locked and loaded

Dick Clinch is not one who is afraid to say that he might have been wrong, so I’m going to say it. I may have been wrong.

In my zeal to bring to light that the Vice-President of the United States may have had too much to drink and while he was drinking, pumped a friend full of bird shot, I may have given the great sport of poker a bad name. Many of you read my hypothetical account of the incident and my suggestion that it could have happened during a poker game that went horribly wrong. Now, word is spreading around the globe like wildfire that the game of poker has gotten another good man shot and hospitalized.

“Yet more poker-related violence,” is the mantra we are beginning to hear.

Please, my good friends, let’s nip this in the bud. Please disregard the setting of my previous accounting of this story as being situated around Mr. Hoyle’s glorious game. Instead, let’s take this thing back out to the back forty.

The point I wanted to emphasize was that the Vice-President may have had something in addition to the beer at lunch and that the event was not immediately reported so any alcohol would have had time to pass through the Veep’s system. By not reporting the incident to the press, any drinking the Veep may have done was long forgotten. Anyway, here is the way it may have gone down.

Mr. Cheney unscrewed the cap from the bottle in his hip pocket and took a long, refreshing taste. He looked up at the late-afternoon Texas sky and felt the warm breeze wash over his face, renewing his spirit, much like the bourbon in the bottle had renewed his tongue. He put the bottle to his lips again and swallowed hard.

“Maybe you should take it easy on the booze,” suggested one of his hunting comrades.

“I’m the motherfucking Vice-President of the motherfucking United States, motherfucker,” intoned Mr. Cheney, “And I know when I’ve had enough to drink, and motherfucker, I haven’t had nearly enough.”

He fired a random blast into the air and shouted, “Yee Hah! Now, point me in the direction of those motherfucking birds.”

Cheney closes up his bottle, puts it in his hip pocket and at that exact moment the dogs scare up a covey. The Veep gets off a quick shot and it’s a lucky shot, too, because one of those little bitty quail sort of disintegrates in mid air and the dog hunts down its mangled corpse and brings it back to the Vice-President. The Veep gets down on one knee and looks at the decimated bird on the ground. As his comrades gather round, he looks up like Michael Parks in Kill Bill and says, “Little cocksucker’s still breathin’.”

“Really?” Asked one of his party.

“No, not really. You dumb fuck, I blew this little cocksucker to bits.”

The group continued on their hunt until the dogs scared up another covey. This time the lawyer got off a clean shot and sent one of the quail to its reward. While he and his dog were fetching the feckless fowl, the feculent Veep went again to the well in his hip pocket and drank long and deep from its soothing liquid.

A young secret service agent close by spoke up at that time.

“Mr. Vice-President,” he suggested, “Perhaps you should finish that bottle after the hunt.”

“Oh I should, should I? Perhaps when you’re in my position, you can make that call. But let me remind you, young man, I’m the motherfucking Vice-President of the motherfucking United States of America and I know when I’ve fucking had enough, motherfucker.”

He shouted the last line and it scared a covey of quail, and the Veep immediately reacted to the sound of a dozen flapping wings, turning and firing almost instinctively. Even through the haze of bourbon he saw his friend fall and he knew he had screwed up bad this time. While the secret service and Cheney’s medical team ran to the spot where the lawyer had fallen, the Vice-President fell to his knees, removed the bottle from his hip pocket and threw it across the field. He raised his teary eyes to the heavens and asked for help. God looked down upon him.

“Go fuck yourself,” said God.

The young secret service agent recovered the bottle and brought it back to the agent in charge.

“What do I do with this? “He asked.

“I don’t give a fuck,” said the agent in charge. “As long as it is never seen by a human being again.”

“What do we do after I get rid of the bottle?”

“We get medical care for the mouthpiece. We put on the biggest fucking pot of coffee you ever saw in your life. We get the Veep out of Day-Glo orange and into butt naked, get him in the shower and then fill him full of coffee. That is, after we get him dried off and some clothes on his bare-naked ass. Then, we act like nothing happened for eighteen hours, or until he can pass a Breathalyzer.”

“Yeah, but if we wait eighteen hours to tell everyone what happened the press’ll have a field day.”

“If we don’t wait eighteen hours, and someone sees this slobbering drunk, ain’t no amount of spinning that’ll save his ass.”


So, there you have it, ladies and gentlemen. That story will have to do until I can make up a better one. In the meantime, lets have a drink to our health.

Or my name isn’t Dick Clinch.

the adventures of "shotgun" dick cheney

As if it were not bad enough that “Shotgun” Dick Cheney was running around telling the Democrats in Congress to go fuck themselves, now we hear the old buzzard is pumping some bird shot into one of his “buddies.”

