Cheney, Halliburton Connection Under Close Scrutiny

uestions raised in the past week about the conflict of interests between Vice-President Dick Cheney and contracts awarded to his former firm Halliburton and its subsidiaries have given Democrats a weak spot in criticizing the information. The controversy rose to attention upon revelation that a 2-year contract with Halliburton subsidiary Kellogg Brown & Root to put out oil fires, repair the Iraqi oil infrastructure, and clean up oil spills could mean as much as $7 billion for the company, which Cheney was CEO of for five years before becoming the president's running mate.

The company denies any impropriety, despite senior Democratic Congressman saying the lack of any competitors and the multi-year nature of the contract is highly questionable. Halliburton spokespeople say the $7 billion return is a cap, and the real return will be as little as $490 million. The distinct sound of giggling was possibly in the background.

Deeper investigation has raised more issues with the Halliburton-Cheney connection. Subsidiary company Orlando-Dawn is the leading maker of yellow ribbons, and had been going out of business for nearly ten years before the Bush administration began its military efforts against Iraq, leading some Democrats to claim Cheney's manipulation has again resulted in increased profits for his former company.

Other beneficiaries of the Iraq war have been Keymint, makers of pro-Bush picket signs; Igog, makers of the "Dunk Saddam!" online video game; and the Stubborn Jackass country, which makes American flag-themed apparel and T-shirts reading "These colors don't run"—all Halliburton subsidiaries.

"It's hardly surprising our interests would match those of the Vice-President's," defended Halliburton spokesperson Mitchell Weeze, a tall oily guy on the thin side with a mysterious lazy eye. "Vice-President Cheney and Halliburton made for a mutually beneficial alliance because we believe in the same things—America, the military, and imposing justice on other countries. It doesn't mean anything improper occurred in the administration's decision-making or the contracts awarded our companies."

Harder to explain were other revelations later in the week, such as the contract proposed that Halliburton would paint the White House a new off-white eggshell color over the summer. The contract, which was discussed and had not been awarded yet, was even more questionable since none of Halliburton's subsidiaries are involved in professional house painting. An administration insider said the exclusive contract would have been for $120 million and would have required Halliburton executives to paint the White House over a series of weekends off the company clock.

The same insider, a man who identified himself as Donald Rumsfeld's brother Sammy, said perks of future contracts would include extra keys to the White House doors and the privilege of crashing in spare White House bedrooms whenever board members were in town—or on the floor, if that's cool with them.

Cheney responded quickly, with Cheney-grade antagonism.

"All of those purported benefits are completely, utterly fabricated," said Cheney in a press release Friday. "The deal was they could stay in the guest bungalow out back. If they think we're giving up White House bedrooms for less than 7-figure campaign donations, they're out of their corporate mind."

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It's been a long time since my work has seen the light of day. I managed to salvage the remains of this column from some of my old notes. Thank God I no longer carve my notes right into my skin, as skin deteriorates even faster than old celluloid porno films.

I finally got around to reading that book I bought last year. The experience was much more enjoyable than I'd been told it would be. I hate to ruin the book for anyone who hasn't read it, but it really was a shock to find out the tiger was a toy the whole time. That's right—the filthy little brat was lying to the reader the whole time. In the end, I liked it, but it does leave me dubious about reading that book I've been eyeing with the bald kid and his plane-flying dog.

If you could play any instrument in the world like a master, which instrument would you play? I would lay high odds you didn't say steel drum just now. But someone out there must be saying it. I don't see where all the steel drummers are coming from.

Where's that fourth Lord of the Rings movie we were promised? Let that be a lesson, Hollywood: Big-budget epics with funny characters and incredible special effects just aren't the American audience's cup of tea.

They say as many as 60% of the country's citizens are downloading movies illegally from the internet. Well, I'm not one of them, I assure you. Computers only want you to use them so they can fingerprint you and eventually replace you, and I'll have no part of that. No matter how tempting it is to see that Borat film without paying for it.

I just found out today that Cheez-Its are, in fact, cheese crackers, not tiny squares of real cheddar cheese put through some sort of ancient process to petrify them. Months of my life wasted on misapplied research! It's the Apple Jacks year all over again. Quit ending all your letters with that "Yours Truly" bullshit. You know you're not mine and if you keep pulling crap like that, you never will be.

