Vice president must have called shotgun

I don’t know what the fuss is over the vice president shooting a pal during a quail hunt.

People get shot all the time because of Dick Cheney.

Even so, the entire country is fixated on what took place last Saturday on a Texas ranch. Disaster struck while Cheney and Harry Whittington were road hunting, a sport still popular with redneck poachers and the lazy-ass rich.

During the excitement of getting out of a car with loaded weapons, Cheney somehow mistook the 78-year-old Austin attorney for a bird.

(In Cheney’s defense, the old coot does have serious crow’s feet.)

At any rate, our runner-up commander in chief discharged his scattergun, which, according to a news report, “peppered Whittington with birdshot.”

Peppered?

Sounds more like “assault and peppered” to me.

Numerous pellets struck Whittington in the face, neck and chest, making this the first time Cheney has ever caused a millionaire some pain.

In response to the shooting, Homeland Security agents immediately upped America’s emergency color code index to a full state of “hunter orange.”

To interject a historic side note, did you know Congress actually had the foresight to address this very scenario in our Order of Succession?

I quote: “In the case of a vice presidential hunting accident, it shall befall upon the speaker of the House to gut and field-dress the victim.”

Fortunately there was no need for any carcass skinning due to Cheney’s obviously miserable aim.

Not long after the shooting, the vice president visited Whittington in the hospital. Cheney, I’m presuming, used this occasion to comfort his wounded prey and make sure everybody has their (wink-wink) stories straight.

DICK – “So, Harry, I just wanted to stop by and tell you how badly the administration feels about you shooting yourself.”

HARRY – “What? That’s not what happened.”

DICK – “There, there Harry. You’re all hopped up on the goofballs. You’re understandably confused. Try to remember how you grabbed my shotgun, stuck it at your face, took off your boot and pulled the trigger with your right big toe.”

HARRY – “What? Are you nuts?”

DICK – “Harry, see that burly guy guarding the door over there? That’s Tom. I don’t want to have to spell it out for you. But Tom is with the CIA. He’s here to make sure your memory improves.”

HARRY – “You mean?”

DICK – “Yep. Tom, Dick and Harry will have a meeting and finish the job.”

HARRY – “Now that you mention it, I do seem to recall how this was all my fault.”

DICK – “That’s my Harry.”

My guess is that this will all blow over in a few days. Think about it. It’s not as if a real person got shot – it was just a lawyer.

There goes tort reform.

I’m not saying that it’s OK to bag a barrister every few minutes when the mood strikes us.

There should be a process whereby an outdoorsman can apply for a special permit to go with a hunting license.

Oh, don’t worry. I’m not going to use Whittington’s misery as a way to take a few cheap potshots at lawyers.

Like how Rule 10 of the new Lawyer Hunting Law would require stuffed or mounted attorneys to “have a state health department inspection for AIDS, rabies and vermin.”

Nor will I tell you that this crass lawyer joke and many, many more can be found on the Internet at www.ahajokes.com.

Lawyer bashing would be taking the low road and that’s not my style.

Besides, in the grand scheme of things the world is filled with far bigger dangers than bird hunting with Dick Cheney.

Having Ted Kennedy drive you home, for example.