Dear Diary,
As my reign begins to wind down, I’m beginning to notice that it’s the little things that make the world a more happier place.
For example, a tip of the Veep’s cap to the Supremes who did our dirty work again, declaring that Indiana’s voter ID act was constitutional. Now it will be nearly impossible for minorities and old people without driver’s licenses to vote. Hot damn! A case of Omaha Steaks with an envelope containing a couple of hundred grand are on their way to Anton, Clarence, Roberts, the new guy and Kennedy pronto. Enjoy the “steaks”, fellas.
Also going to send some steaks (but no money) to Hillary Clinton for doing the heavy lifting for McCain. (At his age, the only thing he can lift without getting a hernia is a martini glass). She’s been a real trooper for the Republicans by making a big deal about that kerfluffle regarding the nutty Negro pastor and hanging out with her new “friend” (or so she thinks) Richard Mellon Scaife. It’s uncanny how she almost repeats our daily bullet points word for word. I never thought I’d say this to a Clinton, but thanks.
Also some belated thanks to the media news organizations who went along with our bogus pentagon’s war analyst program and helped us flood the airwaves with false propaganda. I like the media. They’re soulless whores and proud of it. My kind of guys.
Overheard some of my household staff bitching about gas and food prices and their economic stimulus checks. My pastry chef Mr. Biagaluppe said that things were getting so tough for him, he might rent a push cart and sell “Tootsie-frootsie” ice cream over at DuPont circle this summer. Rusty the limo driver complained about gas prices and how much it costs to drive me out to my super secret torture lair each weekend. He almost spilled the beans about where it was and if he did, I’d have to kill him. Hey, rules are rules.
Francisco my trusty manservant was fretting about where he’d get another gig like this one (I told him last week he’s not coming with us to Dubai. He didn’t take it too well and threatened to slash his wrists.). He was thinking of becoming a professional gigolo to rich old women like Liddy Dole, Kay Bailey Hutchinson and Larry Craig. There’s not much calling in this economy for a manservant. Perhaps I could put in a good word with my old friend Freddie Thompson. He’s loaded with all that Hollywood money, would enjoy the attention while bathing and always has trouble zipping up his fly.
We held our annual May Day celebration last night. Spent the night before erecting the Maypole in our backyard. Scooter Libby’s brother Stinky, who’s still living with us, was extremely helpful as he directed me “A little to the left…. No, a little to the right…” from his chaise lounger as he sucked down a Bud. What a leach. There’s no way he’s going to leave and the Ol’ Ball and Chain has adopted him as her confidant/ drinking pal/ love slave. Might have to take Blackwater up on their birthday present promise to assinate anyone of my choosing.
Anyhow, the usual gang showed up around ten with their sacrifices. Most of the white house staff brought kittens and puppies. Dave Addington brought a goat, Mary M and her lunkhead husband brought a goldfish they stole from their daughter’s fish tank, Condi brought an Iraqi citizen she picked up on her last trip and Grover Nordquist brought a rooster from his cock fighting stable.
A little before midnight, we gathered out back around the maypole and took off our clothes. I repeated the secret May Day neo-con chant five times (The number of sides of the pentagon) and then we passed around the ceremonial saber as each person slit the throat of their sacrifice to the gods of conservatism. The Iraqi guy was resigned to his fate and took it in stride, but the rooster really put up a stink. Grover was having trouble so the Ol’ Ball and Chain helped him out by biting off its head.
Then we smeared blood on each other and at the stroke of midnight we danced in the nude around the Maypole. One of my neighbors yelled out their window for us to keep it down, but a warning shot from my secret service sharpshooter shut him up.
After the ceremony we retired to the den for ice cream and cake. Everybody was gone by twelve thirty and I was in bed by one. Francisco tucked me in. Tight. Very tight. I couldn’t breathe. I think he’s still mad at me about Dubai. Hey, we all have to cut corners in this economy, Bub.
Dick