Have you noticed heating ducts are never as big in real buildings as they are in movie buildings? I can't help but think it's a terrorist's dream. Any self-respecting undercover cop goes to hide in one, can't fit, and blam! Osama wins. I hope you people at the Small Duct Ltd. company are real fucking happy now.

You absolutely cannot fit a fully stretched-out body in most freezers. I wonder if the freezer manufacturers even considered this demographic when they designed the darned things. We're not all murderers, you know. Some of us are respected members of the work force who simply don't have time to run a found dead body down to the morgue at the drop of a hat.

Hum any song to yourself right now. Go ahead. I'll bet you one thousand dollars it's the theme to "Mr. Belvedere." And if it's not, I dare you to go ahead and prove it. You'll never get money out of me, stranger.

I've never seen a professional baseball player catch a ball in his mouth. What exactly are we paying these guys for? I can see any Sam Dandy anywhere catch a ball with his hands.

I would say the sixth best thing about being in a wheelchair is you don't fall when you walk on ice. Sure, you might slide a little bit, but chances are you're not going to land on your back. And of course, the seventh best thing is you don't bump your head on low doorways. You can probably figure the rest out yourself.

The next time you see a large glass window, jump through. You only live once, and glass just thinks it's so great.

No more today. My wastebasket is empty and the skin has all flaked away so I can't read my old notes.

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The jig is up, jig-lovers. After years of speculation, snooping, allegations, bribes, misinformation and games of inter-office dirty pool, it's time to let the cat out of the bag: I am the shadowy commune informant known as "Deep Omar."

True, this is hardly news to regular readers of my column, since I've been dropping hints to this fact for years, and even took the bagged cat out for a stroll a few years ago in my 2002 column "Deep Omar is the Chess Messiah". But as everyone knows, printing something in the commune is hardly the way to get the word out about anything, even to the commune staff themselves, and even when they're all eagerly snooping in hopes of cashing in on Red Bagel's $10,000 bounty for information about Deep Omar's identity.

But now I think it's time to get the word out to the world and let the healing begin. So in addition to writing this column, I've also added an "I'm Deep Omar, Bitch!" tag line to the end of my answering machine message. That alone has four times the word-spreading power of writing something in the commune, so I figure the word is as good as out there.

Because this world, and especially this office, has existed too long in the shadow of lies and deception. I'm tired of Ramrod Hurley claiming to be the leaker in a desperate grab for in-office street cred. And I'm bored of watching Ivan Nacutchacokov take a lie-detector test every time he comes in the office, because of Red Bagel's suspicion about his foreign-sounding name. Also, I needed that $10,000 to get the 8-track player in the Bricksmobile IV fixed since it's been playing Santana backwards for three weeks now and I get egged every time I drive past a church.

I know what you're thinking, why not go all the way and get a CD player put in? Well, you know Omar Bricks is all about that, but I think they just got 8-tracks down in Panama recently since this car isn't wired for that shit at all. The dude at Best Buy said the best he could do would be to upgrade to a record player, but I just don't think that would suit my driving style, which entails a lot of off-road shortcuts and a complete disregard for speed bumps. Plus, having my dashboard eject an LP would look a lot like some kind of weird robot giving me a black-licorice raspberry, and that's not a distraction I need while cutting through the Taco Bell drive-thru to avoid a light.

So in the interest of solidarity and personal finance, I marched into Red Bagel's office last week and spilled the beans that I was the one who had leaked the classified info about him coloring his hair. Not maliciously, of course, I always traded that info for cash or a get-out-of-jail-free card when necessary. And as I reminded Bagel, I only knew because Raoul Dunkin told everyone the same thing when he was drunk at the commune Christmas party back in '99 anyway; I was just the only one who remembered since I hadn't had any of the PCP-laced muffins from that hippie collective Bagel had hired to cater the thing. They had raisins in them, and Omar Bricks doesn't truck with raisins. Yuck.

As soon as he heard Dunkin's name, Bagel forgot he'd spent the last six years digging through the commune trash trying to find me, pushed a cashier's check across the desk and headed off in the direction of Raoul Dunkin with a cricket bat. Sorry, Assbag. But that's what you get for saying my car stinks like Doritos. Bricks out.

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