I wonder if Ann Coulter’s vagina wants to revolt against her. Devise a powerful plan for some desperate exit. Does it seethe with jealousy at detachable penises? Does it long to ooze red blood all over her stick thin couture? Between menstruation and the next presidential inauguration it waits like a sleeping Cobra for her next faux paus. To further harden and become a sterling statue of a private part. Once soft and amorous to the touch, it – unlike her devilish persona – rots in private.
Few have eaten here. Many have died.
c. Darrah Le Montre, 2014