its own. With a half smirk and guttural Burgess Meredith laugh, the former vice president will snatch the Presidential desk from its orbit around his head and hurl it through the windows. Using his Dark Force power, he’ll levitate himself out onto the South Lawn as the outside Secret Service detail stare in shock and awe at the twisted and bloated being that has finally cast off its human appearance. One by one, they will be devoured by the creature as it slowly moves across the Lawn and toward the fence, the dried up shells of their bodies swirling in macabre orbit around the now Cthulu-like abomination.

Marines stationed at the Naval Observatory will, by this time, be arriving - after frantic calls from the guards at the gates of the Presidential Compound - and will try valiantly to subdue the massive, alien looking behemoth. They go to their deaths not knowing that they are mere morsels of sustenance for what is now their commander in chief. Trees are ripped out of the ground, and even chunks of the White House itself begin to be sucked into the gargantuan gravity of the newly born Death Star as the mass of what was the holder of an office that was once compared to a “bucket of warm spit” begins to dwarf the buildings that line Pennsylvania Avenue.

In desperation, air strikes will be called in, only to be thwarted by the fully functional missile defense satellites drawn down from Earth orbit by the insatiable beast. The very ground of what was once a fetid malarial swamp is absorbed into the growing fiend, as its jaws open and an inhuman, ear shattering howl echoes up and down the East Coast.

(And we expect the Dems in Congress to stop him?)

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