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Battlestar Galactica: Daybreak, Part 1 Discussion Thread | Main | Shay decodes Michelle Obama's body language in Robin Roberts interview
March 13, 2009

Now It Can Be Told: My Life As A Super Secret Stealth Assassin

Every once in a while, one of you barely literate morons sends me a poorly typed e-mail asking me what exactly I do in Washington D.C.

Until today, I blogged under the burden of having to preserve that terrible secret like a blogger burdened with a terrible secret to preserve. But thanks to the investigative work of Sy Hersh and the forum provided to him by Keith "Cornell Ag" Olbermann, I can finally come clean about my "work".

For I was one of the legion of super secret stealth assassins at Dick Cheney's disposal.

I know what you are thinking. "But Jack, you are far too handsome and funny to be a super secret stealth assassin. The best assassins are always the ones who blend into the background rather than those whose charisma and magnetism attract the attention of everyone in the room."

There is truth to that, I admit. My success in the genetic lottery has, at times, been a handicap in the field in which I labor. But like most Americans, I believe that hard work and perseverance can help one overcome any hardship.

But enough about me. You want to know what it's like being a super secret stealth assassin in Dick Cheney's employ. And I want to tell you. Which makes this post convenient for all of us.

I suppose the best way to go about describing my service to my country would be to actually describe my service to the country. So I will. Some of you may find the following to be unpleasant. Some may want to stop reading now to preserve your dainty- little -nancy- boy- "I know how to match throw pillows" -psyches.

Don't say you weren't warned.

January 16, 2008 dawned cold and icy. Cold and icy like one would expect in a place that was really cold and icy. Like Iceland.

A car was dispatched from the Old Executive Office Building in downtown Washington DC. 15 minutes later, it arrived at it's destination. I was not in this car.

I don't even know why I mentioned the car, really. It's got nothing to do with the story. It just seemed to add atmosphere. "Setting the stage" I think is what those homos who study theater would call it. But I wouldn't know. I'm a super secret stealth assassin, not a homo.

And, yes, the word assassin could serve to form the basis of a lot of gay sex jokes. I get that. Really I do. That it could serve to form the basis for jokes. That's what I get. Not gay sex. Trust me. Do not want. No matter how often Ace begs.

In any event, that morning my red phone rang. Yes, a red phone is corny. But you can't be a super secret stealth assassin without access to a red phone. It's in the handbook.

As I answered the phone, I heard a dark and sinister voice mutter words that would change my life: "Operation Emily's (Hartley) List is underway."

Suddenly, the room started to spin. I collapsed, only to find myself strapped to a gurney in a darkened room. Normally, I would have attributed this to the X wearing off, but my finely honed instincts instantly realized something was...different. I would later learn that those fateful words uttered over the telephone had triggered my subliminal programming, causing the years of CIA programming to override my conscious brain.

As I studied my situation, Cheney entered the room. "Agent Brutus," he said in a voice so chilling it hardened nipples as far away as Baltimore, "are you ready for your mission"?

A word about super secret assassin code names. Cheney selects those personally. To be honest I'm pretty embarrassed about mine. "Brutus"? Really? I feel like I should be at home watching gladiator movies instead of slaying the Vice Presidents most powerful foes.

But something people don't know about Dick Cheney is his powerful sense of irony. It drives him, really. Remember in 2000 when he chaired the group tasked with recommending potential Vice Presidential running mates to Dubya? And then that committee decided that the best potential running mate was Dick Cheney?

Irony. The guy lives for it.

Anyway, Cheney likes to name his most successful field operatives after historical "freelancers" who were able to carry out their mission without the support of the government. It's his way of trumpeting the efficiencies of the free market over that of centralized government, I think. Anyway, I was "Agent Brutus" in honor of the dude who waxed Julius Caesar. There were others. There was an "Agent Booth"and an "Agent Oswald", for example.

If he didn't like you though, you really got hosed with the name.

If you failed a mission? You were "Hinkley-ed" or "Squeaky Fromme-ed".

Trust me. You didn't want to be "Hinkley-ed" or "Fromme-ed".

Back to the story. "The mission?....ah...Operation Emily (Hartley's) List," I said regaining my senses. "Of course I'm ready."

"Then let's begin the briefing," Cheney replied.

And so, my dark lord's plan began to be revealed. I was to seek out and kill the Vice President's chosen target.

I was to kill Suzanne Pleshette.

OK, OK, I know you are wondering what the hell the vice president had against the actress from "The Bob Newhart Show." I didn't get it at first either. But then, I'm not a man as practiced in the art of statecraft as Dick Cheney.

