The Boot Descends on DeLay

The light is flicked on, and the Giant Flying Cockroach, Tom DeLay, scurries for cover, first under the Terri Schiavo feeding tube, and then under the bench of the judiciary. Neither was protection enough, and he next scrattled (love that verb!) across the hard lineoleum to flatten himself under a congressional inquiry of the Schiavo case. No good. Well, at least back in Sugarland, his constituents still love him for his values.

Or so he thought. Today, Zogby polls show that more Sugarlanders would vote against his renomination or reelection (45%) than still support him (38%). He stands suddenly frozen in the middle of the kitchen floor, the last cover rolled out from over him and all he sees is baseboard and two heavily shod feet. One waffle-soled boot is lifted high above him, its shadow suddenly eclipsing the flourescent overhead light that makes his rancid pallor even more yellowish.

And the wearer of this boot? Why, it's Dick Cheney! And, of course, where Dick stomps, little Georgie will be close by, clapping his little hands together and jumping for glee at the sadistic pleasure of watching DeLay's arthopod shell crack and press into the brown goosh the oozes onto floor and into the lugs of the bootsole.

"This is better than blowin' up frogs with firecrackers or electrocutin' them innocent people!" Georgie screams while he hops foot to foot in his dance of death. "Go Unka Dick! Stomp him! Stomp him!"

So much for the vaunted loyalty of the Bush clan.