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"Dick Cheney... and that's all I gotta say. Isn't it great that we've reached that point? You don't even have to say "Dick Cheney, the Vice President who shot his friend in the face while hunting". "Dick Cheney", everybody goes "Waha!" and we move on. He went quail hunting. Quail hunting! He went hunting for quail! You do not use the words "hunt" and "quail" together in a sentence! You don't hunt for quail! You might track quail, you might walk behind them, wondering "What kind of a miserable fuck existence do you have?!" THEY'RE THIS BIG! THEY'RE TINY LITTLE BIRDS! They barely fuck fly! And they clip their wings! They clip their wings, so they couldn't fly any higher than ten feet, are you fucking kidding me?! Unbelievable. And you shoot them with bird shot. Not like a BB gun, which would do the job. No, bird shot which is just a spray of fucking metal and shit, just... And then you gotta wait till the dust clears: "Did I hit anything?!" Going quail hunting is like saying "I'm going fishing," and going to a goldfish bowl and going "Got it!"... I, uh, am not a hunter. For those of you that probably thought "Wow, he'd look good in orange."
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"...in the bar, he treated me and all around us to a loud recapitulation, based loosely on the visas and entry permits in his passport, of the more scandalous elements of our life together. ‘New York, …"
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Music1917–1993
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