I suppose the quizzical look on my face startled Cheney. After all, had I not been the same field agent who had knocked off Soviet Leaders Brezhnev, Chernenko and Andropov back when Cheney was just a lowly Congressman from Wyoming? Why should I flinch at this relatively easy mission?

Fortunately, Cheney simply grined at my consternation. He dispatched an aide to retreive his pet white Siberian Tiger, Blofeld, (did I not say he was all about the irony?) and stroking the tigers fur he offered his rationale.

"Agent Brutus", he cackled, "I can tell you are wondering why I have a vendetta against Suzanne Pleshette."

"Yes," I replied.

"You see....or perhaps you don't.....Suzanne Pleshette is not my real target."

"No?" I asked quizzically. But not questioningly. One does not question a man who has legions of super secret stealth assassins like me at his command. Unless one wants me to kill them. And I really didn't want to be ordered to super secret stealth assassinate my ass. So I settled on quizzically.

"My real target is Bob Newhart."

"But why?" I wondered aloud. (Remember, one does not question Dick Cheney). "Hasn't Bob Newhart entertained millions of Americans for the past 40 years?"

"Ahh.....you are wise to couch your question in terms of 'wondering aloud'", the rampaging Cougar man explained.* "Musing is also permitted."

"Then why?", I mused.

"I'll tell you why. I was ordering the overthrow of several small central American governments the other night, and I got bored. I mean, if you've backed one military junta, you've backed them all, right? I called up the State Department, but they were typically clueless. I really hate those fuckers by the way. Major assholes.

Anyway, with nothing else to do and Dubya refusing to give me access to the codes that would usher in the nuclear armageddon that would give my life meaning, I flipped on the Tonight Show, and who did I see on it?"

"You got me. You don't pay me to watch the Tonight show. Oh...did I say 'you don't', I meant 'you couldn't'," I answered.

"Bob Newhart. And you know what he was doing?"

"I told you I didn't watch it."

"Just testing you, m'boy" the VP said through his crooked grin. "He was doing that 'telephone bit' again."

"Excuse me?" I wondered aloud.

"You know, that stand up bit where he pretends he's on the telephone. He engages in an imaginary conversation for like 20 minutes."

"Yeah, I've seen that. But not on the Tonight show! On YouTube I think. When I was searching for a clip involving lace wigs and hentai porn and accidentally stumbled over it."

"Well I CANT FUCKING STAND THAT BIT!," Cheney shouted. Actually erupted is a much better term. When Cheney gets mad he transforms into a man mountain of seething magma, pulsating wildly like a volcano with arrhythmia.

Wow. I just read the above sentence again. That's pretty fucking gay for a super secret stealth assassin to write. If anyone asks, I'm gonna say I plagiarized that description from Gabe. Gots to keeps my cred with the ladies in the hizzouse. Holla!

Cheney continued, "That jackoff has been milking the same routine since I was a boy, and the Kaiser ruled Prussia with a gentle, dare I say, benevolent, iron fist! The Kaiser was a pussy, but God how we loved him anyway."

"Then why kill Suzanne Pleshette?" (I mused it this time. I'm a muser. And a muse. You should see my fan mail!)

"Don't you see...it will send a message to Bob that he needs to GET OFF THE FUCKING PHONE AND WRITE SOME NEW SHIT!. Don't get me wrong. I love Bob. We were in the same Secret Society of Stonemasons pledge class. But sometimes, the guy can be a little stubborn."

"And when I kill Pleshette....."

"The sonofabitch will be back on the air with a new TV show faster than I can inflate Halliburton's balance sheet with illegal government contracts. And no one will think to suspect me! As far as anyone else knows, the person I really hate is the chick who played Joanna Loudon in that phony Newhart show. See, they know this because I had the words "Joanna Loudon must die" subliminally broadcast in my 2004 debate with that adultering powder puff, Edwards. You always have to cover your bases, m'boy."

And so I went out to kill Suzanne Pleshette.

Who, coincidentally, died a couple days later of lung cancer. I didn't even have to lift a finger.

But I was prepared to do so.

Because I was a super secret stealth assassin in the employ of Dick Cheney.

And because Sy Hersh paid me $2.5 million for this story. It should be appearing in a future issue of The New Yorker.

Don't forget to look for me on Countdown! That Olbermann will believe anything!

*See Mission #1: Dick Cheney Assassinates all of Mexico/Night of the Rampaging Cougar man.

digg this
posted by Jack M. at 07:24 PM

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