(11 am. – promoted by ek hornbeck)
Wow, Dick, just wow. You’re the man. We’re going to create a whole new circle just for you and your ilk. Imagine – using torture to extract false confessions to use as truth to get your war on. Just absolutely brilliant. Comparing you to Pol Pot is like comparing Rodney Dangerfield to Soupy Sales. One is pie in the face and one is shiv in the gut.
And the Murder Inc. you had going out of your EOB office, well, the devil is in the details and you certainly took care of that didn’t you Dick, because you didn’t leave the details to others you micro-managed every target and kill yourself. Words cannot convey my admiration. You walk the walk, Dick, you don’t just do Sunday TV shows you actually put contracts out on entire villages sometimes and watch them get blown up in real time on big screen TV like a Super Bowl of splatter. Has there ever been a greater showman than you?
You bring tears to my eyes. Really. You do. Hot red tears. And that’s saying something. You didn’t just dip your toe into the Dark Side like a foot fetishist or something you drank in the deep-end of the Dark Side and transmogrified into a full blown dominatrix on steroids with a really cranky streak. It’s breathtaking. Magnificent. Awe-inspiring. Dick you are the role model for all future tyrannical madmen. And you don’t have to rant and rave. That’s your genius, Dick, you come off almost cold. Heartless but with a passion for the kill. You are a force of nature. A quiet force. You’re like a glacier of evil – that’s why you like the idea of a long war. Long for who? Hell, my long war has lasted 10,000 years.
To call you an Evil Genius is a belittlement, Dick. If somebody calls you that slap them across the face with Freddy Kruger’s fingernails because that person doesn’t know what genius is. If you weren’t human you’d be a god like Mars or Ares or if you had a sex drive, Zeus.
Can we just talk about the torture thing, Dick? Everyone is asking. And I know. I know. I read you like My Pet Goat. But they want to know from you. Either way you’re a war criminal, isn’t that delicious? Because the thing is, if you really believed there was a connection between Osama and Saddam and you tortured to get it, well, it’s kind of understandable you might torture someone to get the truth and stop the march of evil across the world. On the other hand, if you used torture to get lies to sell war, then, that is just, well… do you see why genius does not quite capture your essence? You are a Master Mind, Dick Cheney. The Masons would have to create a 34th degree just for you. Not that they would. Masons like secrets but they draw the line at pooping on the Geneva Conventions. Pussies.
And isn’t this whatever is the opposite of ironic: Some guys were tortured to find WMDs and you didn’t find any and some were tortured to find Osama and Saddam kissing in a tree and you didn’t even find a tree, and some were tortured to understand how ‘they’ did 911 and we still don’t know squat about 911 and some were tortured to expose the massive, ubiquitous and invisible International Network of Terror and it turns out it all traces back to CIA Cold War games and finally some were tortured just for the pure joy of it and those are the only results which met their goal. If you’re of a mind like mine, torture is pure entertainment. American Idol can’t hold a candle to Abu Ghraib.
It’s like a Sonata or Symphony. Beauty incarnate. All those innocent people screaming themselves to death and calling on their god in despair, and just the whole sordid miserable scene and I just have to give you a standing ovation, Dick Cheney. And this went on for years? Just, really…wow. You’re like family to me Dick, you really are.
Secret torture prisons all over the world extracting lies to sell as actionable intelligence to advance a long war against evil. If I didn’t know better I’d say I was having an out-of-body experience as you. Delicious. You make Hannibal Lecter look like the Pillsbury Dough-boy. One eats live human flesh and the other freshly baked cookies. Dick. No wonder you’re so trim.
Someone says, not true of course, but sometimes nasty rumors are hard to knock down, like yellowcake and mushroom clouds, but someone claimed you ordered the hit on Bhutto because she spilled the beans about Osama being dead all these years and the Two Minutes of Hate does not work without an Emmanuel Goldstein. Again, there is no proof, Dick, but still if you run Murder Inc. out of your office, then speculation is bound to run rampant about who you whacked. Don’t worry your secrets are safe with me. Delicious rumors. How about the scientist, Kelly, in England, was he one of yours?
And how about all those Iraqi scientists who were whacked? Prudent. You don’t want Iraq reconstituting dangerous programs like clean water lines, electrical power grids and sewage treatment plants.
And, you know how rumors are Dick, some of them are really, really hard to knock down, but is that a naked dancer reflected in your sunglasses or not you little devil.
And hell, Dick, when you look back on your recently departed life and see the panorama of death, degradation, destruction, deceit and, well let’s just deliciously say it – moral depravation; don’t you think you deserve this honor for a whole new circle? Wouldn’t you be pissed if you were merely cast into Ninth Circle and be done with it? Hell yes you would.
So, dear boy, welcome to the Tenth Circle of Hell. You’ll be alone for a little while. This place is reserved for the best of the best. For human beings devoid of any humanity. And your eternal punishment? What befits and befalls a man who is not a man but a monster?
Soupy Sales Reruns for an Eternity. Pies in the face every 30 seconds. Hi-jinx and hoodwinks. Slapstick and hilarity for all eternity. But there’s no laugh-track though there’s a sound track. As the pies fly and the jinx go haywire you’ll hear an angels’ choir of every voice you’ve ever extinguished. Their screams and cries and their song is one and it fills your spiritual marrow with the knowledge you tortured more angels than terrorists and all your surmise and premise were dead wrong.
Isn’t that the ultimate poetry, Dick? All that death and destruction because you were Punked and couldn’t stand the shame?
And now look at you. Speechless at the honor. And right where you belong. At the Apex. Spoken in the same breath with the greatest names of infamy humanity can muster.
All I can say Dick Cheney is, “Well done sir, and welcome home.”