Gimme asylum: Flinging myself upon the tender mercies of a kinder, gentler nation. Uh, is there one?

I read in that bastion of breaking world news, The Scotsman, how Saddam’s two daughters were pleading for asylum. First choice: Europe.

What especially leaped out at me was this graph, and I quote: “Mr al-Majid said the two women were living with their nine children in two rooms of a family’s house and were forced to wash their own clothes and cook their own food. He said: ‘They live in a severe psychological disorder.'”

When I showed this news item to a psychology person, she replies: “How sad, having to wash their own clothes. Maybe I’ll apply for asylum too.”

And so begins my quest for asylum. Flinging myself upon the tender mercies of a kinder, gentler continent. I’ve only been to Europe once. Does Italy count? Now THEY know how to cook. I would definitely not mind some hospitable European nation amenable to my current plight. Olive oil is positively therapeutic.

My current life of political dissidence is a fraught one. In my country, I am assailed daily by violent, corrosive, strange ideologies which reflect none of my beliefs. An illegitimate government. Olestra. Reality TV. Extreme sports. Britney Spears. Sometimes, it’s more than one can bear.

In the interests of full disclosure, however, I must confess: Unlike Saddam’s daughters’ husbands, mine wasn’t murdered by my all-powerful, somewhat dictatorial father (aren’t they all?). Although when Daddy found out divorce was in the offing, he might have wanted to murder someone, probably me.

Since then, I’ve cooked, scrubbed, washed, cleaned as a loyal American. But terrorism changed everything, providing an excuse to abrogate many individual rights, especially since society’s becoming even more corporatized.

Certainly, I’ve endured numerous torments which compel me to seek asylum. In my country, ordinary food is actually so contaminated by antibiotics, dangerous chemical fertilizers, toxic additives and secret genetic manipulation, you can easily eat yourself to death while pursuing a “healthy” diet.

Have you used a gas stove lately? The way those lit burners blow up in your face? WMDs, anyone? I’m no Sylvia Plath – I’ve never even once turned on this oven in a decade; it’s stovetop suppers for me. But still. Such enslavement. Cooking for one. Leftovers. Yuk. No servants, no household help, no gardener. Such deprivation.

And please allow me a few words about doing laundry. My washer and dryer are in the basement. That’s insane! Four flights of stairs? Is fresh underwear that important? For what? I’ve made so few state appearances lately.

It’s not easy being a displaced Marchioness!

Clearly, ordinary existence for me is akin to gingerly goose-stepping through a minefield, hoping my big toe won’t trigger an explosion.

Hammertoes are so dangerous.

When you’re a political progressive, you’re the ultimate outsider. You not only think different ideas, but you may also eat different food, wear different clothes, watch different television, listen to different radio, hear different music, see different movies, read different publications, drive a different car or no car at all, consume different culture in general, and essentially live outside mainstream society.

That’s not always a comfortable position, feeling as if you’re in permanent exile within your own country.

But this sense of isolation only spurs me onward. While I hesitate to even breathe the word “Paris” aloud for fear of being accused of treason, I must. Pardon my French!

I didnt spend four whole years of my life studying French language and literature to have the BUSH-wah administration lamely attempt to snatch that away from me. I mean, among their Yahoo incursions against taste, decency and the ecstasies of French civilization: dissing a prospective opposing presidential candidate with what purportedly passes for the so-called ultimate postwar political putdown, “He looks French.”

Oh, like Jerry Lewis?

Any fool knows Frenchmen are way more romantic and suave than their American counterparts.

Deal with it.

Consider the difference between Charles Boyer and Chuckie in “Friday the 13th.” Or coq au vin vs. macaroni and cheese. Or Boeuf Bourgignon and a McBurger.

Or a French kiss, deep, moist, soulful vs. a peremptory husbandly peck on the cheek.

For far too long, I’ve sat on the sidelines observing mindless efforts by the BUSH-wah administration and the Republican Party – misguided, insular and oh-so-ignorant retaliation against France’s feisty refusal to become automated rubberstamp to America’s global megalomania.

If the War Party – in their testosterone-induced delusions – seem to think re-naming French fries “Freedom fries” in the congressional cafeteria, and similarly moronic, jingoistic moves, can really eradicate rational international differences of opinion, they’re even bigger fools than I already take them for.

Bushes may come and Bushes may go, but we’ll always have Paree. Uh, some of us.