Osama Exposed (But Not In THAT Way)

Jun 2nd, 2011 | By | Category: Columns

You won’t believe this, but I, Alison Burke, lover of freedom and freedom fries, has stumbled upon a major discovery. The happy accident occurred while visiting the boudoir of the Pentagon, where hidden beneath the bald eagle skin rug, in front of a roaring (non-subsidized) fire, I found a treasure confiscated by the Navy Seals: Osama’s war journal, titled quite apply: “Miss Prissy Pants.”

Osey (as he calls himself), a self described “media-darling,” who only supports capitalism when buying wives, made several entries in this journal. Here’s a few I’ll share with you right now:

Dearest Miss Prissy Pants:

I have just woken up, in a cold sweat, suddenly missing those days when Zawari and I would have cave sleepovers and brush each other’s back hair—he was more animal than man!!

Smoochie Woochies,



Dear Miss PP:

Today I met my future wife and had a suic1d3 b0mb1ng in my pants. Oh, Whitney, drop that freak from Bell Biv DeVoe and come away with me! I can give you all the “magic white sand” you need.

Snuggle Bubbles,



Dearest M to the Psquared:

Today on the battlefield, I saw him for the first time. I was at a safe distance, looking through my binoculars, while I sent others to do my holy outsourcing. There he was, tall and aquiline, of the American persuasion, Mr. Ollie North. He rebuffed my advances; maybe I should stop sending them with missiles? Or perhaps he did not like my exploding delivery boys. OMFA!

Hugs and Kisses,



Dear MPP (you know me):

I’m bored. I’ve been trying to get Abdul to play Words With Friends, but he is more interested in tending his poppy fields on his internet farm. He keeps telling me if only we could cross the internet border into Iran, we could make thousands and thousands of PayPal dollars. But we keep getting blocked, and the owner of the internet cafe is getting suspicious, no matter how much hookah Abdul smokes.

Perhaps I should take up a hobby, like another wife or scrap-booking.

Hearts and Stars,



Dear Mz Prizzy Pantz:

Today I donned my finery, and jumped in front of my camera. No, not for another terrorist warning, but to find my next wife!! (As it turns out, scrap-booking is a lot harder than it looks. The damn glue dries up too fast, if I want to be around something that doesn’t stay wet, I’ll just get married.)

My interests included: killing goats (aka, infidels, zing!), logistics, D&D (I already have the wizard beard), making speeches, drinking soda and hand gestures.

What I’m looking for: a young, obedient, rice-cooking wife who doesn’t mind the solitude of living in the Pakistani mountains or somewhere even more remote like South Dakota. Enjoys being on the lam, silence, and being married to a much older man who wears robes and isn’t Hugh Hefner. Christians need not apply.



Isn’t that fascinating? Who would have thought the father of terrorism had such deep emotional connections to capitalism, 90s R&B and scrap-booking. Who knows what other delicious discoveries I might find in my day to day job: Perhaps the unrequited love letters of John Hinckley, Jr. to Cher, or a doughnut that’s rolled underneath the radiator (It’s still good!).


Alison Burke is a writer from the Washington D.C. area, and has been a past Defenestration contributor. She enjoys cake and male models. She wishes her life was more like a Baby Bash video — save she would be the douche wearing a sideways cap as bikini-clad men grooved comedically for her viewing pleasure.

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