The Downfall of Ann Coulter
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Tracking Down Ann Coulter free porn video
(My apologies in advance to anyone whose political sensibilities are
offended by this. ?Heather)
Tracking Down Ann Coulter
By Heather St. Claire
The woman had finally taken a break from her labors sorting donated
clothing at the local thrift store and had settled at a table in the
back room to eat the small avocado and cucumber sandwich she had fixed
for herself before leaving her motor home that morning.
"Hey Annie," one of her fellow volunteers said. "I think you'll want to
see this." He handed her a glossy magazine. It was the new issue of
Esquire. One of the articles promoted on the cover in large type was:
"Tracking Down Ann Coulter."
The woman looked up. At sixty years old, it didn't appear as if she had
added a pound to the lanky six-foot frame that had graced the covers of
a string of best-selling books and flashed across millions of television
screens. Her hair was still long, but now mostly gray, and was pulled
back into a pony tail held by a simple rubber band. She had crow's feet
at her eyes, and just a trace of a couple of other wrinkles, but they
seemed to soften her features instead of making her seem prematurely
old. Her eyes and smile conveyed a brightness, a kindness that had been
missing during her days of fame and infamy.
"Oh, damn," she said quietly as she took the magazine. "Thanks, I
think."
She stopped nibbling on her sandwich as she opened the magazine. She saw
a distant, slightly grainy shot of herself today entering a soup kitchen
and glossies of her, or rather the old Ann, in her heyday. She read on
with deep apprehension:
"The early 21st century will be remembered as the golden age of the
conservative shock jock, but the giants have all passed from the scene
now. Some, like Limbaugh, did long, slow fades; others, like Beck, rose
and fell quickly; but none left the stage with greater abruptness than
Ann Coulter.
"One day she was atop the best-seller list and all over cable, the 'net
and newspapers (yes, people still read news printed on dead trees back
then). The next day, she published a stunning book that jettisoned every
belief and cause she had ever championed; the day after that, she was
gone.
"After weeks of pursuing Coulter, including countless false leads and
dead-ends, I finally caught up with her at a soup kitchen in a small
Midwestern town where she was supervising a team of volunteers. When I
approached her as she was getting into her aging motor home, she was
less than pleased.
"'I really wish you'd stop hounding me," she said with an air of weary
resignation. "I am not a public figure anymore; I haven't been one for a
long time. I'm just a private citizen who wants to be left alone. I hate
to be confrontational, but if you don't stop bothering me, I'm going to
have to contact the police."
"I hate to be confrontational. Does she sense the delicious irony in
these words?
"'But Ann,' I insist, people want to know why you did such a radical
turn and walked away. You told us all about your new beliefs, but you
never told us why you changed.
She threw her hands up in the air. 'Write that the estrogen finally won
out. That my compassion gene finally kicked in. Write whatever you want.
That's what journalists do anyway.' With that, she turned abruptly and
walked away."
Coulter stopped reading and winced. That was the old Ann talking. She
still surfaced sometimes.
She tossed aside the magazine and, leaving her half-eaten sandwich
behind, walked outside for a breath of air and to contemplate what this
latest intrusion would mean for the life she had crafted for herself. No
doubt there would be a small flurry of media activity, but by
stonewalling it, in the words of a certain Republican president, things
would be back to normal before too long.
The woman shook her head. What had she ever gotten herself into, all
those years ago?
Back then she had been a rather unremarkable man whose fondest wish was
to be a woman. He knew it couldn't ever happen. He didn't have the
bravery or the money to go the surgical route...and he knew the results
would be less than convincing, to put it mildly. Pass? Not in a million
years.
Then he found the tarnished old lamp in the junk shop.
On a whim, he bought it, along with a first edition Hemingway that the
shop owner apparently hadn't recognized. "Maybe my luck is changing for
the better," he thought. When he got back to his small apartment, the
man rummaged in a bottom drawer for a polishing rag. When he began to
rub the lamp, there was a flash of blinding light.
"What the hell?"
"I am the genie of the lamp. I am here to grant you a wish."
"Yeah, and I'm Elvis Presley."
"Do you wish to be the King of Rock and Roll?" the genie asked. "I can
make it happen."
The man looked closely at the form that filled his small kitchen. "No
way on earth would I want to be Elvis. I HATE peanut butter and banana
sandwiches." He looked at the genie, which didn't even show a trace of a
grin. "You are serious. You are serious. O-K," he said, swallowing hard.
"I want to be a woman. A tall, beautiful, blonde celebrity."
"I have just the person for you."
Who would he become, the man wondered? Heidi Klum, Gwyneth Paltrow,
Charlize Theron, Blake Lively?
Everything went dark for a moment. Then the man opened....her eyes.
He was no longer a man. He could see the long, slim legs. Whoever he had
become, she was wearing a pair of knee-high black leather boots. She
felt a surge of excitement. He had always had a boot fetish. She reached
up to feel her breasts; not huge, but not tiny; probably about right for
what was obviously a long, lean form. She tossed her head back and felt
her long hair lift upward. Oh, this was heaven, absolute heaven. Her
fondest wish had come true. Now she just had to figure out who she was.
