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.

I used to watch a lot of porn in college, so I think it’s safe to say that I know a thing or two about women; lesbians, in particular. Unfortunately, this knowledge didn’t get me very far on my recent appearance on ABC’s “The View.” I don’t know if you’ve heard of this show or not, (I hadn’t) but apparently it is quite popular with the unemployed, and possibly the unemployable. Anyway, when I received the invite to appear, I was skeptical. I hadn’t heard of any of the women who host the program, but at Anselmo’s behest, I accepted. As the date for the appearance approached, however, I began to get nervous. Was I being set up? What should I expect? So I decided to do a little research.

I made a call to a good friend of mine who I like to call “The Donald.” He’s my lawyer Donald Siegelmann and we go way back; all the way to Princeton. He’s my Jewish friend, so he’s my go-to guy for advice on things like medicine, law, jewelry, banking, and the entertainment industry. He had some interesting things to say about the show and its hosts. Apparently, it is a talk show with a sort of “Coffee Klatch” format, hosted by four women, all of whom are lesbians. The boss lesbian is a big lady named Rosie, who has a loud mouth and sits on the left. There is also an old grandmother lesbian named Barbara. Then there is a jewish lesbian named Joy (chosen, I suspect, because of that race’s inherent adeptness at observational comedy), and finally the hot or “lipstick” lesbian, whose name I don’t care about sits on the far right. They sit around and chat about all manner of topics, from tampons to maxi pads, and they also have an interview segment where some important person comes by and they ask him questions. Pretty basic stuff, so when Anselmo dropped me off at the studio that morning, I was confident and relaxed; ready to take advantage of my first TV appearance.

Everything started out pretty nice. I was practicing the new smile that I had been working on (the Edwards) when there was a knock at the door. When I opened it, there was a big black-haired woman wearing what looked to be maternity clothing standing outside the door grimacing at me. She introduced herself as Rosie, and told me that she was very excited to meet me. I reciprocated by telling her that I too was pleased to make her acquaintance, and that I was not the least bit disgusted by her homosexuality, but that I would prefer to not shake hands. Then I excused myself and went back to the mirror for a few last minute tweaks to my technique.


When the show went live, I was hustled off to a place called the “green room,” which was pretty nice, though the only green thing in it was a puke stain in the corner that I later learned was left there by Danny DeVito. I love his work on TV and film, but his vomit was a bit of a disappointment. There was food, but since I only eat Surf ‘N’ Turf, I passed. They did provide a TV, though, which I initially thought would be a source of entertainment, but I soon found that there was no way to change the channel on it. I poked my head out the door and asked a crew member how I could get CNBC on this biatch, but he just said it was “closed circuit,” or some such nonsense. I managed to take care of that one pretty quickly, though, since to open the circuit, all you have to do is unplug the damn thing. Then I sat back and flipped through a copy of People magazine while I waited for my cue.

About 20 minutes later, the stage-hand comes in with all sorts of attitude, telling me that I missed my cue and that I need to get out there in a hurry. I told dude to chill and then walked out on the stage to some reasonable applause. The only available seat was in the middle of the four ladies, and so I sat down there and immediately felt extremely vulnerable. It is very disconcerting to be surrounded by lesbians, knowing that if you are looking at one of them, there are others that you can’t see that could be making out with each other. They welcomed me warmly, though, and started asking questions. I don’t remember precisely what they asked, mainly issues related stuff. I played it pretty cool, talking slowly so they could understand, telling them how nice their hair and outfits looked, asking them what kinds of things they would like to cook for me. You know, just being charming and conversational. I thought it was going pretty well.

Then everything went to Shitsville. Rosie asked me a question about my views on Gay Marriage. Now I had been preparing for this one, so I had my answer pretty much planned out. “Gay Marriage,” I said, “is a great idea, because by allowing them to pair off and sequester themselves, we could ensure that none of the gays could reproduce, thereby preventing the passing on to the next generation the gay-genes that make them want to do it with people of their same sex.” This was, in my opinion, a very well thought-out and irrefutably logical answer. I found out very shortly that I was wrong.

Rosie opened her mouth and I suddenly got very bored. She seemed to be saying lots of things, but I couldn’t understand any of it. Perhaps she was speaking a language I don’t know, or maybe her voice was of a pitch that my ears are not sensitive to. Either way, I eventually turned the other direction to talk with Barbara. You see, I’ve always had a thing for girls with speech impediments. I know it sounds crazy but I think everyone has a turn-on that they can’t explain. In this case, however, the explanation is known to me. I was molested by my favorite babysitter when I was young, and she had something wrong with her palate. When she talked, it always sounded like she had a tablespoon of peanut butter in the roof of her mouth. Anyway, I knew Barbara was gay, but I couldn’t resist, so I tried to lay on the charm.

I wasn’t having much luck with Barbara. She seemed distracted by something, so I looked back over my shoulder and saw Rosie, her mouth still moving furiously. I knew I could never get a word in with Barbara with Rosie doing that so finally I said “hey, could you keep quiet?” Evidently she could not, because she threw her two-quart coffee mug in my direction. Luckily, I do Pilates, so I was able to easily avoid the mug (plus, girls can’t throw, even if they think they are men), and it hit Ms. Behar in the bosom, sending scalding coffee spraying into her face.

