WASHINGTON (Reuters) – In the sharpest White House attack yet on critics of the Iraq war, Vice President Dick Cheney said on Wednesday that accusations the Bush administration manipulated intelligence to justify the war were a “dishonest and reprehensible” political ploy.
Cheney called Democrats “opportunists” who were peddling “cynical and pernicious falsehoods” to gain political advantage while U.S. soldiers died in Iraq.
What's really cool about this is, of course, that this screeching indicates how the tide has turned, that Dick Cheney's chickens
have come home to roost.
And it's no joke. An angry chicken? That pointy yellow beak? Hurts like hell! Cheney's poor old butt, no doubt all pockmarked even as we speak. Peckmarked.
With every nasty example of Projective Identification to come—and there will be plenty before it's over, each nastier than the last—just remember, project it right back out is what Broken Minds do, when they are confronted with the truth. Which, categorically, always returns, sooner or later, to bite them on the ass, even smarties like ol’ Dicky.
Who, I guarantee you, does not get it: Other people don't actually
like being lied to. Or tortured, or for that matter, dead.
A simple enough concept, sure—for you and me. But in the world of a Broken one like Dicky? That world, in reality, exists only in his head, and consists of his own malevolent interests and his only. Someone with Dick's deficit (has a certain ring to it) is not only clueless about lies, he cares even less. You aren't really there; in that smelly old chicken coop of a brain, the human presence of the Other doesn't exist. Only He, Who Is, of course, All.
I'm not sure
how he deals with He Who Is Also All, Rumsfeld. Give each other a pretty wide berth, do they?
When Powell let slip their nickname, that time in Paris, turns out they've been widely known as the Fucking Crazies in D.C. for thirty years. The crew that came out of Chicago, the Strausserians, it finally dawns on me, are not creations of the idiot-imperialism Strauss taught, but were attracted to that vision extant: so clean, so superior, so . . . master race. Every autistic's dream world, (actually, Aspergers in the middle-age male) but thank you Jesus, they seldom join hands to carry it out.
Here we have an example of what happens in the rare event they do. Individually, of course, this has always been the stuff of dictators and cowards: seeing other people as Objects, to be used toward their own ends. People missing the brain function of human empathy make
perfect little torture machines. Little Eichmanns: Who, me?
Condi buys shoes. Don declares to us all his sense of distance, his lack of connection to the sick and tortured detainees whose very condition he ordered. Wolfowitz absconds, no dummy he. And Cheney, well, you ain't heard nothin’ yet.
Because all those chickens he set loose under false circumstances are back home, squatting all over his office, shedding feathers, quarrelling, dropping atrocious turds, and expressing their fowl rage:
You let me get shot at, you son of a bitch? You dropped phosphorus on innocent Iraqi chickens? Take that.
Many a resentful “Ow!” has been emanating from the office of the Vice President of The United States of America. That lying, utterly without principle, inhuman sack of . . .
Now Zo, no more fowl language.
(Not bloody likely.)
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