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THE AMERICAN VOLTAIRE
By Ann Coulter
Pop quiz time, liberal swine. What is the identity of the extremely talented
and breathtakingly gorgeous writer who has been atop the New York Times
Bestseller List for the last four weeks? I challenge you to name that special
someone who has reigned supreme for an entire month, which is more than twice as
long as any Democrat has ever gone without committing incest.
Memo to leftist websites: I am officially the number one author in America,
and you are officially pathetic failures. Despite all of your libelous slurs
about how “crazy” I am, or what a “Nazi” I am, or how I barter
Monica-style favors in exchange for French fries, I have reached the summit of
the publishing world. I now stand astride the written word like a mighty
colossus (a colossally good looking colossus).
And to set the record straight once and for all, it was not French fries –
it was the Cartier Marie Antoinette “Let Them Eat Cake” Limited Edition
Diamond Encrusted Timepiece with the elegantly sleek 24-karat gold embroidered
wristband (Retail price: $17,995.99). This is an extremely rare and wonderful
watch, truly “The Gift Worth Swallowing For”.
Merci beaucoup, Monsieur Scaife. As long as you are my Daddy Big Bucks, I
will always be your Little Oral Annie.
But no longer am I just “Ann Of A Thousand Lays”.
I am best selling author – hear me roar!
Given that you liberals are probably too busy robbing convenience stores to
verify my claim of preeminence, you can have your parole officers look it
up for you. I am number one. That would be numero uno for the vast
majority of you earth toned Gore voters who are here illegally after wading
across the Rio Grande.
Socialist web weasels, this is the ideal time to take inventory:
ME: Number one author in America. Renowned columnist and lecturer. Revered
laissez faire deep thinker. Influencing policy at the highest levels of
government. Living in luxury. Hobnobbing with all the best people. Irresistibly
charismatic. Flawless Aryan genes. Blond, lustrous hair. Incomparably exquisite
facial features. Six feet tall. Forty six pounds. Sweet, cheerful disposition.
YOU: Not the number one author in America. Malicious semiliterate slob.
Convoluted unthinking conformist. Haplessly caterwauling to the sleazy nether
regions of society. Groveling in the abject poverty that accompanies being
addicted to black tar heroin. Associating only with your fellow inbred perverts.
Lacking refinement and charm. Most likely an offensive interracial mulatto
color. Ratty, lice ridden Don King hair. Marty Feldman eyes. Karl Malden nose.
Mini-Me body. Corrosively embittered by your sorry lot in life.
That’s why I don’t hate you. I pity you.
Actually, I am such a deep person that there is ample room in my heart to
both hate and pity you. You are
despicable hounds from Hell whose raison d’être is to evict God from
the Pledge of Allegiance, doubtlessly to be replaced by someone who is more
representative of the liberal philosophy (like Ho Chi Minh or Jeffrey Dahmer).
What makes my meteoric rise to immortality all the more impressive is that I
am just an upper class white chick from the suburbs of Connecticut. I do not
have all the advantages that the elitists enjoy. If I get caught speeding, the
teeming masses of South Central Los Angeles are not going to rush to my defense
by burning their city to the ground. I cannot go through life nagging everyone
to distraction just because six million of my closest friends might have had a
little mishap a few decades ago. I also can’t justify staggering around
aimlessly in a drunken stupor as the residual effect of someone having given my
forefathers a few blankets covered with small pox. And since I am not urine
colored, I wasn't automatically awarded a perfect score on the Scholastic
Aptitude Test.
No, when you bear the burden of being a WASP in an increasingly mongrelized
nation, you can only reach the top by implementing the good
old fashioned Protestant work ethic. There must be so much less pressure when
you are a member of some swarthy minority group and everyone just expects you to
be a disgraceful loser. I guess that explains why the Italians are so carefree.
I hope my spectacular commercial success eats away at each maggot who runs a
liberal website, literally burning the lining off your bloated stomach and
making it impossible for you to digest solid food so you have to go on liquid
diet but your bladder fails and you are reduced to being fed intravenously until
the needle gets clogged and then you slowly fade away into oblivion while
experiencing more horrifying agony than the collective suffering of every human
being who has ever lived!
Of course, my good breeding guarantees that I will be magnanimous and
self-effacing about my spectacular success. This starkly contrasts me with
liberals, who are so spiteful that it makes you wish you could put them all
into a giant blender and then hit “Puree”. I humbly owe everything to my
sincere faith in Jesus Christ, the very Savior with whom none of you Democrats
will be spending eternity. I guess Heaven is going to be a lot like the
convention of the Daughters of the American Revolution except, God willing, the
busboys won’t all sound like that Taco Bell Chihuahua.
Finally, on a personal note: MakeThemAccountable.com, you are the lowest
liberal website of them all. The armpit of humanity. The septic tank of the
universe. I’ve never actually soiled my seductive blue eyes by reading your
ill written filth, but a lawyer friend of mine over at the Washington Post tells
me that Make Them Accountable is a real piece of crap. Your worthless site
apparently exists for no purpose other than to smear people who, unlike you,
actually have talent. Tell the psychotic freak who is writing the shitty little
satires in my name that I’m willing to finance an all expense paid vacation
for him to any locale of his choice - as long as the locale of his choice is
ground zero of the Ebola virus.
And what manner of malevolent malcontent could run such a mean spirited site?
Can you really afford to take so much time away from your life’s work of
torturing puppies just in order to libel the American Voltaire? You are insanely
jealous because you have never been invited to any of Dan Burton’s exclusive
forensic testing parties. Last weekend, by lobbing hand grenades at trays of
pasta fazule, we were able to conclusively establish that the My Lai Massacre
was actually the handiwork of one Ms. Barbara Lee.
The next time you are tempted to have a little
subversive fun at the expense of this luscious literary legend, keep one thing
in mind: Taking ineffectual potshots at America’s favorite wordsmith can only
further diminish you. Or, to put it in the inimitable Coulter phraseology (which
many have compared favorably to that of William Shakespeare), “I’m rubber
and you’re glue. Whatever you say bounces off me and sticks to you.”
When you are America’s best selling author,
turning such an elegant phrase is mere child’s play. But I caution you
liberals, who yearn for the works of a modern literary giant but have none
within your intellectually depleted left wing ranks: You had better enjoy my
artistic mastery in free guest columns like this one while you can. I rarely do
anything without charging for it.
Just ask Mr. Scaife.
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Please click here if you really believe that Ann Coulter really wrote this piece.
