Why wait? Why talk? He waited because he didn’t want to talk. He talked because he could no longer wait.
Phenomenal may be the only suitable adjective to describe Vice Resident Cheney’s quail hunting accident and the attendant and untimely(?) disclosure thereof.
There are more views on this matter than in a kaleidoscope. I don’t think that “story,” “issue,” “scandal” or any other word can adequately characterize this…magilla. That’s it. Magilla. It’s the only appropriate descriptor because: 1) it has no official dictionary meaning, and 2) its meaning varies among readers. Besides, “magilla,” in essence, means the whole shooting match – excuse the pun. How could I resist?
Let’s see. Was it that he shot someone? Was it he didn’t tell his boss quickly enough? Was it that the national press failed to receive their “propers” in receiving initial word from the White House? Was it that a Republican partisan, owner of a 50,000 acre ranch on which the accident occurred, made the announcement rather than official government public affairs specialists? The answer to all of the above is yes. From my point of view, I can’t understand the hub-bub. After all, this occurred on a ranch that covered 78 square miles. That means about 36 miles of bordering perimeter. Can you imagine how long it takes to traverse that ground to reach the nearest pay-phone? Cell phones, as everyone knows, are outlawed during hunting outings because the periodic ringing scares away the quarry.
So how did all this go down? I think went something like this:
“Wow. That was a big one!”
“Er, Mr. Vice President. I think that was Harry,” said hostess Karen Armstrong from her quails-eye view, sitting in her nearby vehicle.
“Harry? You mean quail as so big here on your ranch that you actually name them?” Dick replied.
“No, no, no,” Ms. Armstrong, stuttered. “I mean Harry Whittington, the attorney you just met and who arranged for this morning’s meeting with that agent who sold you accidental injury insurance.”
“Oh,” the Vice President muttered. “Look. He’s bleeding. Call my medical team! Get him to a hospital quick. I don’t want people believing I’m some sort of cold, calculating, uncaring sonofagun.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything,” Karen reassured.
“I could use a drink.”
“Mr. Vice President, you had a beer at lunch already.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Maybe I should go to the hospital with Harry.”
“No. Don’t do that. People will recognize you.”
“Good thinking,” Mr. Cheney acknowledged. “Perhaps I’ll stay at the ranch and think this through.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” said Ms. Armstrong. “This has been a most traumatic event. You go back the ranch, but don’t worry about anything. I’ll take care of everything. Besides, dinner’s in a few hours and this sort of tragedy increases some folks’ appetites. Don’t worry. I know best.”
“But I probably need to do something.”
“Not at all, sir. I’ll take it from here. This was a hunting accident and many people, especially those in the national media, don’t know anything about the vagaries of hunting, birdshot, quail, or 50,000 acre ranches. Let me handle this. I understand it all and can relay the message in a homespun way. Trust me. Everything will be fine.
“Yes, but, what will people say?,” the Veep inquired.
“They don’t care. It’s a simple hunting accident. Accidents happen all the time.”
“But I’m the Vice President of the United States. It’s different.”
“Nonsense,” Karen spoke firmly. “It was an accident. An accident. Pure and simple. Tragic, of course, but these things happen. The sun was in a bad position and you didn’t know that Harry had left the main group. He really shouldn’t be chasing after quail anyway. A man of his age. What was he thinking? The only thing he would have caught was a cold!”
“But people will find out,” Mr. Cheney bleated.
“Not with the plan I have in mind. I have a friend at the local paper. She’s a solid reporter. I’ll tell her. She’ll report it. It’ll get picked up on the wire services and it will be over. Today’s Saturday – outside the normal news cycle. You’re covered.”
“I guess you’re right. I was going to call my press people and have them handle it, but you’re really quick on your feet. Seems like you’ve thought this through quite well. And, as you say, you know the reporters here.”
“That’s right, Mr. Vice President. We Texans are good, solid, regular folks.”
“But what about Harry? I hope he’ll be OK. There sure was a lot of blood.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Vice President. Head wounds are messy anyway. They bleed a lot, but it doesn’t mean anything. Now, Harry’s a tough old dog, just like all us Texans. He’ll be fine. Don’t worry about a thing.”
With that, the hunting party returned to the 50,000 square foot house on the 50,000 acre ranch and Harry went to the hospital. A wonderful dinner was had by all, except for Harry. And with all the day’s activity, everyone was exhausted, went to bed early, and slept soundly, especially the Vice President, knowing that his hostess would take care of everything.
So, that’s the story. Simple. Any questions?
Now, what about Homeland Security Secretary Michael Chertoff’s week? He appeared before a Senate committee to answer questions about his response to Hurricane Katrina.
Mr. Chertoff was shot at, too. Many times. But the Senators missed. At least, I assume they did. I didn’t see any blood. I wonder if the Secretary called the President right away to tell him how his day went on the Hill.
I guess there are some things we’ll never know. We’ll just have to leave them to our imagination.
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YETMO: “You’re Entitled To My Opinion,” A Balanced Point of View
Fred W. Apelquist, III, M.Ed.
Approximately 955 words
February 18, 2006