Ann Coulter Makes Love To The President Of Iran

Mahmoud Ahmadinejad walked out of the bathroom of his hotel suite at the UN Plaza Hotel across from the United Nations. He wore a white terry cloth bathrobe. Mahmoud read the digits on the cable box clock: 9:08. The evening lights of Manhattan speckled through the floor to ceiling windows. The air conditioning was on, creating a consistent white noise that pleased Mahmoud. He had had an eventful few days in New York. Speaking at Columbia, where he made the University’s President seem like an ingrate. He was a tad irritated that his Farsi was misinterpreted. he had said that Iran did not have as many gay people as America, not that there were no gays in Iran. But this was not a problem. Americans were just primed to catch him in a verbal slip, even if they have to make it up. His speech at the UN was well received as far as he was concerned. So the trip, he thought of it as a vacation, was successful. Mahmoud thought that he would like to explore more of America at some point, but knew that if this was going to happen, it would probably happen only during his tenure as President of Iran.

Ahmad walked into the bedroom.

“She is here,” said Ahmad.

“She is early,” said Mahmoud.

“Should I send her in?” asked Ahmad.

“Yes,” said Mahmoud.

Ahmad walked out of the bedroom. Mahmoud felt his beard and opened his bathrobe a touch to give it a more relaxed appearance. And then she walked in.

“Hello your excellency,” said Ann Hart Coulter, wearing a simple black dress cut to above her knees, with a white pearl necklace and white pearl bracelet. Her very long pale legs were supported by black high heels just short of being stilettos.

“Please, call me Mahmoud.”

“Yes, of course. And you can call me Ann.”

“I understand you have expressed the opinion that Christians are perfected Jews. I agree with this,” said Mahmoud.

“Yes. The New Testament is a more highly evolved document than the Old Testament, a perfecting of the Hebrew Bible,” said Ann.

“Yes. And I might add that the Koran is a more highly evolved document than the New Testament,” said Mahmoud.

“Ahhh, Muslims are perfected Christians?” asked Ann with a smile on her face.

“Let us not dwell on our differences. Let us enjoy each other’s commonalities,” said Mahmoud.

Ann was surprised that Mahmoud’s English was so good. It had been an international secret that Mahmoud was fluent in spoken English, though he had difficulty reading it.

“The planet would be more perfect without Jews,” said Ann.

“I never said that. It is you who concentrate on the superiority of one religion over another,” said Mahmoud.

“So what are our commonalities, Mahmoud,” asked Ann.

“I understand you wish to make love with me,” said Mahmoud.

“What? I am offended. I am here to talk. To learn. Whatever made you think that I would want to make love with you?” said Ann.

“I am very sorry if I misunderstood your intentions,” said Mahmoud.

“You would not have sex with me anyway. You are a married man. And I am not a Muslim. So the point is moot,” said Ann.

“You do not know the Koran, a book that governs every aspect of my life. But there are varying interpretations as to the applicability of some laws when a Muslim man stands on non-Muslim ground,” said Mahmoud.

“Really. Like what?” asked Ann.

“I am permitted to have sexual intercourse with you in this bedroom right now,” said Mahmoud.

“Right now? You mean there is like a Koranic time loophole that has opened this evening,” asked Ann.

“Time and place,” said Mahmoud. “Please, remove your clothing. I would like to see your body,” said Mahmoud.

“I do not think so. This is totally ridiculous. I would never…”

“Please, please. You are very attractive. Iranian women do not have such blond long hair as you. I wish to see more of it. I wish to touch it. Consider it a place where our civilizations can come together. Do not be so prudish,” said Mahmoud.

“I am not a prude,” protested Ann.

“You are very thin. Your skin is very taught. Your eyes are big. And your voice quivers. May I touch your breasts?” asked Mahmoud.

“No. Absolutely…OK, look, you can touch my hair. You want to touch my hair?” asked Ann.

Mahmoud took a few steps toward Ann, who was six inches taller than the President. The President of Iran extended his right index finger and gently pushed Ann’s golden hair back behind her left ear. He then moved his face toward her and paused about an inch away. Ann’s eyes closed. Mahmoud closed the inch and kissed Ann on the lips. The kiss was long, and Ann responded by opening her mouth. Mahmoud’s arms slowly wrapped around Ann’s javelin frame and he pulled her tight as they merged their mouths as if eating each other. Ann placed her arms around Mahmoud. Mahmoud suddenly pushed her away and backed off. Ann’s eyes shot open.

“Never, never place your arms around me,” said Mahmoud.

“Sorry,” said Ann.

“Now we shall make love. Remove your clothes. Please, Ann. I ask you to share with me your passion,” said Mahmoud, recovering from his minor outburst in an attempt to salvage the possibilities.

