Okay, you were right — our Mystery Author WAS Ann Coulter. (The first quote was from an interview she gave to Human Events Online, the second was from her latest column.)
So, yeah, when Ann called the 9/11 widows “witches”, and said that they were taking pleasure in their husbands’ deaths, she was motivated by her Christian faith. And when she added “And by the way, how do we know their husbands weren’t planning to divorce these harpies? Now that their shelf life is dwindling, they better hurry up and appear in Playboy,” she was just doing it for Jesus.
Anyway, as a reward for your fine efforts in identifying Ann despite my attempts at misdirection, here are a few quotes from a very annoying Esquire Feature Story. (The piece is a valentine to Ann from one of those ”lifelong lefties” who doesn’t believe in any liberal positions, and who thinks Ann makes a lot of good points. The middle-aged author takes Ann to a ball game, and claims to find Ann funny, intelligent, charming and hot. I guess Esquire, having lost the horny young guy market to Maxim, is trying to capture the old, right-wing, crazy guy niche.)
But on to the quotes:
I’ve brought a single pale-pink rose for her. And I’m nervous as hell.“A rose!” she squeals. “Oh, thank you!”
She seems honestly tickled. Her voice is girlish, her smile wide, her eyes bright and blue-green. She’s wearing tight jeans, a light top not far from the shade of my rose, and a small cross on a chain ’round her narrow, well-scrubbed neck. Into her forties now, she looks a smooth ten years younger.
Personally, I was kind of touched by the mention of Ann’s neck being “well-scrubbed.” I guess Ann tried to wash away her Adam’s apple for this “date.”
“You know, if I wrote about how all sex is rape, if I were Elizabeth Wurtzel writing about Prozac, or Naomi Wolf, I would have been on the cover of every one of these magazines. They pretend to write about serious things while putting chicks in short skirts on their covers. I’ve written three nonfiction best-sellers and I’ll put on a miniskirt for them. But no. No. I don’t exist.”
If only.
And yes, it really is sad the way the media totally ignores Ann and her serious, profound works, and so she only gets the cover of TIME — while super models who actually look good in their mini dresses get to be on the covers of the men’s magazines.
“You’ve never been married, have you?” I ask.
“No,” Ann says. “I want to, but it has to be the right guy.”“
“And even then,” I say, “it’s never a walk in the park.”
In the glum, awkward silence that follows—unless you’re either Dr. Phil or planning to propose, talking about marriage with an unmarried forty-year-old woman is not a good idea—I fish a Commit lozenge from my pocket and pop it.
“Nicotine,” I explain.
She fairly shrieks.
I’m sure she does.
But let’s take a moment to reflect on that glum, awkward moment that arose when the Equire writer mentioned marriage within the hearing of sad old-maid Ann (who is, BTW, closer to 50 than 40). Yes, let’s all shed a tear for poor Ann, who really, really wants to get married and get out of the spotlight, and devote her life to having babies and making cookies and such, but she just hasn’t found the right guy. THAT’s the problem.
“I have two patches on right now—and Nicorette gum in my purse! I quit last October and I don’t feel any better—no better whatsoever. Plus, it’s like a miracle drug. When you’re upset, it calms you down.”
“That’s the fundamental problem with the war on drugs,” I say. “They work so well.”
“I keep haranguing doctors, demanding that they admit to me that this is just another Alar scare. Remember Alar on apples? This is going to pass, and then they’ll admit it was never bad. I keep cigarettes around—in case there’s a nuclear attack and I know I only have a few days to live, I’m just gonna sit there and smoke.”
And then after she dies, she’s gonna sit there and smoke for a really long time. (As the title of a novel put it, Everyone Smokes in Hell.)
But I think that Ann should hook up with John Stossel (in a professional sense, I mean — I don’t want to gross you out this early in the morning) and write a book about how smoking is actually good for you, but the medical profession, in league with the liberal media and government, don’t want you to know this. They could do it for Jesus.