From five years ago today (Nov 1, 2011) , a rant on the subject of Ann Coulter, shared anew because of the — trigger warning for vomitous imagery — rather septic wordsmithery, of which I am perversely proud.
(quote)
I have, from time to time in my life, met people who proudly declared that they liked the blonde nazi swizzle stick.
They never had fangs.
One was a kindly gentleman sharing a hospital room with my father; one was a nice lady with whom I was having dinner; one was a friend of many years. I would never have accused any of them of the profound mental illness that all common sense tells me, would have to be wreaking havoc to one’s thinking process, in order to happily listen to the acidic, hate-mongering nonsense that daily spews from the Hilda Speck of the right. This is not about “conservatism.” This is about simple human decency.
I was sometimes moved to ask these kind and generous people how they reacted to specific quotes from the peroxide pustule of putridity: like how they felt about her accusing 9/11 widows of celebrating the deaths of their husbands, or calling for the bombing of the New York Times building, or — well, there are any number of examples, but I will certainly be asking the question of the latest diseased foolishness she just tossed into the body politic, like a stupidity grenade, “Our blacks are so much better than their blacks.” How could anybody even think of saying something like that without thinking they’d never be able to appear in public again, without being pelted with cream pies? How can anybody think that this woman, probably born of monkey pus baked in a woman-shaped cookie mold, deserves air time let alone the status of respected opinion-maker?
Her one positive attribute is that she’s not quite as bad as Pam Geller, but the two of them are racing to the finish line of a loathesomeness triathlon.
People: if you have sensitive stomachs, you may want to avoid the next paragraph, a fable.
There was once a man who showed up at his community’s Labor Day picnic, on a bright shiny day, beneath a clear blue sky; and he looked out at the vast, teeming public buffet, with the cold cuts, the carved turkey, the noodle pudding, the watermelon slices; the apples, the honey cakes; the pride and joy of a community’s generosity; and he walked up to the table, currently being overlooked because of the play and conviviality taking place all around him, and he hopped up onto one end of the displayed bounty, kicked off his pants, revealed buttocks warty and unwashed, and began to emit an explosion of septic foulness, that he’d been storing in his bowels for over a week of straining self-control, in preparation for this very occasion. He spewed. As the masses screamed in horror, mothers covering the eyes of their precious children and the sensitive oldsters doubling over to fertilize the bushes with the commestibles revulsion had rendered their bellies no longer able to tolerate, he hopped from one end of the table to the other, kicking crockery aside, writing his name in a single exquisitely calligraphed shit-cable, as unbroken as toothpaste squeezed from a fresh tube. It snaked and circled and hopped the punch bowl and contributed to the raisin bread and garnished the melon balls and so on until, finally, at the end of the twenty feet of lovingly-displayed food now unfit for human consumption, the last of it emerged from his proud sphincter in a tapering, blackened curlicue, with a single undigested kernel of corn as punctuation mark. Then he grinned at everybody and sang “Mammy.”
Later, asked why he would have done such an awful thing, he explained, “Well, at least they paid attention to me.”
You need look no further than that story to completely understand Ann Coulter.
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