Monday, August 07, 2006

Soon To Be An Oliver Stone Film



“How did it come to this?” the Pressurebent sthinks as he hangs up the phone.

The late afternoon sun slants through the huge windows behind his desk in the Offal Office; He hears Laura quietly slobbing in the ouster office.

“’Hit’s all Daddy’s fault,” he ruminants “who could life up to that? Big war hero jock pilot; superspook conspirator; throwin’ up on that Jap P.M. I never had a snowball’s chance in Crawford. Hell I didn’t even want all this, Hied have been just as slaphappy to stay a drunk and play with my baseball men, but NOOOO he had to shame me, said I wasn’t upendin’ the family honor and all that happy horseshit. Goddammit all!”


Pissed now The Usurper punches the call button on his phone, “Harriet, git me the Vice Pressurestint on the phone. And I mean now!”


“Do you think that’s wise, Georgie?” Miers simpers “Mr. Chaney is a very sick man.”

“I don’t care if he’s got the ribspreader up his ass, Harriet, just git him on the goddamned phone!”

Dubyah hangs up and waits for the connection to be made.

“Wonder what they’ll do with all my pressurebential memorobiliates and all... my collection of “Archie” comic books? My Howdy Doody Sippy Cup? My Desert Cammo G.I. Joads? Toss ‘em all in that river yonder, I suppose. Don’t recon they’ll let a felonizer build a Pressurebential Library.”

“Too bad, Laura’ll need a job.”

“What the Hell,” he sthinks “won’t matter much now” as he reaches for the bottle of Jack in the lower file drawer.


“ Might as well get pie-eyed…..”

The phone rings.

“Dick, that you?” he drawdles picking up.

“Well it ain’t Saddam Hussein, you goddamned idiot.” Chaney rasps.

“Why so ornery, Dick? Yore morphine drip on the fritz?”

“Go Fuck yourself.” Chaney chortles.

“You already made a job of that, asshole."

I just got off the horn with Senator Mac Cain, he said the Federal Marshals will be here in an hour to haul my ass to jail.”

“Ain’t the first time, G.” Chaney seems to be relishing the development.

“Go fuck yourself, Lon, but save some fer Lynne!” W laughs.

“Shit, that pony ain’t pranced in 10 years, dumbass”

“Tell me about it.”

Anyhow that asswipe Cain said he could get me a cush lock-up In South Carolina if I come along quietly. Jerk’ll never forgit South Carolina.”

“They’re talking jail?” Chaney muttered in disbelief.


‘Yeah... shit that’s right - you’ve been in and out of a coma!” W chugs some Jack.

“Just after that David Gregory went nuts and beat Rummy near to death with his microphone, the Senate cut a deal with the World Court in the Haggis…. er ….whatever and said they’d perp walk me outta the Whitehouse and give me a coupla years if them Belgianians would just lay off.”
“What about the Joint Chiefs?” Chaney asks.


“Them losers ain’t gonna be no help, Dick, they tole me they’d rather patrol Fallujah naked with as cap pistol than go agin Mac Cain.”

“Wimps” Chaney grunts.


“And the Secret Service ain’t gonna do nothing either unless there’s gunplay.” W grumbles.

“Well, there’s that Colt in my Desk, W, go down with your boots on!”

“I’ll ponder on that, Dick. How’s the transplant comin’?

“Good news, they found a donor.”

“But you got that rare type, C-note negative , how’d they find one so fast?”

Halliburton came up with it; some 15 year old kid caught one in the back of his head in Baghdad. Same type!”

“That was lucky.”


“Not really, we’ve had our eye on him for some time.” Chaney coughs.

“Well I hope you come out the other end Dick, with Rummy laid up and Rove run off with Gannon, I’m runnin’ short of friends.”

“Watch yer backside, George.”


“Go fuck yourself, Dick.”

As he hangs up, W pours a third shot of Jack. “I’m getting a little buzz on” he sthinks and looks at his watch, “Johnny Lawdog will be here soon.”

He punches the call button on his phone.

“Harriet, call Condi and tell her to git her skinny ass up here.

Hanging up he walks once more around the Offal Office. At a side table he lovingly strokes a studded dog collar given him by Tony Blair. The Jack working on his pint sized brain, he wells up as he reads the inscription “Yours, B(itch)."


Turning to his desk he picks up a glass bauble the Christian Coalition had sent, shaking it he watches with childlike wonder the thousands of “Snowflake Babies" flurrying about a vignette of his Crawford Ranch. Laying it down he moves on to his most prized procession - a paperweight fashioned from the shrapnel of a Daisycutter that had been dropped a multi family dwelling in Qana. A gift from the Israeli Defense Minister.

Reeling from the liquor and what passes for emotion he nearly swoons when he hears the knock on his door.

Walking in, Condi sympathizes “It’s a dark day, Mr. Pressurespent.”
“Sure is” W sobs.“Condi, do you believe in God?”

“You know I do, Mr. pressuredent, it was on the application.”

“Prey with me Condi,” W's drinking from the bottle “Prey with me now.”

He falls on his knees.

“Like that you mean, on our knees?” Rice is incredulous.

“Yes, Prey with me!” W gropes at her knees.

“I couldn’t possibly, Mr. Pressurebent, this is a $1500 Armani pantsuit!. Rice backs away.

W crumbles to the floor in a fetal psition, cradling the bourbon.

“Fuck me, President Pelosi! Mommy will be so pissed. Sheeeet! W mumbles as he passes out.

3 Comments:

Blogger KidKawartha said...

durrati-
You've been channeling JoeDon, right?
Good rant. Got a title yet? How about "40 Ounces and a Bicycle"? Or "Natural Born Idiots"?

5:25 PM  
Blogger durrati said...

I vote for the 40,kid.....

5:46 PM  
Anonymous WhattheH said...

Durrati, fine form. It was a hoot. Very effective use of metaphor. Loved it. You've been honing your talents while you've been incapacitated. Good onya. Nice to know that you can teach an old dog new tricks, or better still, just because one ages, it doesn't mean that they become redundant - look at Jane Jacobs.
I've been out of it for awhile - medication didn't agree with me, but I've been checking here every single day. Thanks, your writing gives me a lift.

8:26 PM  

Post a Comment

<< Home