[fanfic] The Courting of Ann Coulter

I think it was inevitable. We were both from Connecticut. Her father had been a lawyer, mine a manager of Chuckie Cheese. Her mother is part of the local republican party. My mother is a redcoat; British with the teath to prove it, stretching back to England a long line of periwig makers, keep the heads of British lawyers warm and cozy. She's a head on polemic, myself a apologic.

I explained this all to her, apologizing if it was all to obvious. I'm the ying to her yang, the cliché to her tripe. We disrobed and took turns holding each other's frail frames up to the 100 watt bulb, placing us on a phantasmagoric state of human lightboard. I traced her fallopian tubes with my finger as she did the same to my vas deferens, with the skill of needleworker imbred and endowed with all the thimbles the Daughters of the American Revolution had to go without. Speaking of thimbles, monolopy and the like, Annie (as she lets me call her) allows me to remove my man thimble and we get to business.

I put on The National, the world's best highschool band. I hope their patriotic name and local venue/battle of the bands sound conjures up images of mincemeat pies. Slowly, our frail forms intertwine, like a metaphoric phrase repeated in sucession, resting on the brain of the reader like a pallid soup. We are a human sex pretzel, a bipartisian pretzel, a pretzel of sweat, smegma and scales. Ann's reptilian brain and dark iron cold blood are pulsating in full effect, as she uses her long narrow toungue to lick moisutre from her eyball and then the creviced dimple underneath my nose.

The power of the moment grinds me in reality. How am I fucking Ann Coulter while I'm bound to this wheelchair? thank god for this Space Station and its zero gravity.

Our fluid exchange complete, I inform Ann of her upcoming pregnancy and my planned compulsary third term abortion for our child. I take off my robe and wizard hat to comfort her, and ask her if tail will grow back.

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