More crazy exploits of “Shotgun” Dick “The Assassin” Cheney

They say it was a hunting accident late yesterday afternoon, but I have my own suspicions. I’m willing to bet that the Vice-President was engaged in some late-night card playing and the guy on the other side of the table, who just happens to be a trial lawyer—and you know how much the Bush administration hates trial lawyers—hit one too many good hands. And you know the Bush administration is going to be even more pissed off at trial lawyers when Alan Shore takes my case that I told you about this morning. The barrister probably looked down and saw the pocket bullets (no pun intended) and figured he’d play them slow and try to sucker in the old fart. He knew the Vice-President was a hard-assed old motherfucker and the cards had been going against him all night and in favor of the lawyer. He also knew the old geezer was good for the dough and he was way ahead of Cheney unless the veep caught a pocket pair that tripped on the flop. The flop comes down a rainbow with one spade—the most beautiful card in the deck—which gives the lawyer a set of aces.

The lawyer knows he’s way ahead, now, but he checks to see if he can sucker in the ill-tempered old asshole. Sure enough, Cheney either hit something, or he’s on a draw, or –more likely of all—he is on a stone-cold bluff. Either way the veep decides to push it and the lawyer check-raises him. That pisses off the old fart even more because he knows his present employer is bad assed enough to lay waste to an entire country in the Middle East. He knows his previous employer is bad assed enough to make a fortune trying to put it back together. He knows that every time his present employer knocks something else down, his former employer is going to rebuild it, so there is a never-ending river of cash flowing his way. And here is this smart-assed lawyer going over the top of him, calling his bluff or acting like he has the best of it. So Cheney pushes it all in and gets the immediate call. One of the rags on the flop pairs on the turn, so the lawyer has the boat and the Vice-President misses his hand and after another rag on the river, the lawyer drags all the chips into his stack. The old geezer could live with that, except the lawyer adds a quick comment.

“Just not your night, Shotgun,” he says.

Now, the Vice-President has been nipping a little all evening out of the bottle he keeps in his hip pocket. Hell, if he wouldn’t have gotten a snoot full, he would never have pushed that last hand. So Cheney responds the only way he knows how.

“Go fuck yourself you fucking ambulance chaser,” he shouts.

The lawyer is offended by that and starts to react, but seeing the secret service all over the room, he sits back in his chair and allows the anger to subside. But his ego won’t allow him to let it go completely, so he lifts up his stack of $5000s about a quarter of an inch and lets them all click one-by-one back onto the table.

As far as the old prune is concerned, that just crossed the line and the Vice-President goes for his shotgun and gets off one shell in the general direction of the lawyer before the secret service wrestles the shotgun out of his hand.

I hope the Vice-President will learn the error of his ways. If you’re going to be drinking, leave the shotgun in the gun safe. I know when I am going out for the evening and I know I will not be in any condition to drive home, I leave the Glock 17C in the safe. I’m told that even Osama Bin Laden will put away his Kalashnikov if he expects to end up the night in a ditch or whorehouse, stinking drunk. Ladies and gentlemen, drinking and shooting don’t mix. My advice is to leave your firearms at home if you are going to get snockered.

Or my name isn’t Dick Clinch.

gimme back my money

I need a lawyer. I need one that has the cojones of Alan Shore on Boston Legal. Okay, it doesn’t have to be a man, but I have found that if you need to kick the shit out of somebody, then a man is usually your best bet. If I can find the right woman, I would take her in a heartbeat. This would be a plum case for any lawyer and maybe they’ll beat a path to my door. There is just one catch: I can’t afford to pay them what it is going to cost. There, that’ll get rid of the ambulance chasers. The upside of this case for any lawyer is that you’ll be famous until the end of time. Maybe I should start at the beginning.

Dick Clinch owes a shitload of money.

“You cocksucker!” many of you are asking, “What the fuck did you do with all your money? You are supposed to be so tight with a buck and such a careful investor. ‘Always pay your bills on time; pay off your credit cards,’ you tell us. You always tell us not to mortgage ourselves to the hilt, and here you are owing money.”

To which I answer, that is a good point. Let me explain, and stop calling me a cocksucker.

Fuck no, I didn’t run up a bunch of bills! Give me a fucking break. I live within my means—meager as they are—but my problem is bigger than that and it’s your problem, too. The dickhead you elected president and the grafters you and your fellow countrymen elected to congress have taken it upon themselves to help themselves to our money. I guess they figure that “these people elected us; that means they want us to fuck them in the ass.” So they are taking our money and throwing it away on any- and everything that has a price tag on it.

Since Bush has been in office, the federal government has put over $27,000 worth of debt on its credit card for every man, woman and child. It’s estimated that every child born today has a debt of $156,000 in current deficit obligations and future entitlements—the moment he takes his first breath. I’m used to the government fucking with me, but their debt is going to have to be borne by our children. And when you start fucking with my kid, you’re “walking on my fighting side.”

