Dear Ms. Coulter
You probably hear this all the time, but when I think of you, I can't help picturing one of those really bony, narrow-headed dogs with the long, lank hair -- a junkyard Afghan perhaps -- standing on its hind legs, in a cocktail dress, baring its teeth. I hope this won't be misconstrued as an ad hominem attack because 1) I like dogs, and 2) for an attack to be considered ad hominem, i.e. "against the person," the object must be a human being. I hope that clears the air because I wouldn't want any negative feelings or misunderstandings between us.
Boop-oop-a-doop!
Ms. Coulter, my winsome she-hyena, is it improper to confess my yearning to slip rough, leather straps over your slavering muzzle and ride you like a gaucho through the befouled charnel house of your political desires? Your glib sophistries reek of a Faustian, lead-tongued sodomy of the human spirit. I sit transfixed before the TV, watching you coo dreamily of Democrats, homosexuals, wetbacks, towel-heads and Supreme Court justices hung wriggling on meat hooks. It conjures rich, Fellini-esque images of you and your pals at another Fox Network News circle jerk -- bucking, croaking and cawing with jubilant self-satisfaction.
How do you do it girl? Your unqualified prostitution of the soul has set the limbo bar so...damn...low. Can it really feel as good as you make it look? Compared to you, the other pus-filled furuncles of right-wing media are so dull and, frankly, distasteful: Fatty-cakes Limbaugh like a gross, spoiled, dewlapped toddler strangely pleased with sitting in his own dirty diaper; O'Reilly, an old, grumpy, flatulent hound-dog; Hannity, a plump, simpering tube of rancid baloney. And, yipes! Mad Mikey Savage - a cautionary tale for us all, eh chickabee? Virulent, pandering, oleaginous little plague rat, shrieking from his foul Petri dish for the attention of the big boys. With a mouth so unavoidably evocative of a talking dog anus - even Dick Cheney can't watch him at supper time.
Mouth-frothing, loud and heinous spew -- the "brain-dead megaphone" George Saunders calls it -- it's such a fine line in reactionary punditry.
And now, inevitably, a mob of emulous, auto-pimping Quislings -- the eager whippersnappers at Drudge and National Review and all their yapping ilk -- scamper rodent-like in your tracks. They squat, asses wiggling in the air, offering the best part of themselves to the slack-mouthed, hate-engorged troglodytes of the ultra-right: Take me! Take me! I'll squeal like a pig if only you give me money! Who wouldn't want a fat slice of that malodorous pie? But, still, nothing grabs 'em like a hip-cocked, spittle-lipped blonde (or beehive brunette, for that matter) fingering the greasy trigger of an assault weapon.
It's all about the customer, isn't it, Ms. Coulter? Serving up what they want, barely cooked just the way they like it -- and slathered in bile like a biscuit in gravy.
At Wal-Mart, I noticed several admirers sniffing and tonguing your latest book, “My Angry American Piehole.” Their snorting, squealing appreciation conjured nothing to mind so much as those carnivorous hogs on "Deadwood" after another corpse had been thrown into the pen.
You've truly earned their regard. As you have mine.
Sincerely, your fan,
Henry E. Panky, Associate of Arts (candidate)
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