KultureDrome

Darth Cheney’s Dream

“Kittens are coming out of everywhere,” Darth Cheney told his therapist, “drains, cracks, you name it. The floor, walls and ceiling are covered with little cute furry creatures, millions of them. No matter where I look I see them. They are on all the furniture, on anything that doesn’t move. There are more kittens, puppy dogs and bunny rabbits outside, and they are coming in waves. As far as I can see the world outside my compound is swarming with them, and there isn’t anything I can do to stop it. Nothing I order the military to do can arrest the advance of the little furry creatures. They are getting into my personal quarters. The Air Force carpet-bombs my cul-de-sac. I order the Special Forces to destroy every last one of them with flamethrowers. I try chemical weapons, have GI’s spray them with anthrax, but it doesn’t work. The place is reduced to a fiery ruin. It is like everywhere I look something good is trying to get out from behind it, like there is something good in everything no matter how bad it is that just wants to get out. The generals tell me it is a stalemate. They have thrown every advanced and not-so-advanced weapon system they have in the Pentagon arsenal at the cute little furry pets. The senior officers suggest a change in policy. ‘Maybe it would go better, Mr. Vice President,’ they propose, ‘if you tried to befriend the kittens.’ The regular army is not working, they point out. ‘What you need is an army of hippies,’ they tell him, ‘with flowers in their hair, incense, colorful clothing, and giant soap bubbles.’ The dream always goes the same way. I point out to the generals there is one option they have not yet considered. 'Am I the only morally strong man left on earth?’ I wonder. ‘Is there no one else who understands that killing these household pets is the only way to save the world from our enemies?’ I address my military advisors face to face in my collapsing den. ‘Can’t you understand these kittens and puppy dogs are working for our enemies?’ I demand. ‘Were we attacked by cute furry animals on 9/11?’ I ask, ‘No, we were not! But are they now in league with our enemies?’ I toss them a copy of the unbiased Central Intelligence Agency report commissioned by the White House on why puppy dogs and other adorable animals are a threat to our way of life. ‘This is the face of terrorism,’ I say, but they nervously hem and haw. ‘If we want to preserve our freedom, we must kill every last kitten on earth!’ I say. Anyone with half a brain in their head would understand that the fuzzy little creatures have been infiltrated by the axis of evil. ‘What are we waiting for?’ I ask. ‘Do you want the whole world to turn into one gigantor litter box?’ I press them. ‘There’s only one appropriate response to these heathen forces. Nuke ‘em, and do it now!’ I demand. The chain of command is followed. B-52 war birds take off with missiles armed. Satellites are given the coordinates of my house. Silos are given the launch sequence. The whole place goes up in a ball of flame, but I’m still knocking singed puppy dogs and kittens off my desk. The only difference is the loud thunderclap of the explosion scared the little creatures, and now they are mewling and barking, nipping at my heels and sleeves. With a frightening certainty, I realize I’m the only one left to stave off all this infernal goodness. I push my generals aside, raise my twelve-gage shotgun to my shoulder, and starts squeezing the trigger vigilante-style. ‘If you want something done right,’ I say, firing one cartridge after another, ‘you have to do it yourself!’ Buckshot is flying. Fur is flying. I pump my twelve-gage into the cuddly little creatures until my gun is smoking hot, and I’m too tired to pump anymore, but it’s not working, for every one I’ve shot ten more have taken its place. I can hear the generals laughing and singing behind my back, and when I wheel around to stare them down, they’ve all taken off their uniforms and are happily dancing naked among all the bunny rabbits, kittens, and puppy dogs, wearing wizard’s hats and playing flutes and tambourines. ‘Don’t be such a downer,’ the generals chant in a mindless chorus, cuddling the little furry creatures in their arms. That’s usually when I've had enough, and I say, ‘To hell with you,’ and open fire on them, blowing great big beautiful red gouts of meat and blood out of their faces, necks, and chests, sending my top military advisors flying backwards into the sea of soft fur behind them. After the nuclear Armageddon, the little creatures have started to mutate. There are three-headed kittens, and six legged puppy dogs with fangs. They close in around me, and as they lunge at me I feel vindicated. ‘Look,’ I say, going down, ‘I was right all along,’ but it's kind of sad because there’s no one left to hear me, just little misshapen animals licking their whiskers and paws as far as I can see.”