The messy meltdown of Ann Coulter
One would think that 1999 Chlamydia Poster Girl Ann Coulter would have been happy with the results of last weeks election. But she appears to have jumped the shark. Her latest is, well…. its a trainwreck of a column.There’s not enough Lithium in New York City to straighten this putative woman out.
I’ve noticed over the past two weeks that she has developed an obsession with abortion, mentioning it over and over again, leading me to believe that someone’s biological clock is fast approaching midnight and the ticking is getting louder than the Tell-Tale Heart. I’m not saying that Ann needs to get laid since I’m sure her neighbors can attest to the nightly screams of “Ravish me, Mandingo” from her bedroom window. But you really have to wonder about anyone who has become so obsessed with another woman’s uterus instead of the barren, rocky moonscape of her own. Perhaps as H.I. said in Raising Arizona “no seed can find purchase” there. Maybe Ann is staring at a future filled with fifteen cats each bearing the name of an imaginary child she never had, and the lost tender memory of the only man who could ever make her feel like a woman: Spencer Abraham. Love is cruel that way.
I’ll leave it to future psychologists to read her writings and trace her decline from New Canaan debutante to Heritage Foundation Lizzy Borden, so for now let us be gentle and understanding and say that life has been most unkind to Ann Coulter, and because of this sad state of affairs she has become one crazy bee-yotch who needs a good smackin’.