Ouch! Betty Bowers reviews Ann Coulter and her book. It ain't pretty.
Bowers is a very good writer, and she taps out an entertaining review, but it's really a little too easy to make fun of the village idiot.
And she did slip one misplaced modifying prepositional phrase, the one about the black leather miniskirt who's never been married.
And I must admit, picking on the handicapped -- mea culpa -- I've done it myself, many times on the Beliefnet U.S. politics board, while assuming my alter ego, Catboxer. So now I'm going to go write 50 times on my chalk slate that I'll henceforth refrain from such nefarious activity.
Bowers's one-woman jihad against the media star is noteworthy, though, because it rises to the level of world-class vituperation, as when she says of Coulter:
(S)he is less like June Cleaver baking pot-roast than she is like Samantha Jones baked on pot. Indeed, this is no piously serene Christian wife, but a braying loud mouth who wears super-slutty clothes, powders her bony nose more often than Lindsay Lohan (if you know what I mean), knocks back scotch with an alacrity that eludes Ted Kennedy since the advent of rheumatoid arthritis, lives only in cities filled with homos and screws anything willing to bang an anorexic skeleton.
Really? I had no idea Ann Coulter was allegedly an alcoholic, cocaine-addled nymphomaniac. I'm only familiar with her more serious character defects.
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