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Cheney pats Scott on the shoulder and hands him an expensive cigar. “Well,
what do you say, Scotty m’boy?” he says. But Scott, it seems, is still engrossed with the iguana being...milked...on TV. “Huh? What? No. No nachos for me, thanks.” “This is a cuban cigar, moron!” Cheney blasts back. “I’m offering you the Vice Presidency, whaddya say? It’s a pretty sweet gig. You don’t really have to do much but hang out at the white house, stay out of direct sunlight, drink the blood of virgins, and sacrifice a cat or two to Satan under the light of a full moon. There’s also that uh...tie breaky votey thingy in the Senate or something. Ooo! You get all the free towels you want, too! They got the presidential seal on ‘em and they’re really fluffy. Pretty cool. I managed to steal about five hundred of ‘em over the last eight years. They fetch a pretty high price on E-bay...”“Sure, sure, whatever,” Scott replies disinterestedly. “How do you think they do that?” he wonders aloud. Cheney’s brow furrows. “Do what?”Scott gestures at the TV. “THAT!” Cheney drools and twitches for a minute or two before answering. “Sorry,” he says. “Heart attack. Anyway, you were saying? Oh! Right! The iguana. That’s a good question! See, this is why I nominated you as my VP pick. Nothing gets by you!”“I mean, do iguanas even lactate?” Cheney rubs his chin thoughtfully as he mulls over the scientific query. “I’m gonna have to go with...no,” he finally hazards.Ten minutes later... Both Cheney and Scott are seated together on the couch, sharing a box of food supplies, entirely fixated on the images emanating from the television. Josh, feeling left out as always...
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10/5/2008 7:24:57 AM
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