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Ask Aunt Sophie By: Judith Weizner
FrontPageMagazine.com | Thursday, May 26, 2005


To the Aunt Infidel Whore-Sow,

I was once the beloved leader of a large Middle Eastern country but now I am in this stinking pit of a jail with Americans all around me. How I hate them! And they hate me, too, even though I was sure that if they had enough time they would grow to love me as much as my countrymen all did.

I know they hate me because one of them took a picture of me in this snake hole washing my socks. Now these pictures have found their way into some newspapers and people are laughing at me. At me!

 

What is much worse, there are pictures of me in my underwear. It was never known before whether or not I wore boxers or briefs. World leaders do not allow speculation on such subjects. The worst thing about this is that my prowess and my dimensions were once legendary, but the American monkeys have destroyed my image. I had thousands of virgins killed to maintain this secret and one click of a camera has exposed everything.  They all died in vain, not that I care. Their blood is on Bush’s hands.

 

Of more importance to me than the lives of a few virgins is my self-esteem. This is unbearably humiliating. The women in my country are laughing at my expense. I will, of course, have their faithless tongues torn out as soon as I leave here, but in the meantime, I hear the sound of their laughter even in my sleep. There is no more grating sound in the world than a woman’s laughter.

 

No one can get away with showing a picture of the Great Stallion in his underwear. I have learned from the Americans. I will sue.

 

You, whore-monkey’s mother, will contact the ACLU for me. I hear they will defend anti-American causes and I am certainly anti-American, so there should be no reason why they will not help me. Tell them I will make it well worth their while, but they will have to be patient since the money is still in France.

 

Do this or I will have all the hairs on your body plucked out one by one and your entrails will be roasted on a spit and fed to lizards.

 

Supreme Lady Killer

 

Dear Killer,

 

The world is a far different place than it was thirteen years ago. Presidential privates are sometimes discussed in public now, thanks to America’s first black president. Until this picture appeared, had someone asked me to speculate as to whether you wore boxers or briefs, I’d have guessed Depends.

 

Sorry to say, the photographer who so embarrassed you will not have his family fed to a shredder before being hurled into an acid bath. No, his fate will be far worse. He will be forced to apologize, joining a long line of penitents including the Ayatollah-kissing 38th president, a certain saxophone player from Hot Springs who apologized for slavery despite never once having owned a slave, and the prexy of a well-known university whose deplorable want of sensitivity to the fair sex touched off an epidemic of faculty nausea.

 

If he is a serviceman, he will be threatened with the firing squad before being busted to private and dismissed with a dishonorable discharge. If he is a civilian he may be able to convince the right people that he is planning a new online catalog store, a sort of Victoria’s Secret for men, in which case you may have a lucrative second career once you get paroled.

 

You don’t need me to contact the ACLU for you. As soon as they figure out how to get around the inconvenient fact that your American civil liberties are not being violated they’ll no doubt call you. They’re already convinced that the entire male population of the Moslem world has been dissed and they are probably even now trying to locate the one Moslem male in the U.S. whose sense of shame has made it impossible for him to eat, work, sleep or fulfill his spousal obligations ever since your briefs hit the front page. They will get this man to claim that your semi-nude image forced him to question his sexuality, if only to himself. In a nutshell, since none of this could have happened without your having been forced by the Bush administration to supply the beefcake, your rights must have been trampled as a precondition to trampling his.

 

Contemplating this scenario should provide a pleasant distraction for those nights when the sound of women’s laughter is too intrusive. But if you want it to stop altogether, you’ll have to keep your shirt on.

 

Good luck and God bless.


Judith Weizner is a columnist for Frontpagemag.com.


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