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5/25/02


 

A MALEVOLENT POX UPON HUMANITY

By Ann Coulter

Move over, Benedict Arnold.

Step aside, Judas Iscariot.

Mr. Peanut is coming through.

As I watched Jimmy Carter commit treason and betray every principle of Christian civilization by schmoozing (that’s a Jewish word that Lucianne Goldberg uses – I think it has something to do with sex) in Havana with Fidel Castro, I was able to totally purge my lunch (one stalk of celery washed down by two bottles of Chardonnay) without even having to go through the usual nauseating routine of visualizing passage of the 1965 Voting Rights Act.

You know how it is when you’re shopping for silk stockings (extra long/extra svelte) at Victoria’s Secret and Mr. Scaife calls to let you know that Karl just told him to get the hell out of airline stocks because there is going to be a “little lapse” in national security within the next twenty four hours but you wind up getting totally screwed because you don’t have your cell phone with you as a result of dropping it in some really scratchy Chappaqua shrubs while on a surveillance mission with your fellow freedom fighters, Matt Drudge and Linda Tripp?

If Jimmy Carter had ever actually wanted to make himself useful, then he would have foregone worrying about famine and pestilence, concentrating instead on inventing a telepathic means of communications. That way, someone wouldn’t have lost her shirt (tailored Szechwan silk, $349.95) when the stocks of United and American got chopped in half overnight. You want to talk about making a valuable contribution to international rights? Had Carter’s priorities been in order, then a certain babe-a-licious American superpundit would still have the rights to her tres chic chateau on the French Riviera. But I guess for a dilettante like “Jimma”, the grueling work of perfecting a new technology is not quite as trendy as violating the Logan Act in order to transfer American nuclear secrets to Castro, or posing in the badlands of the Serengeti with fly riddled orphans…bless their bloated little stomachs.

Some people are so self-centered!

We can only hope that his homecoming plane detours through the Bermuda Triangle. This latest Carter abomination consists of illegally conducting a personal foreign policy with the only guy in the hemisphere who has more facial hair than Janet Reno. The assignation with Castro is even worse than when Carter tried to frame Ronald Reagan for stealing his briefing book. What could have possibly been in there, anyway? How to brush your teeth with a broom? First Aid instructions on getting mauled by amphibious rabbits?

The Carter record on foreign affairs has always been abysmally pathetic; responsibility for the current Middle East conflict leads right to Plains, Georgia. If this idiot hadn’t coerced Begin and Sadat to sign the Camp David Accords, the Israelis and Arabs would have already totally annihilated each other. The area would be unpopulated and peaceful as can be. So, it is intellectually dishonest for liberals to deny the fact that there would be absolutely no violence in the region today… if not for one James Earl Carter.

His obsessive yammering about “human rights” is enough to make even a sensitive, nonviolent, exceptionally good-looking person like me want to hit him in the head with a shovel and then just kick the crap out of him. Okay, let’s stipulate that they have it tough in Sri Lanka. Now, how about focusing on the agonizing pain and suffering that occurs in this country? For starters, if Carter could find a way to prevent thieves from taking the hood ornament off the Mercedes Benz SL 500, then he’d being showing me some real world humanitarianism devoid of the insufferable bleeding heart frou-frou.

What a loser he is! And, speaking of losers, don’t think that I’ve forgotten about you, Bob Guccione, Jr. “Bondage is a completely natural part of a healthy, long term committed relationship,” you said. Yeah, sure! I still have the welts, but I haven’t heard from you in four years! Who is your new squeeze, Bobby? If she’s a Gore voter, I have just one question: Does she braid the hair under her arms?

Let’s get this one thing on the record: I came and I gave without taking – but you sent me away…

If I were a former president, I would waste less time worrying about genocidal maniacs in places like East Timor and focus my concern on interior decorators in West Hollywood. Let’s shed the shackles of political correctness and lay it on the line: America has gone queer. You know that this country is headed to Hell in a hand basket when the most masculine member of the United States House of Representatives is Barney Frank. A single conservative female living in Washington, D.C., has about as much chance of meeting a rock ribbed Republican heterosexual male as a Gentile has of becoming chairman of the Federal Reserve.

It should not be a mystery why there is absolutely no unit cohesion in the G.O.P. caucus. Thank God conservative politicians don’t vote the way they choose to live, or the Speaker of the House would be RuPaul.

