This week, sweet Ann Coulter released her latest in a series of pre-rehab books, entitled Godless. Naturally, the title led me to believe that it was an unexpectedly candid autobiography. Alas, she may be saving that book until after she's been strapped to a bed at Hazelden for a month. Instead of using this book to dabble in the bracing novelty of introspection, Miss Coulter turns her two-setting mind ("off" and "off her rocker") to hector us about religion.
Let's be honest: Reading a book about religion from Ann Coulter is tantamount to reading a book about dieting from Michael Moore. After all, who wants to be lectured about not being Christian enough by an almost-50 year-old boozehound in a black leather miniskirt who has never been married? Count me as having a healthy skepticism over whether Miss Coulter has saved herself for marriage. Or anything, for that matter.
In Godless, Miss (oh, how it pains me to refer to that serially-rejected spinster as "Miss," but something Miss Coulter usually eschews -- accuracy -- compels me) Coulter turns her shrill furnace of brayed invective, fueled by a bottomless quarry of prickly psychological damage, at the most despicable people in the world. No, not the maniacal murderers who flew planes into the World Trade Center towers, but the blameless Americans who had their flesh burned off of their bodies in those buildings -- and the inconsolable spouses they left behind.
Yes, she directs an anger that shirks all management on women whose husbands were murdered on 9/11. Apparently, in Miss Coulter's religion, the meek may inherit the Earth, but not before she's had a shot at making them cry first. With a mouth so busy frothing it apparently has no time to eat, Miss Coulter claims to be livid at these opportunistic widows for being crass enough to remember the event that killed the father of their children. She also gets prickly about them being compensated as a result of the catastrophe.
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