Cheney's Mistress,
Pamela Pitzer Willesford's Diary pt 2 ..
Pamela's Pomeranian
Pamela Pitzer Willesford was the Third Huntress on 2/11 When Dick Shot Harry on the vast Armstrong Ranches in South Texas. Indeed, Pamela P. Willesford, Ambassadress to Switzerland, was the closest witness to The Deed. Ms. Armstrong was so far away, she thought Mr. Cheney had been felled with a heart attack instead of his having blasted Mr. Harry Whittington in the face and chest with a shotgun.
Note: This material is extremely scurrilous and scatological, remarkably tasteless, and rife with raunch and contumely. If that ain't your cuppo tea, I implore you to skip it.
If it weren't of such excruciating historical significance I would never print such nouveau faux upperclass smut. And this is the redacted version. For the unexpurgated filth and mindblowing world domination schemes, enter your ycn, yocto-code-number in the usual place.
A copy of this was sent to me by Mr. Azul, a whistleblower in deepest cover as a servant for the Darth family. ('Darth' is the zetta-secret Knights of Jest cryptonym for Mr. Cheney.) Mr. Azul has been Darth's valet for decades. The mole of moles, it is the most dangerous job in the world. Like copying the Pentagon Papers, copying Pamela P. Willesford's Diary entails an ultra-risk that neither you nor I can shudderingly imagine.
Don't birdshot the messenger aka Don't be shooting the messenger – at least not in the face and chest. (read first Pamela's Diary, part 1 )
Pamela Pitzer Willesford's Diary pt 2 ..
Pamela's Pomeranian
How will anyone ever forgive me!!?!! This struggle between moi and GiganDick may incinerate the whole world, but I have my pride & GiganDick's horrid little henchmen have Marshmallow, my prize Pomeranian.
GiganDick wants disgusting favors to which I said No! and then they stole my fluffy sweetums Marshie. When GiganDick gets denied, his 'condition' gets exacerbated – he starts raving about dune snakes and Conplan 8022 and B61-11s (nuclear-tipped tac nukes). We were having one of our romps in the RBA Zentral Bank private vault knee-deep in Halliburton billions when he, buck-naked, a tripod, so visibly manly, looks at me with that sweet little sneer and says, "I'm gonna bust their bunkers and their balls over there in Tehran, Pammie, and ain't nobody gonna stop me. I will rain tac nukes down upon their sinning, heathen bunkers until they scream Uncle, Uncle, Uncle Sam!" When GiganDick gets moody, I know some country's got to pay.
I looked up the tactical nukes and my God, I'm very afraid. A tactical nuke is about 1/3 the yield of Hiroshima. Nobody, even Karl, as nasty a bit of business as I've known since I was born, dares speak up to GiganDick. Not even the Gorgon Babs Bush, who looks like she has fifty writhing snakes for hair and is the coldest, most self-impressed woman I ever met, dares naysay GiganDick.[bxA]
Karl is walking botulism, utterly sadistically toxic. Once at one of GiganDick's orgies, Karl got flattened on Utopias beers at 100 bucks a bottle and Duoro River Fladgate Port at 100 dollars a glass – it's fortified with peasants' blood or some such. He told me that when he was five years old, he realized that he'd been born on December 25 and that he was the Anti-Christ. It was his duty to hurt and ruin people to soften them up for God's lidless-eyes interrogation in the Last Days. "Besides," he said with the reptilian little thin-lipped grin in his cherub face, "It's fun causing pain." He likes people to know that it was him who ruined them and that they cannot lay a finger on him. He's a genuine creep. But he can't call out the bombs like GiganDick.
I'm actually pretty deviant myself and I and GiganDick get up to all manner of no good, but this new disgusting stuff he wants to perpetrate with me is just too sinful for even someone as steeped in sin as moi. I mean I actually love it when we gallop along with GiganDick in the saddle while he brandishes his precious Brescia Perazzi 28 gauge hollering, "Bombs away!" I like it when he growls, "I'm your Robust Nuclear Earth Penetrator, Pammie!" Of course he was never actually in the military, but he sure like to play General Dick and Army Nurse Pamela. Now these little games (Lynne is terminally dull dull dull) used to keep him a little defused out on the world-conquering front, but since he blasted Harry with birdshot for flirting with me and I won't participate in these new perversions, he's gotten dangerously restless and even more peevish than usual. Last week he sent me one of my darling Pomeranian Marshmallow's paws in one of those velvet jewelry boxes in which you expect a big diamond ring, which I did.
