The Coulter Challenge

THE COULTER CHALLENGE There was a time when an appearance by Ann Coulter inspired an uneasy mixture of rage and desire. Most won't admit it, but there was something sexy about an Aryan she-villain calling on her country to conquer and Christianize the Islamic heathen. I don't think I was the only one who read that notorious post-9/11 column of hers and thought, "Damn, I bet she's a good lay."

But o, how the mighty have fallen. Last week, Ann Coulter appeared on Hannity & Colmes looking haggard and clinically insane. The Night of the Living Dead circles underneath her eyes, the lifeless hair—it looks like she's been living on canned foods for the past two months. Ann looked like she should be pushing a shopping cart, not politicking for Bush. It wasn't just what she said—like repeatedly accusing Holocaust survivor George Soros of being an anti-Semite—it was how she said it. She laughed insanely after every sentence fragment she uttered, a clear symptom of late-stage paranoid-schizophrenia.

The saddest part was when Hannity flashed the cover of Coulter's upcoming How to Talk to a Liberal. There she is, posing full-length in a tight black mini, a childless MILF-wannabe trying to pass herself off as a 40-something far-right pin-up. Ann's star is sagging, and apparently her handlers don't have the heart to tell her.

Which brings me to my challenge. I don't believe Ann is half as sexy as she wants us to believe. In fact, I'm sure that Ann has all the sexual dynamism of a carton of fax paper.

So here is my public challenge to Ann Coulter: I propose that you and I spend a night together in a four-star hotel. We will wine together, we will dine together, we will harden each other's nipples with erotic pillow talk about Sen. Joe McCarthy, and yes, Ann, we will fuck. Ann, here's the dare: I am betting that no matter how much you try, no matter what prostate-massaging tricks a John Birch Prom Queen like you possesses, you, Ann Coulter, cannot make me come.

I'll bet the ideological house on it. If she can bring me to orgasm, I hereby promise to vote for George W. Bush. Moreover, I promise that I won't see Fahrenheit 9/11, and I promise to promote Bush's candidacy, without irony, in every article I publish between now and November.

On the other hand, if Ann fails to make me come by sun-up, all I ask is that she dress like a genuine Republican woman—covering the knees, arms and neck in a Barbara Bush burqa, or dressing in McCarthy-hearings-era Pat Nixon tweeds.

Be as bland as your heroes, Ann. It's time to stop fighting Father Time, and accept the cruel workings of your Christian god. o