Somewhere, deep within the bowels of his ultra-secret dormant volcano bunker hideout, Dick "Dick" Cheney is making soft gurgling sounds and wringing his hands. The gurgling sounds are the result of his inability to experience human emotions and therefore he cannot actually laugh as he glances at the day's headlines: Anna Nicole Simpson autopsy continues - Zsa Zsa Gabor's husband involved in possible paternity. Bizarre love triangle between astronauts ends in kidnap/murder plot.
Nobody's talking about the mess in Iraq this week. Even as the "crackdown" begins, a tired and bored nation turns its eyes to the prurient and sad tales of desperate fame and those who will become infamous. Meanwhile, American officers, interviewed at the sprawling Camp Victory (whose job is it to name these things?) base at the western edge of Baghdad, acknowledge they are finding little in their initial searches of neighborhoods — suggesting either they received faulty intelligence or that the massive publicity that preceded the operation gave militants time to slip away.
The soft gurgling noises have stopped. The machinery that operates as a circulatory system for "Dick" struggles to keep up as his stress level rises. Somebody points out that Prince's guitar looked an awful lot like a phallus during that Super Bowl halftime show. "Dick" chuckles in spite of himself and grumbles, "Excellent." Everything is proceeding according to plan.
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