So, does Dick Cheney actually deserve a new heart? The miserable bastard is 71. I lost my parents when they were both 70, so I've always called that young. But Cheney has been polluting the political landscape for so long, you must excuse me for thinking he's over a hundred by now.
There will be much mucking about over whether he jumped the list, and of course he did. That 1% get to do things like that, and I'm only surprised he didn't go to a high school football game and rip the still- beating heart out of a winning quarterback.
Everyone should get their licences out right now and sign the things. Give over. The waiting lists are ridiculously long, and holding on to the bits you no longer need is like people who hoard cats or fill their basements with enough laundry detergent clean a mine shaft.
I don't know that my spare parts would be of much use; if someone woke up with my eyes, they'd probably be pissed that they would now need Lasik if they actually wanted to see anything. My liver has been valiant, but years of prescription drugs have no doubt punched some holes in it. Then again, if my liver woke up in a new body it would probably start dancing.
Speaking of dancing...nobody would want to come around to find my two left feet newly attached. My training is going well, but I haven't actually started the dancing part yet. Adam Higson, my awesome trainer, is creating a silk purse out of a sow's ear. When I marvel that I'm getting little lines on my belly, he grins and agrees then reminds me even he can only do so much, because I'm old. Yes, he says that. To repay him, he tells me all the food I should be eating (and not eating) and I keep doing what I want. We've coined a term: Body by Adam; the rest is my fault.
My heart is well used, but I'm sure it would be worth plugging into a new home. I'd like it to be a nice one though, and I wonder if whomever's is thumping away in that old war-mongers chest might be having second thoughts.
I would like my parts to be adopted out like kittens: only to good homes.
On my Twitter just now, I pondered if now that Cheney had a new heart, was George W. wondering where he was on the list for a brain? Someone cast Karl Rove as the Cowardly Lion, and we were wondering if Condi would make a good Dorothy. Someone else decided Rumsfield could be the wizard: all I know for sure is that the flying monkey cast could be filled instantly.
I think of the mess left behind by this squad, as they fartarsed off into the sunset with their dance cards filled and their pockets lined. I think of the millions of Americans with blown apart lives, trying to live in bankrupted cities and states. I think of the lack of trust on all sides, now, and deservedly so. What was once a noble calling, perhaps, this public service, is now just an opportunity to turn the tide long enough to get your own boat to safe harbour, then let the rest duke it out for scraps. In my own country, I'm dismayed by the lot of them, frankly. A king with no heart presiding over a sidewalk game of three card Monte.
With the tide of woman-hating taking place south of us, and leaking up here, I watch Santorum desperately trying to reduce women's health to some medieval view of Men Know Best. I swear the only war room discussions the far right have about women is to wonder why the hell anyone let them vote in the first place.
Too bad we can't sign our organ donor cards to hand over a conscience.