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The Top Five Reasons I'd Boff Dick Cheney

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In honor of his, fifth, yes count em, fifth heart attack, I've decided to salute former vice president and 2010 CPAC hero, Dick Cheney, by proclaiming to the world (or at least the half dozen folks who read this blog) my top five reasons I'd fuck Dick Cheney:

1. Halliburton Hunk:
Despite his many years of political service , bettering the lives of the wealthy and privileged (among whom I hope to be someday) it's probably his dedication to the oil giant Halliburton that really wets my whistle, lubes my locomotive, and frankly, pumps my jack. Despite my middle management status at a left-leaning DC think tank, my carbon footprint leaves a lot to be desired. I keep my windows open in the middle of winter when the heat is so hot, my bullet-like nipples can't help but relax. In summer I deliver an even worse fate to those damn polar bears when I CFC the fuck out of my studio apartment. And every time I frequent one of those trendy asshole bars on U Street with a green roof and no receptacle for my cigarette butts the guilt in my gullet grows at an exponential rate. A few months ago DC declared its rivers and woods plastic free and started charging 5 cents for every plastic or paper bag. So every time I buy a liter of Grey Goose or a 20 pack of flushable applicators I either get to parade them down Connecticut Avenue in all my alcoholic, medium flow glory, or get charged for a little synthetic sack of modesty. I'll be damned if I'm going to carry one of those canvas totes from some place like Whole Foods or Trader Joes around all day like some tree hugging, rainbow loving fucktard. So do excuse this environmental adulterer if she waits for her Dickie dear to scoop her up in his vintage H1 Humvee, it's awfully hard to carry that 40 pack of ultra plush, five-ply chlorine bleached, Redwood-lined toilet paper all the way home to Chateau Cheney. (Guess he'll have to make room in the back for the jumbo sack of unicorn horns and dodo eggs I snagged for Sunday supper).

2. White Icing Kisses and Angiogram Dreams:
After five heart attacks, and a waistline that doesn't seem to wither with any of them, I'm going to go ahead and reason that Dick is not a man who prizes physical exercise above the more leisurely pastimes. And while I'd imagine he's awfully handy to have around when a girl needs an answer to the Super Saturday NYT crossword (though I can't imagine he'd ever read that pinko commie rag), I highly doubt he'd be up for shooting lay-ups in the driveway of One Observatory Circle. And as a woman who would much rather sip her Sunday coffee and suck down Cinnabons until her arteries exploded, I can't help but think Ranger Rich might be just the right man for my kind of blood sport.

3. Cowboy Cheney: The Washington Post's Bart Gellman didn't call Richard Bruce Cheney "the angler" for nothin. Born in Lincoln, Nebraska, and raised in Casper Wyoming, Dick Cheney was raised knowing how to tend a farmstead. I'm sure I'm not the first cowgirl to be taunted by his Rockey Mountain blues turned big city woes allure. His half-cocked smile and his standpat spurs really jingle my jangle. Gotta wonder where Veep 43 falls in the saddle vs bareback debate.

4. Angry Sex: A girl has to assume that any man so supportive of torture tactics in the interrogation chamber, must be a hell of a hair puller in the bedroom. A dance with Dick between the sheets gives a whole new meaning to deep vein thrombosis. Depending on where exactly he wants to attach the electrodes I just may be game. I mean if he asks me to wear a hood, I may require jewelry, but if waterboarding is an option, diamonds are definitely in order.

5. Guns and Butter:As a man who applied for and was granted five (I sense a theme here) deferments from military service in the Vietnam War, who could have guessed Cheney would become the ultimate war monger. He oversaw Operation Desert Storm during Daddy Bush's tenure and can arguably be considered one of the main influences leading Bushie Jr to hunt for Saddam like a cat in heat looking for a lamp post to hump. From his co-founding of the Straussian stroke-off group, the Project for the New America Century, to his frequent blind dates with Langley's finest when he convinced them to push aside their panties and pop their WMD conspiracy cherries, Dick did more for the military industrial complex than any other lone chicken hawk could hope to accomplish with some bad intel and a rope in the desert. I guess in the end, the derelict diva in me just can't help but want to fuck a man with such utter assurance in the veracity of his own beliefs. God only knows what I'd do to the old man if I had him all alone in a foxhole. Oh Dick, say we can be bunker buddies and do it doggie style while we plot the invasion of Iran. I'll let you Shiite mine if I can Shiite yours.

"Cowboys like smoky old pool rooms, clear mountain mornings
Little warm puppies and children, girls of the night
And them that don't know him won't like him and them that do

Sometimes won't know how to take him
Do things to make you think he's right

Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys
Don't let 'em pick guitars and drive them old trucks
Make 'em be doctors and lawyers and such

Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys
They'll never stay home and they're always alone
Even with someone they love" -Willie Nelson