It’s kind of like taking my ex-wife and setting her up on a big pile of money and telling her to be careful with it and manage it wisely. You come back in a little while and she’s sitting flat on the floor with this big fucking pile of expensive shit she doesn’t need piled up behind her. But let’s leave my ex out of this. I was just using that as an example of what can happen when you put irresponsible people in the position to spend your money. And brother (or sister), we’ve done it.

“Yeah,” you say, “But that’s the way it’s been since time began. The poor man and the average guy are always going to be expected to pull their pants down and bend over. It’s always been that way and it’s going to always be that way.”

Well, sir (or ma’am), I’m all for gay rights, but I don’t fuck no man in the ass and I don’t let no man fuck me in the ass. And, it’s time for this ass-fucking to stop. It’s time for us to form a “class,” engage a lawyer and get congress and the president to pay back the money they stole from us. That’s why we need somebody like Alan Shore. I need somebody to get me in touch with him—get him in touch with me. I’d like to see him get Bush on the stand.

“Mr. President,” he would ask, “Where did all that money go?”

“Mr. Shore, we had to spend it on a lot of important projects. You ever try to burn a country the size of Iraq to the ground? Takes money.”

Yes, sir. Yes, ma’am. We put these incompetents in office. We have the moral responsibility to get our kids’ money back. How do you do that? You sue the motherfuckers.

Are you with me, or are you against me?

Yeah, I was pretty sure you were. It’s time to kick some ass.

Or my name isn’t Dick Clinch.

beware of homophobes bearing hatchets

I read today where some kid went into a Massachusetts gay bar and hacked up a couple of queers with a hatchet and shot a couple of others, or vice versa. The story is kind of confusing. The story is not confusing in that the bar had pink walls. The story goes on to explain there is outrage about this hate crime and that the region is stunned that this happened. I guess the consensus of opinion is, “How can this happen, here?”

Perhaps I can clear up some of the confusion and explain why this young man might feel it was his destiny to carry out this act. It might help some of you understand his motivation.

First of all, we have enjoyed, for the last five years, the leadership of a homophobic President. He has been returned to office despite failing to keep his guard up and allowing the country to be attacked on its own soil. He has been returned to office despite failing in his duties as CEO and allowing the economy to go straight to hell. He has been returned to office despite his pension for pissing away our budget surplus and looting the treasury. He has been returned to office after bankrupting the social security fund into which all of us have paid huge percentages of our income. He has been returned to office primarily on “moral” issues, and primarily because the electorate that returned him to this position knows he hates queers. That electorate, of course, hates queers, too.

That President and his electorate hate queers so much that they are willing to amend our constitution to exclude queers and to attach a state religion to our country, despite the fact that the framers of the constitution specifically wrote it to avoid that happening.

Aren’t you proud that I managed to get the first four paragraphs on paper (or virtual paper, as it were) without saying, “fuck” once? I’m sorry, but that is as far as I can go without telling it like it is. So let’s recap.

The motherfucker in the oval office is a homophobe. The cocksuckers that voted for him are homophobes. They are willing to throw away 230 years of American history and tradition just because they want to lynch a queer or a few hundred thousand.

Anyway, some cocksucker comes along with a hatchet and a gun and he starts hacking up queers and shooting them and everybody gets all excited about it and saying, “This is America. How can that happen here?”

What the fuck is so difficult to understand. If, as a nation, we hate queers so fucking bad that we are willing to change the most sacred document in the history of civilization to take away the rights of gays, then where is the confusion? If some dumb-fuck, impressionable kid hears all the bullshit about how the gays have more rights than the rest of us and thinks he needs to take matters into his own hands, how can society be surprised?

We only have ourselves to blame for this whole thing. Okay, maybe someone should take the kid and break a Louisville Slugger over his head—you know, a 33-ounce, 32- inch—and tell him to cut out this crazy shit and leave his hatchet at home. But as a society, we caused it. By our being afraid of anything different—by our universal fear that if we are around gays we will realize they are all correct and we’ll all turn gay, too—so we all have to act like we can’t coexist or we’ll turn queer.

I can’t help but think that this whole thing goes back to Leviticus, chapter 18, verse 22, which says, “Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is an abomination.” Verse 23 goes on to say, “Neither shalt thou lie with any beast to defile thyself therewith…”

I contend that most of the guys who voted for Bush might have had a woman once or twice, but Goddamn it, you know every one of them has fucked a pig or a sheep on numerous occasions.

The good news is that, if there is a God, every one of the Christian right will burn in hell for eternity. The bad news is that most of them are still going to be alive tomorrow. And, you never know when one of them is going to zone out and start hacking on some queer with an axe.

Or my name isn’t Dick Clinch.