Cheney n’ Osama: Born for Each Other?

Dear Friends,

Here’s a little rant that I uncovered in pillaging through my digital desk drawer. Not current events, but a snapshot of a dreadful moment in time, post-9/11.

S

Cheney n’ Osama: Born for Each Other? ^©Solomon 2001

It’s so obvious when you stop to think about it. Dick Cheney and Osama bin Laden have so much in common. They both live in secure, undisclosed locations. They might even be roommates, for all we know. Yeah, I can see Dick giving Osama a nice back-rub before his ritual bath of purification, wondering with secret, thrilling guilt, if things might go a little further.

Oh! Neither of them have balls. That is something they share, as well. Both send young men off to do their dirty work, and enjoy both the awful prospect and the deeds carried out by their towering vision. In Dick’s case, though, ballessness is an actual medical fact. Sadly, the son of Marjorie Cheney and Richard H. Cheney of Casper, Wyoming, never saw his testicles descend into his scrotum after his birth.

The physician attending the birth of Cheney the Younger, Dr. Lawrence Stanley Denton,  tried everything to ameliorate the situation. Eventually, he resorted to radical therapy; massive injections of bull semen taken from the family’s own prize stud, Fudd. The injections, painful as they were to young Dick, did not budge his gonads from his abdomen. Dick Sr. and Marji resorted to raising the child as a girl, and spent what little money they had on frilly dresses, pretty shoes, and fancy underpants. This only made the little Dick more difficult to deal with.

One day, Little Dick was playing Doctor with his older sister, Gretchen Mengele Cheney. She had an idea. It involved vise grips. The experience hurt quite a lot and he liked that very well, but his balls could not be located nor retrieved from his abominable cavity, no matter how hard Gretchen pushed, probed, yanked, clobbered, clenched and yanked again and again and yet again. Her intentions were in the right place, but there were no gonads to be found.

Meanwhile, the bull semen injections were having unintended effects. Little Dick’s head grew very large and soft, and his heart began to fail. The good Doctor was summoned again. He installed the battery from the derelict, rusting tractor half sunk down by the bog at the edge of the field into Dick’s chest. Today, that same old battery keeps Dick alive, but it has been consistently oozing noxious gases and gut-rotting acids, making Dick very cranky, and sometimes woozy when he is under stress. As long ago as 1955, his favorite teacher in Junior High, Miss Duffield, sent him home with a note telling his parents, “This kid needs a blow job. I’m not gonna do it, no matter how much he begs.”

Today, Dick is very scared by the world, but somehow comforted, wrapped and rapt in a pink tutu, living in his candlelit magical cave with Osama. He’s fancy free. Bombs are falling everywhere. Life is good.

The the phone rings. Osama is in the tub. Dick picks up. Who knows who might be calling? They might be evil doers, competitors for Osama’s affections. “That lanky fellow from the east has an effect on people. You never know!”