An Obama Cabinet Member Was Seduced by One of These Russian Agents -on the Left the more traditional femme fatale Ms. Anna Chapman and on the Right the care worn and tired fingers and frame of Mrs. Murphy - I gotta know - Who and Why.
The Obama Cabinet Extant When Mrs. Murphy Snagged a Fish.
A female Russian agent got "close enough" to a sitting U.S. cabinet member that the FBI felt they had to swoop in and arrest the lot -- but it wasn't the famous femme fatale Anna Chapman, federal officials said today.
Chapman, the seductive 20-something SoHo spy, was named by a British newspaper Monday as the reason the FBI decided to finally round up the Russian ring, which had long been under surveillance, in 2010. The paper cited an interview conducted by the British broadcasting network the BBC with the FBI's counter-intelligence head Frank Figliuzzi. Instead, Justice Department officials told ABC News Figliuzzi was referring to another of the arrested spies, Cynthia Murphy. . . . According to court documents relating to the spies' arrest, Murphy had been in contact with a fundraiser and "personal friend" of Hillary Clinton, who took the office of Secretary of State in January 2009. The fundraiser, Alan Patricof, said in a statement in 2010 had retained Murphy's financial services firm more than two years before, had met with her a few times and spoke with her on the phone frequently. Patricof said they "never" spoke about politics, the government or world affairs.
President Obama is, and has been, like the guy in the old Ulster poem by Thomas Russell - "The Man from God Knows Where*."
We're a civil sort in our wee place
so we made the circle wide
round Andy Lemon's cheerful blaze,
and wished the man his length of days
and a good end to his ride.
He smiled in under his slouchy hat,
says he: 'There's a bit of a joke in that,
for we ride different ways.'
That is most evident, Mr. President. There are things that we dour folk will never know, until after the November vote tally, or perhaps not. President #44 is a mystery wrapped in a compelling narrative. Catholics voted largely for President Obama and once in, demanded that Catholic icons be removed from Georgetown and that University of Notre Dame sic the cops on senior citizens and priests while the President was cowled with a Doctor of Law hood by smilingly compliant President Father Jenson. In time at all, St. Xavier University had its religious identity stripped by the President's NLRB, while Navy Seal Team 6 took out Osama Bin Laden. Then after the Birth of Christ 2011, HHS Czarina Kathleen Sebelius, a Vichy Catholic Cabinet member, announced the Obama Regime's assault on religious liberty.
'There's a bit of a joke in that,
for we ride different ways.'
You may say. There is just too much that
we dour folk are not allowed to know like, these simple nuggets of President Obama's identity.
1. Occidental College records -- Not released
2. Columbia College records -- Not released
3. Columbia Thesis paper -- "Not available"
4. Harvard College records -- Not released
5. Selective Service Registration -- Not released
6.. Medical records -- Not released
7. Illinois State Senate schedule -- Not available
8. Your Illinois State Senate records -- Not available
9. Law practice client list -- Not released
10. Certified Copy of original Birth certificate -- Not released
11. Embossed, signed paper Certification of Live Birth -- Not released
12. Record of your baptism -- Not available
13. Why were you getting "foreign student aid" as a college student?
14.. Which countries "passport" did you have when you visited Pakistan in 1981?
We caught a glimpse of the Man From God Knows Where in the White House last week thanks to hot microphone, as the President begged Vladimir Putin's guy for patience in order to see his Flexibility.
I believe that the President can be flexible when he wants to, after all he promised Transparency - note the 14 items above, please. Perhaps this latest Russian/Obama White House flap-doodle can help.
A couple of years ago, the FBI grabbed a whole bunch of Russian Spies. One happened to be planted as a New York
haus frau, working mom and 5 o'clock scholar attending Columbia University,
Mrs. Cynthia Murphy was tasked by the KGB, or whatever they call their spooks these days, to suck intel out of graduate students, professors or anyone with links to the White House.
Another spy was a ginger haired knock-out libido launching
Femme Fatale -Anna Chapman.
On Monday, it was discovered by the Independent of the UK that a member of the Obama Cabinet was about to be the paramour of a Russian agent; hence the FBI sweep up of Muscovite's on the Hudson.
Speculation naturally turned to the toothsome Ms. Chapman. Some libidos just can not shed their patriarchal instincts and also some Cabinet member who swore an oath, like the President's and every kid in uniform, to protect and defend the Constitution and the land that we love, wanted to swap pillow talk with Russian sexpot.
It turns out that Cabinet Member was not hot to trot for Ann Chapman, but Mrs. Murphy. Go figure.
Now, I can understand seduction. Never happens to me, mind you, but I can fully appreciate the carnal divining rod's tyranny. I am also a very shallow man. Let's see - the Red Head, or Mrs. Murphy? Me without sin? Not a chance. Tempered mind you by a full Catholic education K- Grad School and a full appreciation of the Temple of Christ - which in my case is like a Yellow-hammer's tar shed on the Rt. 113 side of the Kankakee River - home but no palace, my manky frame and mien Kampf be. I might
error on the side of Ms. Chapman. Again, I am a shallow man.
