Ann Coulter's Cunt Saves America:
Ann Coulter's cunt is a fabulous cunt, all stretched-out and pretty on the cover of Time. A cunt such as Ann's is a rare thing for the right, so used to Phyllis Schlafly's cunt, so closed off, so filled with reproach for those who would dare to approach. No, Ann Coulter's cunt is inviting; its labial lips, the minor ones, you know, whisper invitations, coo to conservatives, "We're wet, oh, so wet, and lubricated, ready for you."

Yes, Time magazine, that fine magazine, can't get enough of Ann Coulter's cunt. Just a week or two ago, Ann Coulter's cunt was declared one of the most influential cunts in all of the world. In the entire world, where tribes in Cambodia and Ecuador and Zambia have built idols of Ann Coulter's cunt, worshipping it like they do mad, ancient phallic gods, all of whom would be conquered, overwhelmed by its clitoral hood.

Ann Coulter's cunt is so misunderstood: it's all jokes, not cruel invective it spouts. Ann Coulter's cunt declares that because rapist Brian Nichols escaped in Atlanta because he was able to get a gun from a female cop, "How many people have to die before the country stops humoring feminists?" Oh-ho, oh-ho, oh-ho-ho-ho, what a glorious sense of irony has Ann Coulter's cunt. If by "irony," you mean "saying exactly what you mean in the most vicious way possible," which Ann Coulter's cunt does endlessly, wonderfully; it's so fine to watch a cunt spout and spit like Ann Coulter's cunt does.

But Time magazine, dear Time magazine, makes sure we know that Ann Coulter's cunt is a hot, lovin' cunt, that goes to church, loves its mama cunt, and teaches small children wearing thigh-high dresses and calf-high boots. Sure, to be "balanced," John Cloud says that Ann Coulter's cunt is sloppy sometimes. Sure, sure, sure, facts are malleable things: only Internet freaks and worthless liberals would dare call attention to the lies of Ann Coulter's cunt. But Cloud calls it all, sweetly, the cunt's "feline aggression."

Ann Coulter's cunt is delightfully iconoclastic, so primped and polished and Ivy-League educated. How, shocking, says John Cloud, to discover Ann Coulter's cunt dislikes pornography, as it wrote while at Cornell, in sweet Ithaca. Why it's Andrea Dworkin's twin, don't you see? Ann Coulter's cunt goes to the best parties, with the elitest of the elite, all delighting in the charm of Ann Coulter's cunt. It lives in blue Manhattan, in a gigantic apartment, and has stalkers, the mark of real celebrity. The Aryan cunt scoffs at the idea that it's racist for it to suggest that all people of a certain shade of tan be separated for extra searching at the airports. When Ann Coulter's cunt says, "We'd be searching, you know, Italians, Spanish, Jews, males," it's irony, c'mon, not hate, for how could a cunt as beautiful as Ann Coulter's be taken seriously?

Ann Coulter's cunt has so many friends, all those other cunts and pricks who think Ann Coulter's cunt is just lovely. It's friends with Miguel Estrada's prick, Ron Silver's prick and Matt Drudge's cunt, all on crusades, don't you know? They'll change the world if given the chance, to one where liberals are put into camps, purged, and forced to wear dunce caps and march through the streets. Oh-ho, oh-ho, oh-ho-ho-ho, or is that more irony, to ask if liberals "love America as much as they love bin Laden and Castro?"

Ann Coulter's cunt perhaps does not see the irony in the fact that the triumphs of those bitchy feminists allow it to parade around so freely, that the world Ann Coulter's cunt hopes to create would have little use for Ann Coulter's cunt. But such self-awareness is for a whole person, and not just a cunt.

Whenever the powerful need to do some fucking or the disempowered need to be fucked, they can all count on Ann Coulter's cunt.