Monday, September 28, 2009

Unfortunate Meeting with Dick Cheney

Dick Cheney came to me in a dream last night.
Or, should I say I came to him.
Sometimes there's bedtime stories you tell yourself to go to sleep.
I met him in a bathroom in Pike Place Market. He was stuck on the toilet dumping chowder down the hole. I didn't expect to see Dick like this:
In a white undershirt stained with beer and piss, his hair disheveled and his skin yellow with alcholism. His pants were around his ankles and his feces was so powerful that I gagged.
It's open air shitting in the Market and there are no doors to hide your transgressions.
Dick was downcast, staring at his white shirted gut and making grunting noises that coincided with splashes of dung.
"Mr. Cheney? Are you alright?" I couldn't think of anything else to say. There was nothing more depressing than seeing the Vice President of Earth taking a dump alone without any guardians.
"Heh? Who are you?"
"Um, I'm Robert. Mr. Cheney, are you alright?"
"Yes. Yes. I'm just lightening the load so to speak. Urrrrrgggghhhhh!" Another large 'plop' and he looked up and grinned. His mouth was full of teeth the color of Pepsi and the smell that came out nearly knocked me to the ground.
"Do you need me to get you some help?" I hated the man, but to see anyone in this state turned me into some nuturing mother or some maid that can't help but panic when the head of the house has lost his nut.
"No. Fine...fine. Do you know why I'm sitting here?"
"No, sir."
"I'm sitting here because of the Lord."
"The Lord? You mean God?"
"That's correct. I'm sitting here because I'm in purgatory."
"I'm sorry?"
"I'm dead. I'M FUCKING DEAD!"
"I don't think so, sir."
"You don't think so?" At that he began to giggle. "I've been dead for three years."
"I don't think that's right, sir."
"Oh, it's right." He shook his head back and forth and I saw beads of sweat hit the floor and burn holes.
"I think something is just wrong. You know. Maybe something's just not right. Like you're not feeling well."
"Oh, I'm feeling well...what does your T-shirt say?"
"It's a Nirvana shirt." I didn't know how to explain it. It was the only clean shirt I had and I hate wearing it around Seattle.
"That's the Cobain guy, right?"
"I ate him."
"I'm sorry, sir?"
"I think I should probably call someone."
"No. No."
"Sir, you ate Kurt Cobain? It's just, I think you're not feeling well."
"No. I ate him. I ate them all...Kennedy, X, King, Lennon, Cobain, Biggie, Tupac; all those fuckers. I ate them."
"I think you're not feeling well."
"Fuck what you think! I ate them." His tongue came out of his mouth and slipped around his lips and his eyes lit up like morning stars.
"I don't understand. Look, I'm gonna get some help."
He jumped of the toilet and onto me like rubber band snapping. "I ATE THEM!" He was in my face and I couldn't see because of the stench.
I yelled whatever I could and the next thing I knew I was laying on the bathroom floor and Mr. Cheney was at the sink, adjusting some unknown tie.
"People like you will never learn. People like you will never believe." He turned to face me. Me, on the ground looking at this thing. "People like you don't want to believe the winners win. Heh. It's a shame really. I've begged for mercy, but no one admits my crimes. I keep getting...geeettttting aawayyyyyyyyywithitsssssss..." Behind the suit there was a lizard and it wanted peace, but it was far beyond it.
I kept muttering "I should call someone."

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