Bare Rump weighs in on the Dick Cheney human-hunting fiasco

Walnut asked me to comment on your Vice President’s foray into the delightful and rewarding avocation of human-hunting, since I have, after all, become quite skilled in that regard —

Oh, please don’t look at me like that. Don’t you think I’d rather be preying upon livestock and such? Can I help it if humans taste better than cows? I assure you, I have only been eating soulless folks who won’t be missed, like telemarketers, boy bands, and petroleum industry executives. Does that make you feel better?

When last we spoke — in November, as I recall — I had just discovered the human sex toy industry. Lord Valor (my sweetie) was none too pleased by that post. “You’re getting distracted. You need to focus on your task here on Earth, Tina.” (He calls me Tina. He is so sweet.) “Make your way to the US President. Establish proper diplomatic relations between your people and the humans.”

But how to get close to the most powerful man in your world? That was my problem. Then, one day while watching the brouhaha over that rakish fellow Jack Abramoff (he looks yummy in his fedora and trenchcoat. When I see a coating like that, I can’t wait to taste the filling!), it dawned on me: Money.

Why shouldn’t I use my ample funds to buy myself an audience with President Bush? That seems to be the way it’s done in your world. And so, I began meeting with Republican fundraisers across the country. Talk about soulless. I would have eaten more of them, but my triglycerides began soaring like you wouldn’t believe.

To make a long story short, a certain Katherine Armstrong invited me to her ranch, stating that for a price she would introduce me to Harry Whittington, who in turn would introduce me to Dick Cheney.

I demurred. “It’s George Bush I need to meet, not some second-rate flunky.”

“Honey,” said Kath (she lets me call her Kath), “Dick’s the top in that relationship. Got it?”

The top. Yes, remembering how my ill-fated relationships had turned out, I indeed understood the top.

What I have been trying to tell you in my roundabout way is that I was an eyewitness to Dick Cheney’s human-hunting expedition. Um . . . that’s not entirely honest. Eyewitness is far too passive. I’m afraid I suggested it to Dick.

Not in any direct way, mind you. When I saw him staggering about the ranch, waving his big, big gun at those teensy, teensy birds, I said, “Gee, Mr. Vice President. It would take an awful lot of those quail to satisfy this girl’s appetite.”

“Graaaahr,” he said. He says that rather a lot. “Grr gaaak graaaahr?”

“Dick says, ‘What’s that supposed to mean?'” said Mr. Whittington. “Wants to know what you been eatin’.”

“A trio of HMO administrators,” I replied.

“Gr-graak?” said Mr. Cheney. “Aaar graaahr graaahr! Heheheheheh.” Then he turned to one of his Secret Service men and said, “Grr graaahr grak grrr,” and the Secret Service man ran off into the brush.

With a sudden premonition of dread, I put a leg on Mr. Whittington’s shoulder. “What’s happening, Harry?”

“Dick says, ‘Human flesh, eh?’ Then he asked his boy to go rustle up some illegals.”

“Oh,” I said quietly. “Um, sir? That’s just not right.”

“Graaaharrr.”

“Dick says, ‘Don’t gimme no double standards.'”

“You see, sir, I try to make the world a better place by eating people.”

“Grrka graarhr.”

Mr. Whittington wouldn’t look me in the eyes. His voice seemed to catch in his throat. “Dick says, ‘Me too.'”

Well, you know the rest. I’m happy to report that no illegal aliens were injured on Dick Cheney’s human-hunt, but Mr. Whittington did not fare as well. I do hope he recovers quickly!

Bare Rump

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