Marshie's paw!! Both Iran and I are in deepest doodoo. There is nothing whatever Iran can do, no submission, no capitulation servile enough. If you aren't a eunuch, forget it. They are doomed. The world can cry out. The American people (those sheep -- unlikely to do more than whatever the baaa equivalent of whimper is) might be aghast. Only I could stop him or slow him or divert him, but he cut my Pomeranian's paw off and wants to make me watch and join activities I refuse to. WMD = Wickedly Mutilated Dogs.
////Yes, dogs. Now I've learned that GiganDick has a kennel of important dogs. Oh my Lord Jesus Christ, I went thru GiganDick's briefcase while he was getting his post-coital massage at The Sanctum at our pet Borgo La Bognaia, the 6-star resort so exclusive that only billionaires and their hotsie tarts get to stay here. No wives allowed. So, I'm not so young and bimboesque, but I can hunt quail and he likes his gals to be good, ahem, with big guns.
He has got this whole kennel of 3-pawed important dogs. JCS chief General Peter Pace's poodle pup is there. Rove's Rottweiler. Condo's Borzoi. Colin's Chihuahua. Scooter's Schnauzer (who lost a second paw after the Plame Leak court filing last week!) GiganDick's got Polaroids of the dogs in various states of mutilation. It's like Abu Canine. He sends audio tapes of a CIA interrogator saying "Here, Marshmallow, here Marshmallow," and then the horrific doggie screams as they hack off the first paw. Then you hear the officer say, "Cauterize that wound, soldier. We don't want it to die. The VPOTUS may need more paws from this animal."
GiganDick has clearly gone from bonkers to berserk. Only a gigagenius of evil would conceive of kidnapping people's dogs. People might sacrifice a child to the nobility of saving their country and/or the world and tell the truth anyway, but sacrifice their dog? Never. The covert kennel is in Easton, Maryland in the basement of the Tidewater Inn where Robert Mitchum drank himself blotto for a time and where on white starched-linen tablecloths, you can be served bowls of thick, greenish sea turtle soup for your hangover.
GiganDick plans to do both Iran and NoKo (North Korea) on the same night with "a blizzard of tacs." He shouts, "I'll cut the nuts off Mahmoud and Dear Leader Kim with one sword," as he struts himself nekkid in front of the mirrored wall of our secret Site R suite in Sabillasville, Maryland, the under-the-mountain city where our Leaders go "to copulate and contemplate," as it's said by the servants behind our backs. The really Enormous Cheeses like GiganDick, Karl, Condo, Donnie walk around the underground city naked. GiganDick carries a riding crop to instill discipline among the minions. Under Raven Rock Mountain is the ultra-luxurious Safe Haven for when the Bad Guys Drop The Big One. There are gold-fringed American flags jutting out above the headboard of our big round bed. All the hand-painted wallpaper is huge American flags with huge portraits of GiganDick being gigantic on every wall that's not mirrored. There are slave-artists kept in the Site R dungeons to perform enforced decorating tasks. Some people you think are dead are down there. They cloned Norman Rockwell and they make him paint their portraits for their rooms. (Norm2 told me, "I should have been a lot edgier when I had the chance. I got hooked on that Saturday Evening Post covers money.")
(Oh my Lord Jesus Christ, I hear GD coming down the hall. It's a clumping shuffle with a kind of snorting and slurping that he's learned to disguise in public.) Iran has got him crazy. He salutes himself in the mirror, naked and, ahem, manly, and shouts, "I'll show those un-American bastards who not to jerk off."
a Note from Mr. Azul came in this package.
