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.…

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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.

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Cheney's Mistress' Diary, part 1

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 scurrilous, scatological, 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 & excoriating 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 Light 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.

Pamela Pitzer Willesford's Diary, Part 1

When I got the note from one of my secret love spies (Lottie Libby, Scooter's wife, who, by the way, steps out too) about GD's trip to Rolling Rock Game Club in Pennsylvania where he shot 70 semi-tame pheasants before lunch, I, ahem, dampened my Parisian couture panties. (Paris is so close to Bern, that capital of Swiss chocolates and more to the point my favorite Swiss bank.) I'm the one who nicknamed Dick, 'GD' as our love-code for Gigantic Dick (Truth isn't everything; staying alive is, as Eva would tell you.) The Secret Service even uses 'GD' now, as he includes quite a few of them in his harem.

GD has young George completely on a string. (Prezzie we call young Georgie when we giggle, GD & me, after you know what, our heads on the pillows and GD with his dentures out and his gums pinkly glistening.) Anyhow Prezzie begs to be one GD's mares, but GD tortures him by refusing this honor. Gigantic is so clever at torture. He was born to torture. In a past life he was Torquemada's shadowy more vicious advisor. So sexy. So sexy to hear him talk about the rack and the Iron Maiden, especially the ghastly impaling dirty version.

He calls me his Swiss Miss. It was my very veiled threat to go to the International Enquirer with 'Sex Secrets of Gigantic Dick' that won me The Plum – Ambassadress to Switzerland -- as they say in Ambassador Scam circles where the hardest decision any of us makes from day to day is between Krug Clos du Mesnil 95 and Cristal 1990 for that night's gala.…

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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 scurrilous, scatological, 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 & excoriating 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 Light 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.

Pamela Pitzer Willesford's Diary, Part 1

When I got the note from one of my secret love spies (Lottie Libby, Scooter's wife, who, by the way, steps out too) about GD's trip to Rolling Rock Game Club in Pennsylvania where he shot 70 semi-tame pheasants before lunch, I, ahem, dampened my Parisian couture panties. (Paris is so close to Bern, that capital of Swiss chocolates and more to the point my favorite Swiss bank.) I'm the one who nicknamed Dick, 'GD' as our love-code for Gigantic Dick (Truth isn't everything; staying alive is, as Eva would tell you.) The Secret Service even uses 'GD' now, as he includes quite a few of them in his harem.

GD has young George completely on a string. (Prezzie we call young Georgie when we giggle, GD & me, after you know what, our heads on the pillows and GD with his dentures out and his gums pinkly glistening.) Anyhow Prezzie begs to be one GD's mares, but GD tortures him by refusing this honor. Gigantic is so clever at torture. He was born to torture. In a past life he was Torquemada's shadowy more vicious advisor. So sexy. So sexy to hear him talk about the rack and the Iron Maiden, especially the ghastly impaling dirty version.

He calls me his Swiss Miss. It was my very veiled threat to go to the International Enquirer with 'Sex Secrets of Gigantic Dick' that won me The Plum – Ambassadress to Switzerland -- as they say in Ambassador Scam circles where the hardest decision any of us makes from day to day is between Krug Clos du Mesnil 95 and Cristal 1990 for that night's gala.[BXA]

Gigantic and I go at it hammer and tongs (He's into tools) while that drip Lynne and that triple drip Laura go some middle-class stud strip club, stuff twenties into jock straps, and giggle. Zippety do dah. Now Condi always has had Prezzie (&/or Laura) as a toy boy, but I do not know what she sees in him. He is so callow and prefers cuddling while sucking his thumb to any manly action. Ick. (Dick is nothing if not all manly action.)

I have a platinum key card to #1 Observatory Circle, the Veep Rez, and oh the raunchy times in the pantry off GiganDick's EOB office. Before I got the Switzerland Ambassador plum, my fondest memories are of our many rendezvous in the Executive Office Building, our EOB.

Now we mostly meet in St. Moritz for what I fondly call "our unspeakable acts." Yes, that where He is all those times they say he's in a bunker. A very posh bunker indeed, I can tell you with great, apparently inspiring, views of the Matterhorn. However, my favorite Swiss rendezvous is at RBA Zentral Bank at Lagerhausweg 10, one of the many banks where Dick has his own huge private vault of Halliburton cash, ever readied for the tryst. We meet there and frolic, not so clothed, in millions of thousand dollar bills, all new. $17,000 Champagne and bathing in billions – you have no idea the aphrodisiac that is.

Lynne hates me, but she likes her own perks too much to squeal. She shoots daggers at me when swan-like I am across the room at a White House bash and Dick takes little glances at me because he knows I have no knickers under the Dior couture and that Lynnie is a terminal frump. Do you wonder that he goes hunting with moi? At these White House soirees, we always skip over to the EOB for a quick prod before the soup is served. I have dozens of 'blue dresses.'

Unfortunately she found Dick scrawling a Valentine's card to "Pammie Pussums, my Bouncing Buxom Cowgal" and freaked out. Dick has her restrained and retrained in the Veep Rez Dungeon when she gets "miffy." My hubby 'Boots' Willesford III is just a convenient cover, el beardo. Like the good Texas ole boy he is, 'Boots' has always preferred she-hogs and sheep to women. "Jee-suss Kee-rist, Pammie, you ain't even as much fun as a pure-bred Cheviot," he said to me on our wedding night. I burst into tears as you might guess. Cheviots are sheep. 'Boots' is a gut doc, (a gastroenterologist) and makes lots and lots of dough, good for a cowgal from Breckenridge TX, a half-a-horse town if there ever was one. I hope 'Boots' makes the sheep happy. I couldn't wait to get to a different continent from 'Boots' and play dungeons and dungeons, Inquisitors and nuns, with the most powerful man whoever slouched on the Earth. So, who are you & who do you screw?

Yes, yes, so it's all ultra-kinky and deeply disturbed. But what might happen if I weren't willing to relieve certain pressures and tensions from GD? Then what? A floozy a day keeps the mushroom cloud away. All I'll get in history is tsk tsk and condemnation from the closet adulterers, but I may be single-handedly saving the world from final meltdown. You should hear Dick's schemes.

I remember the night I went to Medline Plus and looked up '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, I realized that I was dealing with a lot of danger to me and the world. Dick is deranged. I know that. But where do you think I could escape to? Once upon a time I thought I might go to wherever Bin Laden is hanging out as he seemed to be safe. Then Dick told me that they were saving Bin Laden for early September 2006 just in time for a boost to the midterm elections. What –- you thought they'd just sit there and take it in the shorts??

Of course by now you've guessed that Dick Shot Harry because Harry made lewd suggestions about his shotgun and me when we all got liquored up at lunch on 2/11. I laughed and flirted a little. Dick meant to shoot Harry even lower, if you know what I mean. Dick's the kind of guy who's a mean drunk even when he's sober.

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