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The Journal of Literary Satire | Hastily Written & Slopilly Edited
Friday, December 1, 2006


by Brian Beatty

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about Ann Coulter. In particular, I’ve been thinking a lot about her vagina. What happened to it, why it had to happen and who happened to think it would be a hilarious prank to let snakes loose in a political pundit’s twat.

Terrorist extremists aren’t known for their practical joking. Nor are Ms. Coulter’s right-wing peers.

Since she’s chosen, rather uncharacteristically, not to talk about her unfortunate plight on cable TV every waking hour of the news day (there must not be any money in it for her), I’ve been forced to imagine for myself how Ms. Coulter’s love tunnel became infested with seething, slithering ophidians.

Be glad that I endured this weird torture on your behalf.

It’s the stuff of nightmares, if still somewhat enjoyable. Like having sex Drew Barrymore.

This Republican guy I know worries that the Internet rumor I’m trying to start isn’t at all realistic. What if, he says, Ms. Coulter’s cooter isn’t, in fact, a killer tangle of poisonous, venom-spewing serpents?

My reply is tried and true: I don’t live in a magical land of ridiculous what-if’s — so I don’t care!

More importantly, there’s a prankster out there somewhere, without the credit he or she is due.

Unless, as I suspect, we’re too late with our kudos and gratitude.

I’m not saying that I’m certain it was Steve Irwin, the crocodile hunter recently in the press for dying, but I am suggesting that if he was responsible for the deed that transformed Ms. Coulter’s cunt into a reptile house rivaling any zoo in America, then we owe that late, great hero of a man more than just a handful of cut-and-paste memorial specials on Animal Planet.

As tributes go, those are pretty unacceptable, if you ask me.

Brian Beatty works and plays in Minneapolis, Minnesota. That's not as easy as it sounds.