I’m lonely, dammit, but I’m not willing to date commies who buy into that “freedom and justice for all” garbage. The only thing about my man that I want to be red is his neck. If Carter can develop a little pill that makes Tom DeLay or Dick Armey turn off the Judy Garland music and ask me out, then he will have finally done something socially relevant.

And if the Peach State Satan wants to suffer vicariously for a persecuted group of hopelessly outnumbered minorities, allow me to direct his attention to the National Basketball Association. As best I can tell, the only thing that the poor Caucasian guys are allowed to do in this league is own the teams. For a cute Anglo-Saxon girl with flowing blond hair and an adorable figure, watching a professional basketball game is like drowning in a sea of chocolate milk.

And, as you may have recently noticed, they have now infested the Academy Awards, too. Denzel Washington over Russell Crowe? Puh-leeze! Can you say, “Let’s discriminate against the masculine Caucasian guy?” The alluring Aryan Aussie played the role of a tormented genius, and did so with power and subtlety. Washington portrayed a black guy. That might be tough for Sally Field to pull off, but in Washington’s case, it is known as playing to type. If Jimmy Carter really cares about racial injustice, he can start by breaking into Denzel’s house, taking the best Oscar statuette, and delivering it post haste to Big White Russ.

It won’t happen, because liberals love racism, unless the “victims” are malcontents who a) start rioting whenever one of their own is convicted of jaywalking, or b) compose musical tributes to cockroaches, or c) subsist on a diet of Cocker Spaniels. As my good friend Clarence Thomas said to me last October at the Bull Connor Day Celebration in Alabama, “Why can’t America just be for those of us who are white, like it was before the Indians showed up?”

Jimmy Carter was the worst president this nation ever had, and he is the worst ex-president, which is a pretty amazing accomplishment when you stop to consider that the Antichrist left office less than two years ago. Carter’s public relations campaign to glorify himself as a good guy who is building houses for the homeless doesn’t fool me. In order to make people forget that he was the limp wrist who wanted us to unilaterally surrender to the Communists and become their comfort women, Carter is selfishly trying to undo what it took eight years for Ronald Reagan to accomplish: provide people who have trouble adapting to the claustrophobic confines of suburbia with the liberating al fresco experience of the freeway underpass.

It’s time to apply some science here: not all people are wired the same way. Some are naturally geared to luxuriate in mansions, while others are better suited temperamentally to wallow in dumpsters. This is an anthropological fact that can’t be changed by the cocktail party palaver of emotional limousine liberals, seditious bastards that they are.

By disrupting the natural order of things, Carter saturates himself with ersatz prestige, but at what cost to those who are now misplaced like square pegs in round holes? What happens during the winter, when frostbitten poor people decide to set fire to their hovels that Jimmy built because they lack the mental necessities to operate a thermostat? When the social fabric unravels as a result, will he be around to pick up the pieces? Or will Carter again be helping Castro torture the fans of Cuban émigré Gloria Estefan with the dreaded carnivorous Caribbean earwig that was used so sadistically by Bob Woodward to force Julie Nixon Eisenhower to become Deep Throat?

Contrast the insane behavior of this venereal drip of a man with the dignified ex-presidential demeanor of George Herbert Walker Bush. Without grandstanding, the modest Poppy selflessly uses government contacts obtained during a lifetime of public service to raise money for worthy causes. Through a grueling behind-the-scenes effort, he has generated tens of millions of dollars, some of which reportedly has gone to provide aid to a pair of troubled young alcoholic women with ongoing legal problems. Yet the liberal media smears his philanthropic activities with their slanderous Carlyle Group conspiracy theories, just because he is not a goober-growing Friend of Fidel crazed with a compulsive desire to shove the elderly siblings of Desi Arnaz into an Iron Maiden and then slam the door shut!

Jimmy Carter, you loathsome creature, you are reviled by every human being with a soul, and also by some Jews. Each night, as I wax and buff my legs that are as silky smooth as a gentle tropical breeze, I think of the almost incomprehensible magnitude of your depravity, and I unselfconsciously hang my perfectly shaped head to sob in silent protest. Yet, despite the righteous river of tears, my Maybelline All Weather mascara remains completely intact.

As you see, Mr. Carter, some things are so sacred that even a malevolent pox upon humanity like you is utterly powerless to destroy them.

An accomplished author and lecturer, Miss Coulter is currently appearing at the Burt Reynolds Dinner Theatre in Jupiter, Florida, where she is wowing the critics as “Spot” in a stage adaptation of The Munsters.

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