Quim Profiles: Madeline Albright

thachi_albright

It’s well known fact that I, Quim La Douche, am drawn, like a fish to a thorny yet delicious hook, to strong women; and my current interviewee is no exception. Her firm grip on international relations has a hard tug on my loins, and we’re only ten minutes into the interview. Born Conchita Maria Elvira Gonzalez, Albright’s path to international power brokeress was a strange one. In fact, much of the first forty years of her life were spent in menial servitude, as live in maid to Columbian impresario Pablo Baresco.

”You must have seen a lot of dirty laundry”, I yell above the surf, as our boards crest a thirty footer off Waimea.

Stunning in a neoprene Gucci wet suit, she hits an aerial barrel roll, the feet which burnt cheeky hoof prints into the corridors of power, rooted to her Bilabong, like willows. Conchita fled Columbia during the revolution, casually inventing free jumping as she leapt from a cargo flight above Miami, sans parachute, trusting her wild locks to slow the fall and the welcoming soil of America to soften it’s blow. Taking a western name from a popular French cartoon about a kidnapped four year old, Madaline quickly found a home in Washington politics.

”What was it like”, I ask her, as we lie strapped together on catapults, preparing to experience the latest extreme sports thrill; a thin fallible parachute all that separates us from soon and utter flatness, ”serving as ambassadress to an increasingly irrelevant UN?”

She shuts her eyes and leans in, neatly dodging the question, and I tongue fuck the old nag, as we thwack into the air at an horrific gee. Below us a family, no doubt shocked to their dully conventional cores by the wizzeled flash of her commando tendrils, begin vomiting in unison. Famously unafraid of controversy,
Albright only laughs.

Questioned once on CBS’s 60 minutes, about the death toll Iraqi children under US sanctions – a figure, which by that point had surpassed the ferocious losses of Hiroshima – she was dismissive, saying, ”Terrible though that is, as a wealthy childless politician it doesn’t really affect me, does it? I mean,
technically I could pulp the little womb shits in a wood chipper and fertilize the White House lawn. Fuckers don’t even have a vote.”

Later, as we sun on a Monaco estate, personal fiefdom of Prince Albert the second, I use my subtle journalistic wiles to probe this thorny issue.

”Seriously Maddy, what about that shit with the Iraqi kids?”

”Listen Quim”, she tells me, casting a wry old glance at my Speedo’s, ”lets not waste time on ancient history”.

”That’s not what I’d call it love”, I reply, unhooking the Vivian Westwood wild-west kerchief that hides her modesty; eliciting a gravely giggle. Once again, I ready myself to penetrate the wrinkly depths of a story.

Quim La Douche provides massage therapy to rescued Eastern European sex workers in Camden.

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