As something of a celebrity these days, I get my share of surreptitious winks. Not an event passes by that Anselmo does not greet me afterward with a musky pocketful of the dainty underthings handed to him en masse by the hopeful ladies in the poon lagoon. The “poon lagoon,” by the way, is political jargon for the area to the bottom right of the podium where the loose women congregate. Some of the more senior politicos, incumbent Senators mainly, also have “wranglers,” who cruise the pit for choice cuts to be brought back to the bus. I’m not into that, though. My only mistress is America, and she’s the only one I’m thinking about screwing these days.


The other day, though, temptation reared it’s ugly head. I was attending one of those exhausting dinners with celebrities and dancing, and Anselmo and I were standing in a corner talking shop when I noticed a commotion to my left. A car had pulled up and a woman was stepping out into a cluster of paparazzi. She was tall, willowy, and had the lean, limber legs of a newborn foal. A shimmering curtain of yellow hair framed an elegantly carved face, wrought of purest alabaster. The magnetism and warmth that filled the air was unmistakable; Ann Coulter had arrived, and her grace and poise were even more intoxicating in person than they are in her television appearances and books. She glanced my way, her eyes lingering for an instant, and then she moved off into the throng of adoration.

I thought nothing of it. There are always a lot of beautiful people at these things, so I quickly put the near-encounter out of my mind and continued talking with Anselmo about this thing that recently appeared on my balls. After a while, though, it came time to take our seats for dinner, and I frantically searched the forest of tables to find the place card with my name on it. When I finally found it, I was chagrined to discover that Anselmo was seated elsewhere, and we said our goodbyes. I was the first to sit down at the table, so I took out my Blackberry and pretended to use it. I was deeply engrossed in my wallpaper when I heard a sweet, carefree voice behind me whisper “pardon me, you filthy asshole.” I turned and looked into the sparkling eyes of a face I recognized: it was Ann. She looked away, coyly. “It’s just… that’s my chair.”

I looked at the place card to my right, noticing her name in pearlescent lavender script. “Of course,” I stammered, feeling my cheeks redden as I moved my chair to let her by. She sat down calmly and arranged her things. It felt as if the temperature of the ballroom had increased by a good ten degrees, but after an endless minute or two a few other people showed up to fill up the empty spots at the table. Introductions went around, and by the time service began, we had begun to converse as friends.

It quickly became clear that Ann was the shining star of the table. Everyone within earshot hung on her every word, and the men blushed beneath her gaze. Her raw charisma was impressive, a charming mix of bubbly vivaciousness and sly wit. She could go on about almost any subject, from Liberal Bedwetters to Godless Pinkos, and when she referred to the 9/11 widows as “dead-husband skank-hookers,” our raucous laughter brought more than a few envious glances from the surrounding tables. I don’t know if it was the wine or the throaty anti-Semitism that danced from Ann’s lips, but an unmistakable feeling of good cheer had taken hold of all of us.

When entree service came, things got exciting. While placing Ann’s fish in front of her, the waiter (probably distracted by her radiance) accidentally knocked her water glass over with the plate, spilling a few ice cubes onto the tablecloth. Ann handled the situation with her characteristic aplomb and without missing a beat. She leaned over to the waiter, smiled sweetly, and spit a greasy wad of mucus into his terrified face. She reached one slender hand up, gently crushed his testicles and hissed: “What do you think you’re doing you terrorist son of a bitch.”

The waiter, who was wearing a red turban, stammered, “but ma’am, I’m no terrorist. I’m a Sikh.”

“Well go seek me some fucking tartar sauce then,” she purred, her teeth bared in a girlish rictus. We couldn’t help but giggle, the potentially awkward situation being so adroitly defused.

