Sunday, February 19, 2006

Beneath the Valley of the Fever Swamps....


Billmon's latest satirical missive is pure 'make the bastard deny it' type-stuff' which was a political tactic perfected long ago by a then little-known Texas strongman with big plans to hit the big time someday:

"He was sunk in despair. He was desperate... he called his equally depressed campaign manager and instructed him to.....accuse his high-riding opponent (the pig farmer) of having routine carnal knowledge of his barnyard sows, despite the pleas of his wife and children... His campaign manager was shocked. 'We can't say that, Lyndon,' he said. 'It's not true.' 'Of course it's not,' Johnson barked at him, 'but let's make the bastard deny it.'..."
Hunter Thompson, on Lyndon Johnson's 1948 Congressional Campaign.

With that in mind, and without any possibility of being whacked by the kerning, here is Billmon's metaphorical barnyard sow story........

What Friends Are For
Whittington apologizes for being shot

The lawyer shot by Vice President Dick Cheney left a Texas hospital Friday, saying "accidents do and will happen" and adding that he was "deeply sorry" for allowing his face to get in the way of Cheney's gun.

"I clearly obstructed a very good shot by the vice president, one which might easily have bagged several pen-raised quail if my upper torso and head hadn't absorbed most of the blast," Whittington explained. "I only hope he can find it in his heart to forgive me for not getting out of the way faster when he whirled and fired without warning."

Whittington added that that he has offered to reimburse the vice president for the full cost of the hunting trip, including the wasted birdshot.

A spokesman for Mr. Cheney declined to comment, saying the vice president first wants to see what kind of money Whittington is willing to put on the table.

All of which is fine, as far as it goes, but our long lost non-resident out-house script writer, Ricketta von Schmidtten thought she would take a stab at imagining the present day Big Time's response to the charge:

In a hermetically sealed bunker restroom, 10,000 feet below a cliff-face located 374.76 km north of Butte Montana in the newly annexed Albertalands, Big Time is standing in front of a gleaming urinal, fly wide open, waiting.....always waiting.

Enter the off-the-books, ultra-secret, internets-savvy, super-sweeper from the local NSA office, who stands beside his supreme Commander and - opens up.

The Sweeper:
Commander, we've picked up a piece, purportedly from the Oakland Tribune, belittling the incident.

Big Time: So, f*@king what? A million bloody papers have written about that. Jesus 'Herbert in a Walker' Christ!

The Sweeper: Yes, but this time, they brought up the money, sir.

Big Time: Bastards! Who owns that piece of crap?

The Sweeper: Those people in Denver, the ones that made the deal with Gannett.

Big Time: Gannett? Aren't they the ones that raised all that 'inconsistency' garbage in their national ass-wipe organ last week?

The Sweeper has finished doing his own business and has zipped up. He does not move, however, because Big Time is still waiting.....

The Sweeper: Yes, sir.

Big Time: We will screw them; we will screw them and all the screwheads that ever worked for them! No more mergers for them and they will never get another story from the WHIG again. Never, ever!

The Sweeper: Well, we are trying to get a fix on one particularly shadowy figure that may have started all of this sir, but it has been extremely difficult to pin-down the individual involved. They seem to be operating outside of all the usual commercial and political boundaries.

Big Time tries flushing the urinal, thinking that maybe, just maybe, the sound of the splashing might start the flow. It does not.....

Big Time: Are you talking about one of those scumbagged two-bit, tin-plated wordsmiths that are hiding out in the deepest reaches of the fire swamps? The ones we haven't been able to reach out and crush yet?

The Sweeper: Well actually, I believe they are fever swamps sir.

Big Time: Damn that stupid Meathead, anyway. I always hated that movie of his; thought Vizzini should have won the bloody treasure and the stupid girl. It was really inconceivable that he didn't get either.

The Sweeper (scratching his ear and looking confused): Absolutely sir, but there is one other problem though; it's an old one that we haven't been able to kill.

Big Time: An old one?

The Sweeper: Yes sir. And it has echos all the way back to the days when a former Tribune editor had the gall to bring in that Hillbilly from Louisville on......(and here The Sweeper's voice lowers to a whisper).....on......Iran/Contra.

BigTime groans. He can feel a deep tightening down there and he now knows that it will be hours before he can let go of his lunchtime sack of beers....

BigTime: You're talking about that a-hole Burgin, aren't you?

The Sweeper: It's worse than that, sir.

BigTime: How can it possibly be worse than that? We took care of all that. That scum-sucking cretin Thompson is dead, right?

The Sweeper has kept his eyes down the entire time but now his gaze nervously drifts from his own shoes towards the too-tight oxfords of the commander standing next to him. He can't help but notice the flecks of glistening spittle spattered all over the toes....

The Sweeper: Well, yes of course, sir. At least the flesh and blood is gone.

Big Time: What the hell are you talking about, you stupid, worthless techno-dope?

The Sweeper: Well, sir, we're starting to pick up.....uh......Doppler Echos.

Big Time: Doppler Echos? Christ almighty!

The Sweeper: Exactly, sir. The info waves have already started to compress and crest; our latest algorithms predict a trillion terabyte convergence that will hit the MSM in approximately 13.4 newscycles.

Big Time: Call our Network you fool! Get Roger to clear the godddamn decks. We'll go 36 hours, non-stop, with that pansy-boy Britt Ecklund immediately. We can even resurrect Morton The Downer Jr. and first abduct, then cgi in, that traitor Cronkite if we have to. We must cut this s&#t-hammer off at the knees.

The Sweeper (making strangled, gurgling noises in his throat before he finally blurts out): But it's not possible, sir.

Big Time: Not possible? I'll decide what is possible and what is not possibly possible to be impossible. Me and only me, because this is my mission - all of it! Do you understand what I'm saying you gorepulent littleweasel for brains?

Big Time begins to rhythmically pound both fists down on the top of the urinal. In an instant, the SS minders jump The Sweeper and smash his head against the wall. As he is led, bleeding, from the gleaming room, The Sweeper has one last thing to say....

The Sweeper: It can't be stopped sir. There is no focal point; it's coming from everywhere and the fever swamps are now expanding exponentially.

BigTime begins to hyperventilate. He is still pounding his fists on the urinal and his face is going purple as he starts to scream....

BigTime: Shut them down! Shut them all down!!!!!

........Fade To Black and Birdshot Blue......

Cross-posted over at the Moon.
There, that didn't take long now, did it? (whoever it was, sure hope they have a sense of humo(u)r)

Domain Name ? (United States Government)
IP Address
144.51.127.# (National Computer Security Center)
Time of Visit
Feb 19 2006 7:34:21 pm


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