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 mean Afghan or a Saluki in a cheap wig -- standing on its hind legs, in a cocktail dress, baring its teeth.
But then when I actually see you on TV, you remind me more of a moray eel: essentially sex-less; mouth agape with mindless appetite; dull eyes glittery with venal, self-satisfied ambition; slithering out some dark hole to preen, snap and smirk at yet another conservative talk-show group grope.
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 and slippery charnel house of your political desires? Your glib sophistries reek of an utterly Faustian, silver-tongued sodomy of the human spirit. I sit transfixed before the TV, watching you coo dreamily of Democrats, homosexuals, wetbacks, towel-heads and half the Supreme Court hung wriggling on meat hooks. It conjures rich, Fellini-esque images of you and your orc-like pals bucking, croaking and cawing with jubilation as you dance around the fire with your pointed sticks.
How do you do it girl? Your unqualified prostitution of the soul has set the moral 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! Poor 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 Michael Savage at supper time.
Mouth-frothing, loud and heinous spew -- the "brain-dead megaphone" George Saunders called it -- it's such a fine line in reactionary punditry. I think it's just prettier coming from a jack-booted, jackal-headed succubus.
And now, inevitably, a mob of emulous, auto-pimping Quislings -- the eager whippersnappers at Fox, Drudge and National Review and all their yapping ilk -- scamper puppy-like in your hoof prints. 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 spavined, hip-cocked, spittle-lipped blonde fingering the greasy trigger of an assault weapon, eh?
Unless it's a VP candidate in a nicely-packed bikini doing the same thing, but with a smile and wink that says, "Let's go kill something for fun, darlin', and then just see where it goes from there."
It's all about the customer, isn't it, Ms. Coulter? Serving up what they want, cooked just the way they like it -- and slathered in bile like a biscuit in gravy.
At Walmart, I noticed several admirers sniffing and tonguing your latest book jacket photo and trying to puzzle out the words of the title ("Liberals into Lampshades: Practical Patriotism for a Post-Putsch America"). When I read it to them (and explained the historical subtleties), their snorting, squealing appreciation conjured nothing to mind so much as those carniverous 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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