MY URGE TO MERGE
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
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
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 -
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 (email@example.comM) 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).