August 20, 2003
R. D. Kushner

‘Chomsky will never get the same coverage Coulter gets. There are no liberal equivalents to the famous vitriolic conservatives. Michael Moore may be a match for slant, but he's not a match for meanness.’ [1]

Ann Coulter is one sexy bitch. One mean, sexy bitch. Anyone who tells you any differently is either gay, deaf, or illiterate; if you can see, hear, or read what this fiery quean has to say you’re likely to get hotter between your legs than the space shuttle during re-entry. Whatever it is that makes the male libido tick, Ann Coulter has her finger on it and in it; and that finger is greased up like a vat of hot lard poured into a jar of Vaseline. She’s holding the key to the magical hydraulics of the erection and all American men know it. It’s a true act of political bipartisanship; both sides of the isle salute her with their cocks as she fondles the American politic.

It’s hard to imagine a more perfect union: My dick and Ann Coulter’s mind were made for each other. The more of her I read, the more convinced I am that pornography is an evolutionary evil; but not Times Square peep show pornography – I’m talking about kiddie porn, snuff films, and rape. These devious manifestations of the sexual mind are kept in check by the justice system, but their existence is nothing short of natural. Whose idea was it anyway that a woman should be forced to have sex without her consent? What dangerously psychotic genius decided that the act of sex should end with orgasm and death? Whose twisted mind pondered and then acted upon an urge to expose the innocent world of a child to the hungry urgings of the sexual mind? People did this; human beings. People without the capacity to reason about right and wrong; and with an inability to separate the twilight musings of the mind from their physical actions.

Sex sells. Sex of any kind. When plucked, the sexual chords of the mind vibrate like liquid electricity. Ann Coulter is bathing in a rivulet of hot wax and jalapeno peppers and my mind tells me it’s wrong, but I can’t turn away. I’m so enthralled with her capacity for lusty gyrations that I’ve forgotten which side I’m on; it doesn’t matter any more whether she’s right or wrong, I just don’t want the music to stop. I’m caught in a miasmic frenzy where Ann Coulter, rape and death are all wrapped up in a sinful indulgence of the mind. I can’t stop dancing, and she won’t let me. If I stop I’ll go limp, and if I go on much longer she’ll own the world and her phallic caresses will snarl time in a massive gridlock of cabalistic orgasms. Sweat, tears, the musky smell of ozone after a storm, freshly cut grass, stale bread, standing water, the thick paste of dirt between the curb and the road, the nape of the neck, the bulge in the pants, the darkness, the barb on a hook, the short quick strokes of a combustion engine, the ten commandments, the seven days of the week, the tripartite arrangement of the holy trinity, the elliptical orbit of galaxies, and the long road ahead. It all presses down on me in an instant and I smell life without caring if its roses or a dead rotting corpse.

Ann Coulter loves it all. She’s got the spotlight of a million eyes riveted on her crotch and she’s showering us with a gallon of olive oil a second to keep us sliding back down the ramp of sludge that sends us tumbling into that dark dangerous hole between her legs. All the while she’s thinking about raping us. She’s thinking about killing us. She’s thinking about eating us alive with well polished silverware and the finest china from the Lincoln Bedroom. But she won’t have to raise a finger, except the one that she’s got between her legs probing her soul for a pulse. We’re all clamoring for our cocks as we slip slowly toward the pornographic ecstasy she’s coiled around herself. It’s sick, old, tired, ugly, crusty, rancid, salty, festering, and it smells of old tires and wet earth; but we can’t resist our urge to explore the criminal the immoral and the invaluable. She’s won this round, but as I listen to her mental masturbation I can hear a bell tolling in the distance. Can you hear that? It’s getting a little louder and it sounds like rushing water echoing through a thin copper tube the size of the Grand Canyon. It’s almost a continuous hum of echoes, the sound of the ocean in a seashell amplified a thousand times, like a storm brewing in the forest with a million leaves jostling against each other as they hang on for dear life.