Ann Coulter is part of a conspiracy to destroy what little cohesion remains within the US political system. Here’s why:
She is an extremely well educated person, and profoundly intelligent. Therefore she must be consciously aware of the garbage she spews from her dark hellgate of a mouth. Some reason must be driving her to do it. The most obvious answer is greed and spotlight. And we could just stop there: Ann Coulter is a whore. Has she however earned such an easy conclusion? Absolutely not. The mere quantity of foul sick that is her literary accomplishment warrants a far more insidious answer. She is knowingly trying to ruin the possibility of consensus in this country; it is her singular goal to cripple, through division, the power of the people and thereby overturn the very foundation upon which this and any democracy is built. Here’s how:
Ann Coulter does not avail herself of some niche market. No, one either loves her, or loves to hate her, and regardless reads what she writes. Her position as guru of the ultra right is made more solid by the deep loathing all democrats have for her. And from this position of power she is uniquely situated to divide the people. She is a polarizing force. The far right, emboldened by the injustices their Ann receives at the hands of the left, becomes more ductile, more pliable, more conformable, mere putty in her hands, further and further right. The left, incensed that anybody actually takes the racist blonde sonofabitch seriously, unprejudicially disregards as false everything she hacks forth. Eventually nothing can bridge the gap between these two parties. The political process halts. Hate fills the forum. Discourse is reduced to name-calling. And on this road to hell, Ann plays the puppet master.
I like to think of Ann in front of the mirror at home. Tearstained and ill, she slaps her cheeks and accuses herself of being ugly and fat. She uses the toothbrush she always offers to one night stands to induce her bulimia. Afterwards she blows a huge line of coke and jumps on the treadmill until her self loathing is swallowed by physical pain. If only it weren’t just a temporary fix. At her weakest moments she lets herself into the unmarked back door of a lesbian swingers club. There she is roughly, frenetically violated by some bull dyke with a massive strap-on and then, left cold and alone, she cries her black heart out on that unhappy, familiar concrete slab in the “dungeon fantasy” room.
Ann Coulter lives in hell. I wouldn’t wish the hell she lives in on anyone, not even Ann Coulter. And I hope to God, for her poor sake, that Nietzsche’s Eternal Recurrence is not literally true.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Posting mostly infrequent
I feel like I should apologize, having now added myself to some sort of blog networking site, about how thinly spread the posts here are. So, sorry about that. On the up side, it makes reading the whole damn thing all that much easier. And please give me either a really high or really low rating so I fell altogether less mediocre. It would be nice if more than nobody started reading my blog, my previous fan base of almost three having meanly left me for other, probably more pregnant--or, better, capable of imprenation--pastures. But enjoy what little I have to offer. Oh, and PS, this is not a shopping blog, whatever the fuck that means.
Thursday, October 01, 2009
A question of progress
On April 30th, 2008 Salman Rushdie was killed.
Alfred Metzger sat cat-backed as usual, resulting in many future back problems, staring through the bright reflection of the computer screen on his glasses. He had come to know, having observed the phenomenon for hours, that one’s general conduct around and towards one’s computer has the determining influence on its personality. Some people just couldn’t do computers right. He could. And that’s exactly what he was doing tonight. The machine hummed in ecstasy. The keyboard was like a clitoris, his mouse strokes sublime penetration. Maybe his hardware wasn’t theoretically capable of running the programs he wrote for it, but it did not complain. He was not fat, but not strong either. His arms would sometime sit there, limp and cold, dead flesh for minutes. Or he would lazily type with one hand, and rest the other under his chin. He was no good typer. But what he lacked in finesse, he made up for in genius. Nobody could touch him, when he was on the internet. His machine recognized that too.
The things he was capable of! The potential corruption he could wreak on the system scared him sometimes to tears. He would occasionally scream in short bursts for what seemed like no reason. But he did his job. He had earned this level of access. People trusted him. He had every clearance recognized by the government. Private corporations put all the keys in his hands. He had also contemplated it, and he was mostly certain that he could ignite revolution. Manipulation of mass opinion was literally at his finger tips. One can imagine a man going crazy in such circumstances.
