An Evening In The Life of Ann Coulter
by Bill

The door opens into the penthouse Manhattan apartment of
conservative hack Ann Coulter. She shambles into the dark,
empty apartment, worn out after another nerve-wracking round
of appearances on several cable news shows. She seems so
confident on TV, but in reality the anxiety of her empty,
wasted life eats away at her, even as she spouts her glib,
hateful ideas in front of accomodating talk show hosts.

Despite her image as a “blond bombshell” she well knows
her days as any kind of a sex symbol are long over. As
she saunters into the bathroom to remove the 3-inch
thick layer of makeup that cakes her corpse-like face,
she sees staring back at her in the mirror a bitter, angry
old hag with a protruding Adam’s Apple and lines around
her mouth from her constant sneering.

Ann walks into the kitchen to get the only thing that
can dull the pain of her phony, useless life: liquor.
As she pours herself a glass of whiskey (no mixer or
even any ice) she wonders, for the one millionth time:
Why am I so lonely? Why doesn’t anyone like me?
So much money and fame, and yet so alone. She starts
sobbing, as she often does at this point of the
evening. It seems to have become a nightly ritual.

She decides to cheer herself up by trying to think of
new callous, half-baked things to write in her
increasingly unpopular syndicated column. “How
about…”, she muses excitedly, “…wouldn’t it be
funny if someone gunned down Hillary? Haw, haw,
haw!!” or…she strains to form a thought…”I know!”,
she exclaims. “Muslims are flithy animals, we
need to put them in the zoo! Haw, haw haw!!!”.

But her good mood dissipates once again, as she
is haunted by the frequent thought of how she
will never find a man who doesn’t dump her
after two dates, how she’ll never have children
or any real friends. She finally breaks down crying
again when she is hit with the thought–the same
one with which she ends so many evenings–
of how she’ll die alone, a bitter old hag no one
ever loved.

She stumbles in a drunken stupor to her empty
king size bed, where she passes out, a half-full
glass of Jack Daniels falling out of her hand onto
the floor next to the bed…the rank brown liquid
seeping into the bedroom carpet, turning into a
stain as dark as her soul.