At this point, you might say “wow, Rich, that is truly a situation that cannot be repaired.” But Rich White doesn’t give up that easily. There, amidst the chaos, I thought of faithful Anselmo. He would want me to summon every ounce of gumption available to me and salvage that interview, so that is what I resolved to do. Unfortunately at this point, recovery was no longer an option. Behar had been taken off the stage by paramedics, Barbara had given up and stomped off to her dressing room, and Rosie had savagely bitten a Security Guard’s hand and was being tazed repeatedly. Not knowing what to do, I stood up and walked out of the studio to the curb. Anselmo drove up a few minutes later, and we went and got ice cream. It was a pretty good day.

I’ve always been really into hunting. Back in Kansas when I was a boy, my father would take me out at the crack of dawn, and we would go out to the edge of the pond where everything was very still, and a light mist rose up off of the mirror-like surface of the water. Such beauty! Then we would lay out poison bait for the swans. It tasted like bread, so they seemed to really like it. Within a few hours, the last one would stop moving, and we would collect their frail bodies and burn them in the yard, taking care not to inhale the fumes from the fire. It was a lot of fun, and the golf course paid us to do it! I treasure those memories of a simpler time, when cruelty could be put into action with barely a thought, and I think those memories speak to something in all of us. Nowadays, people scold you for shooting squirrels with a pellet gun, but when I was a boy, we used to make masks out of their dried skins as a testament to our prowess. You can go to jail for sticking knitting needles into a rabbit now, but in the good old days, no one minded so long as you stuck to animals. But ours is a dynamic culture, and will continue to adapt as people’s sensibilities change.

The noble craft of hunting still thrives today, though, and last week I went on an expedition with my wife’s brother Cletus. You may have heard of him, since he owns several large conglomerates: J. Cletus Merriwether III. He’s super rich like myself, and owns a great deal of land in the Adirondacks. The trip was a lot of fun, and rekindled those old treasured memories of my boyhood roots. We woke up early on a Saturday and packed up the Jeep with a bunch of beer, guns, and pizza, then headed out to the other side of the property, which lies on the side of a mountain and provides an unmatched vista of the breathtaking Adirondack sunrise. There were several stands that had been permanently erected in some of the more strategic areas, and were difficult to see due to the large quantity of military-grade camouflage netting that covered them.

After we loaded our cache of weapons and provisions into one of the stands, we settled down into that familiar old pastime of the hunter: the waiting game. Luckily, because Cletus has several automated deer feeders about 100 yards from the stand, we didn’t have to wait long. A majestic buck entered the scene and approached the feeder, which was dropping soy pellets onto the ground beneath the boughs of a stately Silver Maple that I admired through my scope as I brought the crosshairs to bear on the buck’s grace-ridden throat. My breathing quickened as I tightened my grip on the lightweight ballistic carbon forestock on my Heckler & Koch PSG-1 semi-automatic sniper rifle. I steadied myself, and on my exhale, I slowly squeezed the trigger, sending a 7.62mm NATO round into my prey. The spray was incredible, as was the look of sheer disbelief in the eyes of this beast. For a second, we seemed to share an intimate–almost sexual–connection, that of predator and prey, but then he was dead. In this battle, I had been the victor, but next time? For that answer, we would have to wait and see.

But again, we didn’t have to wait long. The rest of the afternoon was pretty much the same way. With each kill, Cletus would radio his men to come collect the carcass, which saved us a lot of inconvenience. They even sprayed down the area so that the other deer would not smell the fresh kill on the leaves that lined the forest floor. We had pizza, beers, and some manly conversation, and in the end I got pretty lit. I don’t know how many beers I ended up having before I used that 50-cal to bring down that pregnant doe, but I can say one thing: I was feeling no pain. That was a messy one, for sure, because I was using some new ammunition that one of Cletus’ companies was developing for the U.S. Military. It was made of something called a “prestressed ceramic maniform” that pretty much explodes when it hits bone. The technology may be high-tech, but the result is something anyone can understand: A shot to hell deer. Cletus was a bit surprised to see her, since the synthetic pheromones his people spray are only supposed to attract bucks. I guess we’ll file that one under “Bonus!”

After we killed all of the animals that had been placed that morning, we packed up our things and drove on back to the lodge. There, we continued drinking and having a good time. He asked if I knew about the “most dangerous game.” I said yes, that I was well acquainted with jai-alai. People get hurt all of the time in that game, because the balls are very hard and move very quickly. He told me that he was actually talking about killing people by setting them loose in the forest without weapons and then following them and shooting them like deer. I told him that didn’t sound very dangerous, and he got frustrated and went to bed. I was tired too, so I hit the bunk as well, where I slept like a goddamn baby.

When I got back on Sunday evening, Peggy told me the she sensed a change in me. I think it must be the thousand-yard-stare. That’s the thing you get when you go to war and when you come back, you have a faraway look in your eye because you saw such cool shit. I think that the three hours I spent in a well-hidden deer stand did something special to me, like maybe I connected with some primal self that lies within all of us, but which we all keep hidden. A self that is born of the battle for survival, the tooth-and-nail struggle in which one dies so that the other may live. With the acceptance of this self came the respect for life that so often comes to those who have gotten life’s precious blood on their hands. Of course, in my case, that would be figurative blood; because Cletus’ staff keeps his weapons so tidy, my hands didn’t actually get dirty at all. Besides, there was quite a supply of moist towelettes up there in the deer stand. We were eating pizza after all, and that can be messy.