Saturday, June 24, 2006

A Love Letter To Osama

My Dearest Osama,

It has been weeks since we last spoke. Mere words fail to express how much I miss you and the despair I feel at the possibility of never seeing you again. I miss the scratch of your manly beard and the swishing sound of your robe. I mean, it isn't a dress, right? Only the manliest of men can pull that look off. I miss the smell of your unbathed skin and the feel of your hands on my body. Some women might find the feel of raw bone rubbing their skin painful, but no pain is too great when I'm with you.

I have completed the tasks you suggested. I have issued my own fatawa and have called for the killings of a supreme court justice and a traitor who thinks only of surrender in Iraq. Doesn't he know that the only reason I still have you to dream of is that war in Iraq?

If our nation hadn't deserted it's position in Afghanistan and started the holiest of wars against our brother Saddam in Iraq you might have been captured and I never would have the hope of one day seeing you again. As much as I hate to see brother Saddam sacrificed to the American devils, I fear it is necessary if I am ever to feel the heat of your body next to mine.

After our last encounter I feared you would turn against me. I knew that our separation, while necessary, would be difficult. Contrary to what you might have heard, Coulter Culture, does not refer to something growing in a petri dish. Rather, it refers to the messages of hate I must spread in order to direct attention away from you, my dearest.

If I am successful in turning the anger and hate of God-fearing Republicans against those infidel liberals then I might be able to keep them from turning it toward you, my sweet. You do understand why I must do what I do? My heart is full of love and goodness, but I must hide that if I am ever to join you again. I must continue on my path of vile, deceitful raging to keep attention on anything but you.

Oh, and that little thing with Michael Moore. It was nothing. A weekend fling. It was a momentary lapse. I don't know what came over me. One minute I was counting each of your ribs in my dreams and the next I was in an embrace with a man I loathe. Maybe it was the beard that reminded me so much of you or perhaps it was a momentary need to feel something besides bone beneath skin. I can only promise you it was fleeting and is now over. I am honoring the restraining order for fear that being jailed would keep me from reaching you.

In your last communique you didn't send your coordinates. I'm afraid the batteries in the GPS device must have died because I no longer find you on the radar screen mounted in my attic. You aren't trying to avoid me, are you binny baby? Am I hovering too much? Is it too much, too soon?

Please send me your coordinates as soon as you can. I must be near you. You know I would never betray you my dearest Osama. I will find a way to escape the bonds of this country and my book tour so that we can be together again. I only ask one thing of you, my sweetest, Osama. This time. Just this once. Can the camel sleep outside?




Anonymous Anonymous said...

WOW - cant beat-um join-um. So Kettle how black did you say the Pot was?

Why do people use "hate" to condemn "hate"?

9:52 AM, June 27, 2006  
Blogger B. Muse said...

It's satire. Do you not get satire?

Obviously, not. Let me try to explain. First, this is nothing, NOTHING like the hate that Ann Coulter spews.

She condones killing people. I do not. I make fun of her. That's not hate...derision maybe...but not hate.

Thanks for stopping by.

1:45 PM, June 28, 2006  

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