Ann screamed and shot up in bed. It was a good scream, the kind that one would have if jogging themselves out of a wet dream, which is what Ann just did in the middle of the night in her bedroom. Wow, Ann thought. What a dream. She was breathing heavily and sweating. She turned to the digital clock on her night table which read 3:36 AM. Ann Hart Coulter let out a lungful of air and did not think she could get back to sleep. Not after that orgasm, which was one of the best ones she has had in a few years, she thought. Fuck it. She had to sleep. Ann was giving a speech tomorrow on the moral degradation of the Democrats and she had to look good and be on top of her game. Anyway, maybe if she was lucky she could return to that dream she was having. Damn that was a good dream. International sex, she thought, between two very intelligent and misunderstood people. Ann closed her eyes and lied back into her pillow and fell rapidly to sleep.

0 Comments | Stumble it! |

James Baker Wants To Spank Baby Bush

James Baker sat in a large dark red leather arm chair next to a fireplace that contained three logs. There was no fire going in the hearth as it was sixty-two degrees outside, and Baker thought it would be a waste of good lumber to burn the wood just for effect, even though it was Thanksgiving. Timothy, Baker’s grandchild of two years old, was playing with a Thomas The Tank Engine metal train that was hand-me-down from Timothy’s older brother. Baker could smell the aroma of the turkey cooking in the kitchen, and there was chattering of activity throughout the house, Baker’s kids, grand-kids, daughters and sons in laws, his own siblings and their spouses and kids. The house was an orchestra of family, the sounds as delicious as the meal being prepared. Baker was feeling content at having arrived in his mid seventies with a solid record of public and private achievements. Though he never thought of himself in these terms, the media and many had described him as a statesman. Baker thought this amusing given that his primary operating principal was honesty and humility, two attributes he considered lessons to be learned early on. And yet, the world seemed to have drifted into a morass of dishonesty and arrogance. And this, Baker knew, to be the case of the White House as well. Baker uttered these thoughts to his wife, and privately communicated the concern to his old friend George Herbert Walker Bush, the father of the sitting president. But he was circumspect about revealing too much. Though honesty was a governing principal, that did not justify communicating with a blunt instrument. Tact was part of the humility of life, that special place where one reserves the possibility that there was another point of view, a different legitimate perspective. Tact permitted others to open up, and such was the start of true communication.

So herein lied Baker’s problem. The truth, the honest truth was that Iraq was an enterprise that was now lost. Baker had no opinion whether the enterprise could have been a success if conducted differently. But he did know this: America could not stay in Iraq, and the sooner America withdrew, the better it would be for his country. But how to communicate this to President Bush in a manner that it would be heard. How much tact should Baker employ? And this was an important question because a mistake at this stage in Baker’s life might just define his whole life. Look what happened to Donald Rumsfeld, thought Baker. It no longer mattered that Donald Rumsfeld had a long history of service to his country, a long and distinguished career. That was now all forgotten, and not likely to be the part of his legacy that had any volume.

James Baker watched Timothy push the toy train on the plush rug. What kind of life would Timothy have? What kind of world had he left Timothy? Baker suddenly found himself getting angry. It felt like all the work of diplomacy he had done, all the work to erect an ethos of international discussion had been destroyed in just six years of Bush’s presidency. This was not just a matter of personal pride. This was a matter that affected Timothy, his two-year old grandson. James Baker adjusted his back in the chair and rubbed his neck. Tact. Was this a time for tact? Or was this a time for blunt language? Maybe Baker could get away with bluntness since it was bluntness that no one expected of him. Baker smelled the stench of incivility to the world’s discourse as he also enjoyed the aromas coming from the kitchen. Timothy and Thanksgiving. As he watched Timothy push the toy train o the plush rug without tracks, he wondered if the train had a set of toy tracks. Trains need tracks. And he would have to get this train on the right track.

0 Comments | Stumble it! |

George W. Bush Plays Chess With Osama Bin Laden – Part Three

Continued From Yesterday.

“I heard that you were dead,” said President George Bush.

“The game has just started. There is no reason to think I will lose,” said Osama Bin Laden as he adjusted himself in the chair and moved the tubes that came from the dialysis machine that was being operated by Osama’s doctor.

“What is that?” asked Bush.

“It is called the Sicilian Defense. Very effective,” said Osama.

“If it so effective, how come you never used it before?” asked Bush.

“Oh, but I have used it. Many times. Not with you, though,” said Osama.

“Sicilian? That’s an Italian thing,” said Bush.

“I suspect the Sicilians do not consider themselves Italian. The world is filled with human beings trying to identify with a clan, trying to separate themselves from other clans. It makes them feel special. To us, Sicilians are Italian. To Sicilians, they are Sicilian” said Osama.

“Well, you think that silly Sicilian pawn is going to bother me? I control the center. I control the center,” said Bush.

“And so you do. And so you do,” said Osama.

