The View From Cheney's Bunker

Like all great men of action (Hitler, Stalin, the Penguin) United States second in command, Dick Cheney, has a bunker. I was fortunate enough to be invited to tour Vice President Cheney's hidden lair along with such tv notables as; Martha Stewart and Henrietta Pussycat (King Friday was summarily snubbed for his lack of support for the war in Iraq) .
Here's what happened once our blindfolds and chain shackles were removed and we were led inside the reinforced stronghold:

Henrietta Pussycat: Meow meow has a furball!

Cheney: Watch it Pussycat, or I'll release the ferrets.

HP: Meow is terrified of ferrets, meow meow.

Martha Stewart: Oh Dick, your sense of humor is still as expansive as a bulging blocked artery and as incisive as a scalpel used to perform triple by-pass surgery on a Grinchesque heart.

C: Heh, heh, heh glad you appreciate my dark genius, Martha.

JfromP: Is that a gold toilet seat? Who paid for all of this?

C: I'm not taking questions today.

MS: I see that you coordinated from the Martha Stewart palette of colors, originally marketed through discount chain K-Mart but now available in a wider array of meticulously crafted designer colors and sold exclusively through home improvement behemoth, Lowes.

C: Pussycat! That Chippendale escritoire is not a scratching post! Damn. Lynn thought that it would be a good PR move for me to host some notable females and a nobody in my elusive crisis command center, but I see now that I should've stuck by the advice I received from the Nixon portrait and just met Barbara Walters and Miss Piggy at Outback for a late lunch.

At this point Cheney pushed a black button on the otherwise fioli yew wall (even I could appreciate that it clashed, and Martha visibly cringed while sneaking a nip of Grey Goose from a vintage sterling silver flask engraved with the initials ZF) and the Secret Service descended upon us like frat boys on free pizza.

So, for thirty seconds we three were allowed a rare glimpse inside the inner world of Vice President Dick Cheney. What did I take away from the experience? A commemorative decorative bicentennial ashtray with a snake dangling from an apple tree that read, 'Go Fuck Yourself'. It may not have been a bicentennial momento, but I slipped it in my pocket the second we got there nonetheless. I didn't figure Cheney'd be able to bear up under Henrietta's 'meows meows' for long. And I was right.