Orly Taitz, I Want You to Seek Asylum in My Pants
by ALAN GREENSPAN
Despite jabs I've suffered over the years for my "vedic calm" and "mandarin reticence," I am no different from any other human being and feel the need to reach out to others in their times of trial. No, not the vast majority. I've never cared for them, to be perfectly honest. Especially not those who are armed and certainly as few people as possible who could be called "poor" or, worse, announce themselves as such before the driver can get around to the side of the car. But I am not inhuman.
So you can imagine the surprise and dismay that reading this caused:
Not only do I object to it on philosophical grounds, I object to it on tactical ones. First, by recognizing the power of the UN to remove and coddle criminal American citizens under their aegis, we supersede sovereign American jurisprudence and interdiction. In effect, we say that internationalist interpretations of law trump our own—that, in terms of the power between the US and the UN, the tail now wags the dog. Second, Orly, the UN is the first place they'll look!
Then I thought about it. If it looks like a fox—yes, Orly, I mean you—then it's probably crafty like a fox. This application is all ruse, misdirection—like when magicians surround themselves with beautiful assistants to distract the audience. Only you made your assistant look like the magician while you simply disappeared. But where to hide? What options are left? That's when I realized:
Orly, I want you to seek asylum in my pants.
I've been looking at you for a long time, Orly, and every time I see you on the air, I want to sex that "It's not Giorgio—It's Primo!" version of a Zsa Zsa accent right out of your mouth. I want to grab onto your mom-from-Who's the Boss hair and fall with you toward the bed as we both achieve orgasm at the same time and pitch downward as if we're going over the waterfalls of the Fuck River. I want to expose the ACORN conspiracy with you Orly. I want you to help me bust a nut.
Sure, it won't all be a bed of roses. My house is kind of small right now, but my couch is really breathtaking—really, really phenomenal. By day, we will sit on it and make love. By night, we will lie on it and make love. It is very comfortable and warm, and you won't notice when I go to sleep in my own bed. It's a back thing. Mine can't take the flip-'n'-fuck anymore.
How many kinds of beer do I have in the house right now even though I'm not expecting guests? Three.
In the morning, I will make you an omelette. I'm sure you've had them all before: mushrooms, two kinds of cheese, maybe a light salsa, pancetta. But get this: all that, plus a potato, boiled 'til al dente, then pan-fried with a little butter... then I take the hash browns and guess what? That's right... in the omelette. I mean, holy shit. We should eat on the couch too. Goddamn, my couch is amazing.
I want to teach you how to throw a football by lining up under your center, then hitting you in the slot. I want to make short precise attacks on your territory before calling a delay and getting massive penetration while my hand goes over the top, long, toward your bomb-ass titties. I want to have sex with you.
I played clarinet at Juilliard and not only know how to make a divine instrument sing with virtuoso play on the mouthpiece, but my fingers are used to nimbly flicking every button. Don't try to dissuade me that women's bodies are not mere tools but rather symphonies of delight. I idly tugged my fingertips when each one was tethered to a different part of this terraqueous globe. I made the G-8 dance with their trembling. Your G-spot will do no less.
Intellectually, our life will be as conceptually rich as an omelette.
So you can imagine the surprise and dismay that reading this caused:
Today the UN Office of the High Commissioner for Human Rights has confirmed that American attorney Dr. Orly Taitz has applied for urgent action under the mandate for human rights defenders.My first instinct was to object, to cry out in warning. "Orly," I thought, "the UN? That's the belly of the Beast!" This internationalist cabal of liberalizing levelers is exactly the source of Obama's strongest support.
Dr. Taitz, a well known Constitutional attorney, has been under increasing attack in the United States from groups and individuals opposed to her legal actions challenging the Constitutional qualifications of Barrack Hussein Obama to hold the office of President of the United States.”
