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.