After dessert, Ann rose abruptly, casting a casual glance over her shoulder at me before disappearing into the crowd. In a way I was relieved, as I had begun to notice the other men at the table smiling at her, and had begun to feel strangely jealous of this attention. I waited a few minutes before I excused myself and hurried to catch her. I found her on the Terrace, looking out over the city. She was shivering, so I approached and placed my jacket over he shoulders. She turned towards me, and looked into my eyes, and for the first time I sensed a vulnerability in her. Vulnerability gives me a huge boner, so I moved in. As my arms encircled her, she broke free and turned her back to me. “I can’t,” she said, “no matter how much I might want to.”

I was confused. “Why must we fight these feelings?” I pleaded.

“My first love is Jesus,” she said, “and I must remain ever faithful to him.” An unbreakable resolve was clearly building within her. I should have figured that she was so into Christ. After all, she acts just like him. I began to get desperate.

“But Ann; these desires, they’re natural. We’re just animals, after all.” Then I quoted a few lines from that Bloodhound Gang song. Wrong move number one. Her tone uncharacteristically icy, she explained to me that God had created the world in 7 days and then had made man on the 7th day and woman from his rib. The Earth it seems, is only 6,000 or so years old.

Needless to say, I was a bit taken aback by these assertions. “Are you some kind of dingbat?” I asked, “what about the dinosaurs?” Wrong move number two. A foot long jet of blue fire sprayed from her eyes, and blood began to leak from her ears. She issued forth a great shriek, causing the windows facing us to disintegrate. She began clawing furiously at my face, trying to get my eyes. I curled up into a ball at her feet, hoping help would arrive before I succumbed to her assault. Suddenly, with a great whooshing sound, the Hot Air Express descended from nowhere with Anselmo at the helm. Wolf dropped from the basket onto the terrace at Ann’s back. As she whirled to confront him, I took advantage of the distraction to climb up the rope to safety.

Once in the basket, Anselmo applied full throttle to the balloon, and we shot into the sky. “But what about Wolf?” I asked, slightly concerned.

“He is brave and strong,” replied Anselmo, “he will survive.” As we rose into the night we gradually lost sight of the bright green flashes of light that marked the battle on the terrace, and Anselmo tenderly cleaned and dressed my wounds. I was floored by Ann’s behavior. Who could have guessed that she was capable of such a severe personality change. I thought cheating on my wife would be easier than this.

Anselmo approached me the other day, his countenance dour. He seems to think that some voters might find my language objectionable. He thinks words like poop, fuck, snatch, cockmaster, and doucherape might alienate some groups and therefore hinder my chances at the Presidency. You’ll have to pardon Anselmo, he’s not from here. I told him that Americans are strong, like cowboys, and that our minds cannot be sullied by such words or the concepts they refer to. Real Americans are only offended by truly abhorrent words, like tyranny, communism, or humility.

In fact, I believe that my “plain-spokenness” will endear me to the public, since profanity is a part of the American’s very soul. For example, do you remember when Vice President Cheney shot that old man in the face? While there was a big to-do for a while, in the long run I believe the incident made the previously aloof, inaccessible Cheney more human. After all, who hasn’t fantasized about shooting an old man in the face at close range with a shotgun? I believe I’ve made my point fairly clear.

Titburgers, swampcrotch, trouser musk. These are the words I’m referring to; those bawdy old terms that we first heard as youths, perhaps uttered by mistake by our father as he smashed his thumb with a hammer. While he may have immediately felt guilty for uttering such filth in our presence, even at that young age we somehow understood the raw honesty those terms convey. No one hits their thumb with a hammer and screams “rose petal.” That wouldn’t in any way describe the extreme displeasure of the situation. More likely, he would scream something like “Ass-rocket!”

I think the American people crave a similar honesty when it comes to matters of public policy. If I think that a bill is a Twatsack or a Turd Milkshake, I ought to be able to say so. No, Anselmo, Americans are tired of the “bob and weave” nature of modern political discourse. They want a candidate that speaks his mind; tells it like it is. They want a President who will call the Speaker of the House a Cuntbucket, a leader who isn’t afraid to tell President Putin to go surf a choad. Yes, my language can be coarse, I’ll be the first to admit it. But perhaps the world needs coarse language right now. Perhaps it’s our only hope. Think about it.