I gotta ask, rhetorically, if not personally, Mr. President - Which Cabinet Member wanted to diddle Mrs. Murphy? If I were running for office, I would be asking that question couched this way -
" Mr. President, you were offered the Keystone Pipeline, but opted for the Sierra Club's Alternative Fuel Narrative. A natural gas pipeline or a narrative? In that context, Sir, consider that one of your appointed, unelected Cabinet Members eschewed a dalliance with Russian Spy Hottie Anna Chapman for the care-worn hand of Mrs. Murphy. Which one, or God save us, might it have been all memebers of your Cabinet, chose Mrs. Murphy?"
I believe that out Flexibility Challenged, but self-stated ly Fully Transparent President might answer, " The American people are tired of your Time Warped disregard for transforming America and the World and your War on Women. To quote the Irish poet, and I am a Son from Moneygall, 'There's a bit of a joke in that,
for we ride different ways.'
Fellow dour folk - keep the horse, please change the rider in November.
*
The Man From God Knows Where
Into our townlan' on a night of snow
rode a man from God knows where;
None of us bade him stay or go,
nor deemed him friend, nor damned him foe,
but we stabled his big roan mare;
for in our townlan' we're decent folk,
and if he didn't speak, why none of us spoke,
and we sat till the fire burned low.
We're a civil sort in our wee place
so we made the circle wide
round Andy Lemon's cheerful blaze,
and wished the man his length of days
and a good end to his ride.
He smiled in under his slouchy hat,
says he: 'There's a bit of a joke in that,
for we ride different ways.'
The whiles we smoked we watched him stare
from his seat fornenst the glow.
I nudged Joe Moore: 'You wouldn't dare
to ask him who he's for meeting there,
and how far he has got to go?'
And Joe wouldn't dare, nor Wully Scott,
And he took no drink - neither cold nor hot,
this man from God knows where.
It was closing time, and late forbye,
when us ones braved the air.
I never saw worse (may I live or die)
than the sleet that night, an' I says, says I:
'You'll find he's for stopping there.'
But at screek o'day, through the gable pane
I watched him spur in the peltin' rain,
an' I juked from his rovin' eye.
Two winters more, then the Trouble year,
when the best that a man could feel
was the pike that he kept in hidin's near,
till the blood o' hate an' the blood o' fear
would be redder nor rust on the steel.
Us ones quet from mindin' the farms
Let them take what we gave wi' the weight o' our arms
from Saintfield to Kilkeel.
In the time o' the Hurry, we had no lead
we all of us fought with the rest
an' if e'er a one shook like a tremblin' reed,
none of us gave neither hint nor heed,
nor ever even'd we'd guessed.
We men of the North had a word to say,
an'we said it then, in our own dour way,
an' we spoke as we thought was best.
All Ulster over, the weemin cried
for the stan'in' crops on the lan'.
Many's the sweetheart and many's the bride
would liefer ha' gone to where he died,
and ha' mourned her lone by her man.
But us ones weathered the thick of it
and we used to dander along and sit
in Andy's, side by side.
What with discourse goin' to and fro,
the night would be wearin' thin,
yet never so late when we rose to go
but someone would say: 'do ye min' thon' snow,
an 'the man who came wanderin'in?'
and we be to fall to the talk again,
if by any chance he was one o' them
The man who went like the win'.
Well 'twas gettin' on past the heat o' the year
when I rode to Newtown fair;
I sold as I could (the dealers were near
only three pounds eight for the Innish steer,
an' nothin' at all for the mare!)
I met M'Kee in the throng o' the street,
says he: 'The grass has grown under our feet
since they hanged young Warwick here.',
And he told me that Boney had promised help
to a man in Dublin town.
Says he: 'If you've laid the pike on the shelf,
you'd better go home hot-fut by yourself,
an' once more take it down.'
So by Comber road I trotted the grey
and never cut corn until Killyleagh
stood plain on the risin' groun'.
For a wheen o' days we sat waitin' the word
to rise and go at it like men,
but no French ships sailed into Cloughey Bay
and we heard the black news on a harvest day
that the cause was lost again;
and Joey and me, and Wully Boy Scott,
we agreed to ourselves we'd as lief as not
ha' been found in the thick o' the slain.
By Downpatrick goal I was bound to fare
on a day I'll remember, feth;
for when I came to the prison square
the people were waitin' in hundreds there
an' you wouldn't hear stir nor breath!
For the sodgers were standing, grim an' tall,
round a scaffold built there foment the wall,
an' a man stepped out for death!
I was brave an' near to the edge of the throng,
yet I knowed the face again,
an' I knowed the set, an' I knowed the walk
an' the sound of his strange up-country talk,
for he spoke out right an' plain.
Then he bowed his head to the swinging rope,
whiles I said 'Please God' to his dying hope
and 'Amen' to his dying prayer
that the wrong would cease and the right prevail,
for the man that they hanged at Downpatrick gaol
was the Man from God knows where!