He shut it all down, went upstairs and entered another world. Naked women, extremely beautiful, lay all around, dozing or chatting or otherwise occupied, on big, gorgeous pillows and sofas of satin. The dominant colors were red and deep gray; vibrant blue and green showed up as vase or lamp in the soft, decadent light. His decoration was gaudy but sensuous, sexually exciting. He was showing off.
The decadence was, however, misleading. With barley a word he climbed another set of stairs and found his dark room. Upon entering he could smell himself. The sheets were unwashed, his clothes all flung about. If this room were his soul then he was a monster, but a delicate kind. He washed his hands in the sink in the corner, took all his clothes off, crawled into bed, clapped the light off, and turned on the tv.
The news was the same: everything is falling apart. New structures are being erected. We’re all going straight to hell. He flipped the channels. One program caught his interest, it was: “the one year anniversary of the death of a genius, Salman Rushdie remembered.” He remembered that story. Some crazy lady had killed him and then killed herself. One less genius in the world. They can’t survive here, not anymore. The climate’s all wrong. Could he change that? Could he create more geniuses? More like himself? Maybe not. He farted loudly. He would probably stay up for a few hours, maybe watch some of his favorite series. No rush. Then sleep.
Alfred Metzger sat cat-backed as usual, resulting in many future back problems, staring through the bright reflection of the computer screen on his glasses. He had come to know, having observed the phenomenon for hours, that one’s general conduct around and towards one’s computer has the determining influence on its personality. Some people just couldn’t do computers right. He could. And that’s exactly what he was doing tonight. The machine hummed in ecstasy. The keyboard was like a clitoris, his mouse strokes sublime penetration. Maybe his hardware wasn’t theoretically capable of running the programs he wrote for it, but it did not complain. He was not fat, but not strong either. His arms would sometime sit there, limp and cold, dead flesh for minutes. Or he would lazily type with one hand, and rest the other under his chin. He was no good typer. But what he lacked in finesse, he made up for in genius. Nobody could touch him, when he was on the internet. His machine recognized that too.
The things he was capable of! The potential corruption he could wreak on the system scared him sometimes to tears. He would occasionally scream in short bursts for what seemed like no reason. But he did his job. He had earned this level of access. People trusted him. He had every clearance recognized by the government. Private corporations put all the keys in his hands. He had also contemplated it, and he was mostly certain that he could ignite revolution. Manipulation of mass opinion was literally at his finger tips. One can imagine a man going crazy in such circumstances.
He shut it all down, went upstairs and entered another world. Naked women, extremely beautiful, lay all around, dozing or chatting or otherwise occupied, on big, gorgeous pillows and sofas of satin. The dominant colors were red and deep gray; vibrant blue and green showed up as vase or lamp in the soft, decadent light. His decoration was gaudy but sensuous, sexually exciting. He was showing off.
The decadence was, however, misleading. With barley a word he climbed another set of stairs and found his dark room. Upon entering he could smell himself. The sheets were unwashed, his clothes all flung about. If this room were his soul then he was a monster, but a delicate kind. He washed his hands in the sink in the corner, took all his clothes off, crawled into bed, clapped the light off, and turned on the tv.
The news was the same: everything is falling apart. New structures are being erected. We’re all going straight to hell. He flipped the channels. One program caught his interest, it was: “the one year anniversary of the death of a genius, Salman Rushdie remembered.” He remembered that story. Some crazy lady had killed him and then killed herself. One less genius in the world. They can’t survive here, not anymore. The climate’s all wrong. Could he change that? Could he create more geniuses? More like himself? Maybe not. He farted loudly. He would probably stay up for a few hours, maybe watch some of his favorite series. No rush. Then sleep.
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