“How come you never move your king pawn on the open? How come? It’s standard. It’s solid. It’s tested,” said Bush.

“It’s boring and everyone does it. Chess is a game to be re-discovered with each new game played. Should never go with what worked yesterday. Never,” said Osama.

“But it is the center. You avoid the center. You avoid it,” said Bush.

“Yes. I avoid the center. I do not need the center to win. The center is for suckers, no disrespect intended,” said Osama.

“This is why I will win, Mr. Osama Bin Laden,” said Bush.

“Yes. It is good you think that. Keep doing what you are doing with the center, and believe firmly that you will win. This is good,” said Osama.

“You’re damn straight it is good,” said Bush.

“Yes. It is good. It does not matter that I have won the first four games. I think you are right to be firm with your approach to the game. It is a good approach. In fact, it is a sign of weakness that I keep changing my chess strategy. It clearly represents that nothing is working, that I lack confidence,” said Osama.

Bush does not know if Bin Laden was being sarcastic. But it did not matter. Bush believed in his strategy. He looked down at his board and tried to figure his next move. Hey, why try to figure it. he will do what he always does. So Bush moved his queen pawn one space, proetecting his king pawn. Tried and true. Solid.

Bush smiled. Osama smiled. Everyone was happy.

2 Comments | Stumble it! |

George W. Bush Plays Chess With Osama Bin Laden – Part Two

Continued From Yesterday.

As he sat there facing the bearded man who was studying the chess board, George tried to remember the Iraq War widow he met yesterday at the White House. She was young. And she brought photos of her two children, a son, 11, and a daughter, 7. The widow had long blond hair pulled back in a pony tail. She was in her thirties, George thought, and she was thin. Actually, she was quite cute. And the photos showed two beautiful kids, both with blond hair and big eyes. And of course the widow had to bring a photo of her husband, the one who died in Iraq three months ago nine miles south of Baghdad on a dusty road, a bullet to the brain. Unusual. A bullet from a sniper rather than a roadside bomb. The problem with the widow was that she was all emotional and came with a political agenda. George always risked this when he met with widows. They come to talk, he talks, he tries to make them feel better, and most do not bring up politics. But this one, though very nice and sweet, begged him to bring the troops home from Iraq. She asked her President nicely, George remembered, and she was crying at the time. She held the photos of her children and starting whispering to herself how it was hard to imagine that she would now have to raise the children without their father. She was babbling to herself about how she did not know what to tell her children. What was the death about? What was it for? Thankfully George did not have to address these questions because they were not really asked directly to him. The widow was more talking to herself, working it out with her herself. A personal thing she was going through. It was all very sad. But the thing that George noticed is that he did not cry. Oh at another time in his life he would have cried. Maybe even if he saw this scene in a movie he would cry. But not in the White House. In the White House, emotion was for sissies. He had heard that said by some teachers of acting. But this was not acting. This was not fiction. This was for real.

George’s thoughts of the war widow were suddenly terminated when the bearded man moved his black queen bishop pawn two squares forward.

What the hell? Every game the bearded man opened with something different. And George had never seen this before. Well, then again, George was not a chess player. So maybe this was a popular black opening. But heck, beardy keeps changing his style.

To Be Continued.

0 Comments | Stumble it! |

George W. Bush Plays Chess With Osama Bin Laden – Part One

George W. Bush always played white. He felt comfortable with white. The board made sense to him that way. He liked the king on the right. The right was far better than the left. And so he stuck with white. And he made his first move. It was always the same move: e2-e4. for those of you who do not understand chess notation, that was George’s king pawn moved two squares forward. It was a classic move, a chess opening done over and over again by millions of chess players today and yesterday. It was safe. And George always opened with it. He told himself to do what felt comfortable, do it again and again, and stick with it. Even when it doesn’t work. The problem was George had not won a chess game against this opponent in the last four games. This was the fifth game, and George was down 4-0. But that is OK. George felt comfortable. George felt secure. The chess board was familiar, though a field of play he was losing, he did not care. The king pawn two squares. Over and over again.

George’s opponent’s had an odor to him. There was a doctor standing to his opponent’s side with a cart containing a medical device that had tubes coming out and going in, two of which were attached to George’s opponent. George’s opponent had long black and grey hair with a long beard. A long face, a tall man, who sat in a slumped position. George did not like this man. But he was playing chess with him. He had to. It was his obligation, so he felt. The bearded man looked down at the chess board, George wiped his nose because the stench from the bearded man was distinct. It almost smelled like asparagus, or the smell of urine after you ate asparagus. The bearded man had large eyes that seemed to glisten from too much tear. The man was not crying. He just had watery eyes, thought George. George was hoping the man would be crying. He liked to think of his enemy as being in tears. George would not cry. He knew this because he met with an Iraq War widow the other day at the White House.

To Be Continued.

1 Comment | Stumble it! |