All good things must come to an end; they can’t last forever. These past eight years have gone by in a flash. It seems like only yesterday you were looking over George’s shoulder at his first inaugural, silently saying the oath of office to yourself as George said it aloud, mouthing those immortal words knowing full well you’d be the one doing the real “Presidentin”, as George liked to say. What a great maneuver. How did you get yourself appointed to the office of V.P., or, as you liked to call it, “Virtual President.” What a great feeling it must have been to know that the next pork chop might be your last. What’s an eighteenth cardiac infarction amongst friends, right? It takes all the pressure off making decisions based on future plans. What future? To be able to do what ever the fuck ever you wanted, day or night, for eight years, gives even me a small yet substantial woody (SYSW). When you said “fuck you” to that senator at that photo op, I almost came in my pants, or as I like to call it SYSW + (no really, it was close). When your friend got in the way of a good shot on that hunting trip, you just said to yourself “well, I’ll make sure he doesn’t do THAT again”.

POW!

All of us NRA guys understood.

Haliburton got it all, and damn the liberatards. It’s not like you had to worry about public opinion! I’m sure when you watched protests of the Iraq war on TV, you said out loud “It IS all about the oil idiots” with that wonderful little crooked smile of yours. To have the power of the Presidency of the largest economy on earth, without the little hassle of being “elected”, must have given even your ailing ticker a little jump, eh? You always did what was right—for you, and that takes a real man.

Well, we’re all glad you “made-it”(literally) to this point, even though you had us worried there a few times, like in 01’, 02’, 03’, 04’ etc. You got to stay out of the hospital, because that place will kill ya fer sher. I guess you will now go do whatever retired Darth Vaders do: you will mount your trusty wheelchair and roll away into the sunset giving the world the proverbial finger, as we real men say “Thank You, Mr. Virtual President; may we have another?

For eight years, WE were in charge, and it felt good. Now that “That One” is in charge, and our V.P. is just a mindless puppet with terminal foot-in-mouth disease, all of us “men” will just tuck our penises between our legs and limp our way through the next administration. Who knows, maybe we can get the ‘Nuge to run for President in 2012 and I could maybe, just maybe…

Indeed, Mr. Cheney, perhaps I can be trained in the ways of the dark side; heed the call of the Sith Lord. Hmmmmmmm…

And you, old friend, we will watch your retirement with great interest.”

Yours Unruly

Goomis E. Kyaam