By Ann Coulter

Has there ever been a more thrilling time to be young and fascist? I am now twenty-nine years old, as I have been ever since the fall of the Berlin Wall. During my privileged yet embittered life, I have never before witnessed such a glorious period as we enjoy today. Never-ending war. Severe restrictions of civil liberties. Quaking journalists afraid to dissent from the conservative party line. Economic hardship on the parasitic lower classes. Federal courts packed with devotees of Richard Wagner music. An atmosphere of abject terror, not to mention acid rain. It all makes me feel as clean and fresh as a Summer's Eve.

What more could a flaxen haired and (exceedingly) leggy beauty possibly want?

Marriage. I hear my biological clock ticking louder than Saddam's weapons of mass destruction and realize that I need a man - STAT!

Of course, not just any man will do. A woman of my facial superiority merits only the finest of men. Tragically, James Earl Ray is still dead. I have reluctantly come to terms with the fact that I will have to settle for someone who is less accomplished, but my standards remain higher than the Congressional Black Caucus after a "fact-finding mission" to a crack house.

The ideal man must be at least six foot three, with curly blond hair and a muscular, brawny physique. He must have a dynamic personality dripping with irresistible charisma. He will exude such compelling sexuality that women can't resist stripping naked and hurling themselves at his feet. Simply put, this gal is on the prowl for another Dick Cheney.

My guy will be a man of considerable means, as I do not intend to subsist on government cheese in a trailer park that is populated with subhuman Nader voters.


My husband will, of course, be a Republican, at least until Mr. Scaife starts that new political party to restore the Confederacy.


He will love moonlit nights and romantic leisurely strolls through the countryside on the way to occupying - I mean visiting - Warsaw.

He will not - I repeat - not celebrate the Eight Annoying Days of Chanukah, have a diet that primarily consists of dachshunds, or get all dewy eyed when some wetback mariachi band strikes up "La Cucaracha".

He will worship Jesus; not the scruffy, sandal wearing, anti-rich fraud invented by atheistic Democrat nut muffins, but our Lord and Savior as He really exists: visualize a thrilling combination of George F. Will and Rambo!

He will work in the private sector, partly because government is inherently evil, and partly because of that asinine law that forbids Iran-Contra felons from running for elective office.

He will be the paragon of discretion and pseudo-moral indignation, learning to feign horror while saying things like, "Matt Drudge? Gay? How absurd!"

He will always be immaculately well-groomed, i.e., clean shaven; if I wanted to marry someone who periodically chooses to look like Cousin Itt, then I would change my first name to "Tipper".

He will never listen to Sheryl Crow music, watch "The West Wing", go to Susan Sarandon movies, or engage in any other pro-Saddam act of treason.

Above all, my husband will never (EVER!) take me to attend the memorial service of some charred-beyond-recognition lefty senator, lest the both of us have to endure the sadistic brutality of hate-crazed liberal psychos who are obsessed with turning even the most solemn occasion into "The Lord Of The Flies".

This would be an opportune time for those of you who meet the above qualifications to contact me (acoulter@aol.coM) and make your best presentation. If we marry by the end of March, Paul Wolfowitz has promised that we will be given special Pentagon authorization to honeymoon in what remains of Baghdad.

An Aryan man and his pure bred wife celebrating their vows of Holy Matrimony in front of vanquished lesser peoples.
The sweet irony of a new life together blooming amidst the overpowering stench of widespread carnage.

Contrary to the cruel caricature painted by vicious liberals, I am such a sentimentalist that just thinking about it brings tears to my seductive eyes of azure blue. Beyond everything else, fellas, I guess that's what I have to offer you as a wife - a sensitive and caring heart.

In closing, I would be remiss if I did not acknowledge the passing of an American institution. Since my most recent column, America has lost Fred Rogers, the star of the Politburo Broadcasting Network's Mister Rogers Neighborhood.

And not a moment too soon. Rogers' effeminate, limp-wristed approach to child rearing is well documented to have turned more young American males into Sodomites than anything since Democrats fluoridated the drinking water. Whenever you single gals see a really good-looking guy wearing nylons and pumps, you can give thanks for all of your lonely nights to that recently departed evil sweater-wearing little Rogers dweeb.

Burn in Hell, Nancyboy. Burn in Hell!

Please remember to read Miss Coulter's dynamic new blockbuster, "The Shadowy Hillary In The Grassy Knoll: Who REALLY Shot That Adulterous Socialist Kennedy Bastard?" (Regnery, $24.95).