And where she was.
She was in a small room; there were comfortable couches, a small table
laden with food and beverages, and a large mirror on the wall. She
hurried over to the mirror to get a good look at her new form. It was
then that she got the shock of her life.
"Oh my God!" she shrieked "I'm Ann Coulter."
The door to the green room suddenly swung open. A tired looking woman
carrying a clipboard and wearing a headset walked in. "Of course you're
Ann Coulter." She sighed. "Who else would you be, Laura Ingram? And by
the way, you're on in two minutes."
Before she knew it, she was in the studio of Sean Hannity's program. At
that point, some kind of autopilot took over and she found herself
mouthing all the Ann Coulter lines that had made her famous.
Back at her apartment that evening, the new Ann spent a long time
exploring the delights of her new body. At first, she reminded herself
of a five-year-old girl trying on her mother's things. It was
particularly exciting for her, because she shared Ann's taste in
clothing; skimpy, sexy, with lots of leather. When she tired of the
dress-up game, she'd strip off the clothes, climb between the silky
sheets, and spend a long time exploring every pore and crevice of her
new body (with the help of Ann's large collection of sex toys).
But before all of this could happen, there was one thing the new Ann had
to do that couldn't wait.
She had to throw up.
She had to spend a long time talking into the porcelain phone, long
after the dry heaves arrived, before her body would finally stop its
reflexive retching.
Why? Simple. Although the old and new Ann shared a taste for skimpy,
fetishistic clothing they didn't share political views or temperaments.
The new Ann was a liberal. And a pacifist to boot. How ironic for the
body of the author of "How to Talk to a Liberal (If You Must)" to be
taken over by a pinko commie.
This became a nightly ritual for weeks. Usually she was able to wait
until she got to her apartment or hotel room, but sometimes it came out
in the bathroom at the broadcast studio or lecture hall. Once,
embarrassingly, she unloaded in the back seat of a limousine that was
taking her to the airport.
This went on for more than a month. Coulter had never carried extra
weight to begin with, but she began to shed pounds at a disturbing rate.
Soon pictures of her shot at long distances began showing up in places
like TMZ, Inside Edition and the Enquirer with renewed speculation that
she was suffering from an eating disorder.
Not an eating disorder, she thought. A stomach disorder.
For five weeks, the new Ann soldiered on. She tried to weigh the
relative pros and cons of her situation. First and foremost, she was a
woman. A beautiful, tall, blonde woman, and a celebrity. All of her
fondest wishes had been fulfilled. If only she had thought the include
politics in her wish to the genie. But there was no turning back now.
She went to bed one night and spent a long time tossing and turning,
before suddenly leaping from the bed and almost racing to her computer.
She sat down, opened a fresh Word document, and typed the words: I WAS
WRONG.
Well, she thought, Jim Bakker already used it as a book title, but it
says what I want to say.
She delivered the 500-page manuscript to her publisher six days later.
Fueled by coffee and cigarettes (she had found the pack that the former
Ann, an ex-smoker, once told an interviewer she had squirreled away in
case she ever had advance notice of the end of the world.)
A glance at some of the chapter titles would give any reader a sense of
the contents of this remarkable book: "Cherishing the Earth"; "Let's
Stop Shouting at Each Other"; "Respect for our Differences"; "I Am My
Brother (and Sister's) Keeper." At Coulter's insistence, the book was
rushed through the publication process and was delivered to stores
within a month. It landed with the impact of a low-level nuclear weapon.
Liberals were astonished, and so were conservatives, but for different
reasons, of course. The liberals, used to years of abuse from Coulter's
pen and tongue, were understandably wary. Meanwhile, conservatives
considered it the greatest betrayal since the United States "lost" China
(or at least since Lou Dobbs had given up his microphone, moved to
Mexico, and established a foundation to promote better U.S.-Mexican
relations).
No one could sort out the real reasons behind the work, since Coulter
wasn't talking. She had cancelled all television and radio appearances
and speeches, and had suspended her syndicated newspaper column. In
response to an avalanche of interview requests, she issued a brief
statement saying she would let the book speak for her. She did add that
all royalties from this volume, as well as all future royalties from her
past books, would be donated to humanitarian causes. She negotiated an
arrangement with the publisher that future printings of the earlier
books would carry a prominent disclaimer that they did not reflect her
current values or beliefs.
This was just the first step in building a new life for herself. She
moved ahead quickly with the next steps of her plan: selling her New
York apartment and Florida home; liquidating most of her assets; and
moving to a small southern community where she offered her services as a
lawyer (she had been a distinguished law school student after all) to a
public interest firm at no charge.
That arrangement lasted only six months before the relentless media
drumbeat of attention forced her to another decision: to become a
vagabond. She sold most of her remaining possessions, purchased a small
motor home, and began a life on the road that had lasted almost a decade
at the time the Esquire article appeared.
She went wherever she felt needed, and did whatever needed doing.
Feeding the hungry, tending to the sick, cleaning up after natural
disasters, she did it all. And she did it with a sense of joy, and from
a simple desire to help others.
"Hey Dave," she called as she walked back into the thrift store. "Can I
help you with that toy donation that just came in?"
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