May 4, 2008
Maybe it’s the booze they serve at Cafe Milano in Georgetown. Maybe it’s just Madsen being Madsen. After all, journalists and writers with any lick of integrity have been shamed, shocked and traumatized by the “suicides” of both Hunter S. Thompson and Gary Webb — not to mention the sudden “fading into the discredited bastion of mental health treatment” of Mike Ruppert.
Having seen this vast panoply of weirdness unfolding before our very eyes while creampuffs and lightweights like Matt Lauer and Brit Hume have made all the money — perhaps Madsen has just had enough. Perhaps he is ready to be a hero. Or a martyr.
At any rate, our intrepid Wayne Madsen wanted our beloved Vice President, Richard “the Dick” Cheney to know that his dealings with Palfrey’s escort agency in the 1990’s weren’t going to be forgotten. One would infer that Madsen has some evidence regarding Cheney’s addiction to Cialis-laden trysts with frustrated hookers who couldn’t get the poor bastard off with an enema bag and a stick of dynamite. But why stop there, says I. Why not bring up Shandra Levy and Gary “Which Way Did He Go” Condit for good measure?
Why not bring up Norm Mineta’s testimony before the 911 Commission and how at odds it was with Veep McDicky?
People pay good money to see political figures in women’s bloomers and pumps. Especially since Rudy Guilliani lowered the bar for crossdressers everywhere with his disgusting displays of transvetitism (no offense to the actual “ladies in waiting” out there in dollsville).
No, if there is one thing an old oil man and drunkard like Dickey would hate it would be the humiliation of being photographed having illicit sex with a penguin. Or a spotted owl. In pumps. It would put all this sabre rattling and threats of wiping out Iran like Hiroshima or Nagasaki into some actual perspective.
It’s okay to be mentally ill, Dickey. Your mother was. The sin is not doing something about it. The sin is creating flashburns of Iranian children on their school playgrounds, or blowing everyone but the truly guilty into red mist simply because you haven’t known how to pleasure a real woman in, what, six or seven heart surgeries?
I hope Mr. Cheney lives long enough to be brought to the gallows in his wheelchair.
Enjoy the bunker, Dickie. Rats make really good eating once you get past the fact that they’re — well — rats.
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