Friend Fleet, in haste – Here's the next shipment of Pamela Pitzer Willesford's Diary. She hadn't known about the dogjacking operation -- K9 Insurance, Leverage and Liquidation, KILL. I didn't have the heart to tell her. Then VPOTUS had her adorable little fluffy Pomeranian, Marshmallow, snatched to keep her from blowing the lid on the Iran Plan . (VPOTUS requires the servants in private to leave off the 'V' and just call him POTUS.) I heard VPOTUS snickering and sneering it up with KarlBoy about "curtising that upstart Iran with tacs and spaying Dear Leader at the same time." (Re 'curtising,' remember General Curtis LeMay was the genius who called for 'bombing Vietnam back into the Stone Age,' becoming a hero with ostrich huevos for Cheney et Ilk back when.
Vice and KarlBoy do an unseemly amount of hammer & tonging, by the way, often yelling, "In Jesus' Name" at what one assumes are the apogeetic moments. I find religious perversion especially unsettling tho I am certainly not religious myself -- having seen up close the hideous hypocritical harm it can lay waste with. No way one remains religious after you've seen what religionism has done to this crowd. Give me a crackhead over a christhead any day. Poor, sweet Jesus is utterly absent around here, to be sure.
I don't know how you get the word out on how avalanchingly dangerous it's getting now that they're feeling cornered. For awhile I thought that Mrs. Pamela could mitigate some of Vice's pyre of ire and insane moods, but now it's all drumbeat of bombing, tacs this & tacs that. They're all obsessed with 'tactical nukes' which is perhaps the ultimate euphemism and delusion – like 'smart bomb.' "We're gonna show those sandeaters who's boss," Veep utters or mutters a dozen times a day.
Sometimes I wish I weren't a certified shrink with a sheaf of putatively prestigious degrees. Recall the definition of 'paranoid schizophrenia': "In this type of schizophrenia, the individual has feelings of being persecuted or plotted against. Affected individuals may have grandiose (over-the-top) delusions associated with protecting themselves from the perceived plot.
"The key symptoms are delusions and/or auditory hallucinations. Paranoid schizophrenia usually does not involve the disorganized speech and behavior that is seen in other types of schizophrenia. Patients with paranoid schizophrenia typically are tense, suspicious, guarded, and reserved."
Well, Veep and KarlBoy are both meganoids – meganoid schizophrenics. The reason this kind of megalomadness is so very hard to detect is that their own delusions are so self-consistent, so self-coherent that they seem more convincing, more truthful than a normaler person whose version of anything is tinct with a few hesitations and doubts. These Ilk are 100% doubt-free. Does God speak to you? Their versions of things are made radiant, illuminated by the pure testostermoronic patriotism and religiousism drugs they inhale, ingest, and swill 52/365.
Their conviction gave the country a contact-paranoid-high. Rather than hypocritical, they are insane. They drink their own koolaid and do chasers of their own snake-oil.
For the time I stay safe by portraying a perfect stupid, devoted shuffling obedience. To them, all servants are invisible and being black doubles my invisibility. As long as I say "Yes, Massah" and keep my eyes sufficiently submissively downcast, I should stay stealth.
They'll get me of course, as they will you. We're doomed. But maybe we can give some courage to some undeluded militant pacifist rebels on the way out. The Old-Lace Option crosses my mind with increasing frequency. But they've made The Menace so hydra-headed, where does one begin, or end?
It dismays me, Fleet, that people get so disgusted up about the hideous things these SansSouls do to dogs, but barely ruffle a feather at the incendiary rending wrought upon children. 'Collateral damage' thinking. It stinks.
Do not doubt, by the way, that Cheney Reigns with his Prince of Vicious, KarlBoy, as his henchboy-in-chief. But Barbara Bush is the Queen of Nasty. I can see where the vacuous Prezzie gets his essential meanness – in all facets of that word. The clueless hubris of the nouveau riche.
Stay alive, Fleet.
Mr. Azul
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Notes:
VPOTUS is a Secret Service acronym for Vice President of the United States;
Old Lace Option – cf Arsenic & Old Lace;
Militant Pacifist – my favorite teeshirt. Pacifism in its strong, in-your-face mode;
The formal definition of 'paranoid schizophrenia' is from Merck Source.