Not only do I object to it on philosophical grounds, I object to it on tactical ones. First, by recognizing the power of the UN to remove and coddle criminal American citizens under their aegis, we supersede sovereign American jurisprudence and interdiction. In effect, we say that internationalist interpretations of law trump our own—that, in terms of the power between the US and the UN, the tail now wags the dog. Second, Orly, the UN is the first place they'll look!
Then I thought about it. If it looks like a fox—yes, Orly, I mean you—then it's probably crafty like a fox. This application is all ruse, misdirection—like when magicians surround themselves with beautiful assistants to distract the audience. Only you made your assistant look like the magician while you simply disappeared. But where to hide? What options are left? That's when I realized:
Orly, I want you to seek asylum in my pants.
I've been looking at you for a long time, Orly, and every time I see you on the air, I want to sex that "It's not Giorgio—It's Primo!" version of a Zsa Zsa accent right out of your mouth. I want to grab onto your mom-from-Who's the Boss hair and fall with you toward the bed as we both achieve orgasm at the same time and pitch downward as if we're going over the waterfalls of the Fuck River. I want to expose the ACORN conspiracy with you Orly. I want you to help me bust a nut.Sure, it won't all be a bed of roses. My house is kind of small right now, but my couch is really breathtaking—really, really phenomenal. By day, we will sit on it and make love. By night, we will lie on it and make love. It is very comfortable and warm, and you won't notice when I go to sleep in my own bed. It's a back thing. Mine can't take the flip-'n'-fuck anymore.
How many kinds of beer do I have in the house right now even though I'm not expecting guests? Three.
In the morning, I will make you an omelette. I'm sure you've had them all before: mushrooms, two kinds of cheese, maybe a light salsa, pancetta. But get this: all that, plus a potato, boiled 'til al dente, then pan-fried with a little butter... then I take the hash browns and guess what? That's right... in the omelette. I mean, holy shit. We should eat on the couch too. Goddamn, my couch is amazing.
I want to teach you how to throw a football by lining up under your center, then hitting you in the slot. I want to make short precise attacks on your territory before calling a delay and getting massive penetration while my hand goes over the top, long, toward your bomb-ass titties. I want to have sex with you.
I played clarinet at Juilliard and not only know how to make a divine instrument sing with virtuoso play on the mouthpiece, but my fingers are used to nimbly flicking every button. Don't try to dissuade me that women's bodies are not mere tools but rather symphonies of delight. I idly tugged my fingertips when each one was tethered to a different part of this terraqueous globe. I made the G-8 dance with their trembling. Your G-spot will do no less.
Intellectually, our life will be as conceptually rich as an omelette.
Orly, I will talk to you about your DSL for hours, celebrating their fecund and roseate swelling indicating arousal. But for right now, I tell you of the other kind of DSL. I've got a pretty strong internet connection, so we could spend our afternoons blogging together—you tearing down the Obamanation, I doing no less to those who doubt the metal ruthlessness of Rob Halford. However, sometimes the upload speed will be a little slow, since you're uploading on a phone connection. Your documents might take a while, especially if I'm seeding my Stargate torrents. I made a promise to the Stargate community.
Orly, let's do this. Sometimes, when I'm talking about you to other people, I spoonerize your name and say, "Orly's Tight." I know I can't be wrong. Take up residence at my Galt's Gulch so that I might take up residence in yours. You cannot commit yourself fully to liberty until you commit yourself to liberating your body under mine. Take my root in your foreign soil. I know with every inch of me how sublime it will be. Plus, you've got that Birther thing going on, so I assume you go all bareback.
Orly, let's do this. Sometimes, when I'm talking about you to other people, I spoonerize your name and say, "Orly's Tight." I know I can't be wrong. Take up residence at my Galt's Gulch so that I might take up residence in yours. You cannot commit yourself fully to liberty until you commit yourself to liberating your body under mine. Take my root in your foreign soil. I know with every inch of me how sublime it will be. Plus, you've got that Birther thing going on, so I assume you go all bareback.
Alan Greenspan is a senior fellow in Your Mom.
