I've never understood the claim made by some liberal males of my acquaintance that they'd like to fuck Ann Coulter. Specifically, what they claim is that they'd like to "hate-fuck" her, much the same way Craigslist users with personal ads professed a strong interest, during the 2004 RNC in New York, to want to exact their vengeance on red state America by busting a cathartic nut with the help of visiting Republican bodies. Usually the scenario took the form of angry lefty male seeking self-satisfied but insane righty female, but the gender-political split occasionally went the other way, too.
As for Ms. Coulter, my distaste is this. Physically, she totals lesser than the sum of her parts rather the way Daryl Hannah does. Emotionally, her confessions of hysterical virginity don't do much to entice, even though the Aryan Jeanne d'Arc talk practically curls the pages of her notorious books with all its heavy panting.
Vladimir Nabokov once wrote to his friend Edmund Wilson that he'd "sooner try to open a sardine can with my penis" than apply that Russian organ to any of the belabored and strangely unerotic harlots that appeared in Wilson's Memoirs of Hecate County, a book of short stories whose enusing indecency troubles in the courts (and successes on the bestsellers list) also nourished Nabokov's idea for his own salacious masterpiece. The sardine can test is one that I dutifully apply to right-wing punditrixes.
But so far the only one who passes with flying colors is Michelle Malkin. As if reading my own filthy mind, she goes and ups the ante with her painfully unfunny but painfully titillating "Hot Air" video denouncing Congressional Democrats who favor a timetable for withdrawal from Iraq:
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