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 -- an Afghan perhaps -- standing on its hind legs in a cocktail dress. But with the gentle smile and laughing eyes of a she-hyena. Hopefully, this won’t be misconstrued as an ad hominem attack. Because I like dogs.
Boop-oop-a-doop!
Anne, 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 an utterly Faustian, strychnine-tongued sodomy of the human spirit. I sit transfixed, watching you ruminate dreamily of Democrats, homosexuals, wetbacks, towel-heads and Supreme Court justices dancing on meat hooks. You and your Fox News pals in yet another onscreen circle jerk -- bucking, croaking and cawing, licking each other’s behinds, in a jubilant frenzy of self satisfaction.
How do you do it girl? Your unqualified prostitution of the soul has set the limbo bar so...damn...low. Does 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 distasteful: “Fatty-cakes” Limbaugh like a gross, dewlapped toddler strangely pleased with sitting in his own dirty diaper; O'Reilly, an old, grumpy, flatulent bloodhound; “Oily” Hannity, a plump, simpering tube of rancid baloney. And, yipes! Mikey Savage -- a cautionary tale for us all, eh chickabee? Virulent, pandering, oleaginous little plague rat, shrieking 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.
I don’t have the stomach to bring up all the GOP presidential candidates now working for Rupert Morlock, I mean Murdoch: that's a diseased litter that cries out for drowning. Each new generation makes the preceding, loathsome generation of Republican politicians look like moral and intellectual giants. No wonder they don’t believe in evolution. (Bob Dole, Bush Senior, John McCain before you sold your immortal soul for sawdust, Grima Wormtongue: We miss you!)
And now a veritable mob of auto-pimping Quislings -- the eager whippersnappers at Drudge and National Review and all their yapping, blogging ilk -- scamper puppy-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 (and the “patriot” plutocrats who feed them): “Take me! Take me! I’ll bark, I’ll crow, I’ll squeal like a pig if only you give me money!” Who wouldn't want a fat slice of that American pie? But still nothing grabs 'em like a hip-cocked, spittle-lipped blonde in a tight skirt (or a buxom, beehive brunette in a bikini), fingering the greasy trigger of an AR-15, looking to bag a few dusky immigrants before Miller time.
While cooing about Jesus and the Constitution.
Loud, heinous, toxic spew -- the "brain-dead megaphone" George Saunders calls it. It's all about the customer, isn't it? Serving up what they want, cooked just the way they like it, and slathered in bile like a biscuit in gravy.
At Wal-Mart, I noticed several admirers sniffing your latest bestseller, “Blow-Holes on the Septic Tank: American Conservatives Speak from the Heart.” Their sophisticated appreciation conjured to mind nothing so much as those carnivorous hogs on "Deadwood" after a fresh corpse had been thrown into the pen.
You've truly earned their regard. As you have mine.
Sincerely, your biggest fan,
Henry E. Panky, Associate of Arts (candidate)
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