Dear Dick (Cheney): Advice From the Former Veep
Americans everywhere are relieved to hear that this week, after several years out of the spotlight, national treasure Dick Cheney has re-entered all of our lives with a scathing Wall Street Journal column on the current state of Iraq.
It’s so kind of Dick to reassume human form (he’s spent the past few years as a malevolent vapor, à la Hexxus from Fern Gully) and give some advice to President Obama. Apparently, eight years of backseat-driving the presidency wasn’t enough, and old habits die hard.
But what about the rest of us? We’d all love for our favorite war criminal who looks like a friendly boiled potato to weigh in on our issues. We need Dick. We are thirsty for his signature wit, warmth, and homespun wisdom. He is like a grandfather to us, the kind who seems like he should have died a while ago and yet stubbornly clings to life. Or, in Cheney’s case, relevance.
So here, for the first time, The Daily Beast is proud to present our newest advice column: Ask a Dick (Cheney), where real, everyday, imaginary Americans ask the man who, thank God, never was president, for advice how to handle their problems.
I’ve been married for three years. My husband is funny, kind, thoughtful, smart, and great with my family. Everyone always comments on what a great match we are. When we got together, we’d always discussed having children eventually. But every time I bring it up, he comes up with another reason to delay, mostly financial. Money is not a problem for us, but he seems to feel like unless we have $50,000 squirreled away, we’ll be bad parents. Dick, I’m 34 years old, and I don’t have forever! What should I do? How can I convince him that now is the right time?
I can’t wait forever,
Megyn in Minneapolis
Right now, you are showing weakness when you need to be demonstrating strength in the face of terrorism. Your husband is emotionally terrorizing you, and when you capitulate to him, your standing is weakened, not only in the family but throughout the free world. By tolerating this insult, you broadcast, loud and clear, that you are someone who can be bullied into submission by the court of international opinion. Because if you cannot defend yourself against babylessness, what can you defend yourself against?
There is just one move here: Form a vast, powerful Coalition of the Willing within the your home. Gather up everything, animate and inanimate, that may be on your side, including the dog, Sub Zero freezer, toilet, wallpaper, your friend who came by to watch The Bachelorette, etc. Stick googly-eyes on the things that don’t actually have eyes, just to reinforce the point that there is nowhere that he can go to escape your ironclad will.
Then, Phase 2: While he is sleeping, poke holes in the condoms and go sleep with his best friend. Announce to everyone the next day you are pregnant.
Your fetus will be greeted as a liberator,
I recently bought my first house, and while I knew when I got it that it was a “fixer-upper,” I’ve since discovered major problems that the inspector missed. In fact, it may well need a new foundation. Should I spend money that I don’t particularly have to fix it, or put it on the market and cross my fingers that the new owners are as naïve as I was?
David in Chicago
Let’s get one thing straight here: Whatever issues the foundation are experiencing come as a direct result of your own shortsightedness and inability to follow the courageous and sagacious vision of the previous owner.
Here you are, writing to a damn advice columnist, while you could be pouring everything you have into that foundation. You are willfully blind to the impact of your actions. Also, do you ever go golfing and/or talk about climate change? If so, stop and return your attention to the matter at hand. Each time you open your mouth about climate change, a new crack develops in that foundation because it is emboldened by your appeasement.
Now: What should you do? Declare a War on Foundations and burn the house down.
Works every time,
I just graduated and, despite the odds, have landed my dream job in the communications department of a nonprofit. There’s just one problem: My boss is a screamer. She is the “kiss up, kick down” kind of person and so is loved by all the higher-ups…and hated by all of us. Is this just what happens in the workplace? I love my job, but I hate being screamed at.
Elizabeth in New York
“Elizabeth,” is it? You sound like Pat Leahy. Is this you, Pat? Too scared to address me like a man? No matter. Whether or not you are indeed an effete, weak-chinned senator who wouldn’t know his ass from a well-engineered, profitable, energy independence-enabling hole in the ground, the fact remains the same: No one cares.
Go f--k yourself, again,