Buffalo BEAST - Buffalo's New Best Fiend
March 23-April 6, 2005 Issue #71
 Now in a Persistent Vegetative State
50 Most Loathsome People of 2004
The Controversial Article Everyone's Talking About
Tom Cruise Strikes Back
Revenge of the Nerd
MINIMALLY CONSCIOUS Facts are Bit Players in Schiavo Saga
by Allan Uthman
Democrats Prepare to Assume the Position
by Matt Taibbi
by BuffaloPundit
by Matt Taibbi
by Johnathan Matthews
by Dr. I.M. Simpering
Ten Commandments are Law, Arrest Warrants Issued
Metal Detector Fails To Stop School Shooting; Schools Consider Larger Detectors
by Josh Righter
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Buffalo in Briefs
Separated At Birth
Straight Dope
Kino Corner
Book Review
[SIC] - Your Letters
by Dr. I.M. Simpering

I had been sitting in my car in the cold black parking lot of one of the region's finer hotels, pounding OV tall boys and reflecting on the horrible spectacle of a Parkinson's-afflicted Janet Reno stammering and slurring in a barely audible whisper. Something she had said about the children being the future played over and over in my head, except her voice was now high-pitched and she sounded black.

I changed the radio station, but nothing was on, so I slid in a CD.

It was the night of Thursday, March 10, and less than an hour earlier I had watched one of the more savage examples of human cruelty: right-wing personality Ann Coulter had debated an aged, crippled Reno at UB under the rubric of bridging our country's political divide, or something equally naïve and false.

The matchup was like Gerry Cooney against Oscar De La Hoya - even Don King would have been ashamed to promote it. After all, Reno was never

anybody's champion, but as a former heavyweight factotum for the Democratic Party with a sturdy chin she must have been appealing enough for the matchmakers. Meanwhile Coulter, a towering emaciated blonde, is at the height of her powers, with her strange sex appeal and vicious right-handed attack.

Throughout the debate, the UB Republicans had rained support for Coulter from the rafters. Not since the Brownshirts at the Beer Hall Putsch had choreographed enthusiasm been demonstrated with such precision. Here, as in the Weimar Republic, they enjoyed the protection of crew-cutted state troopers, who were ready to administer a sound pistol-whipping to any troublemakers.

Afterward I found myself in the parking lot of a hotel nearby. I had intended to finish my beers and then drown my dark thoughts in the hotel's bar, but the beers ran right through me. And this is, more or less, where my story begins.

I marched through the lobby toward the restrooms. Light jazz and the gentle din of cocktail conversation drifted from the bar. A large bald guy with an earpiece stepped out of the bathroom as I approached. He looked like private security and, not wanting to be asked whether I was a guest, I ducked inside while he was bending over the water fountain.

Weird, I thought. Urinals must be too gauche for such a swank hotel. I pushed open one of the stall doors and was startled to see a long-legged woman in a tight gray dress prostrate over the bowl. "Goddammit," she snarled, "I told you to give me some fucking privacy."

"I'm, uh…" I stammered.

She turned her head and her expression betrayed a certain shock and horror. I, too, was horrified. It was Coulter. I couldn't mistake those cobalt eyes, the long blonde hair. A string of bile dangled precariously from her chin. "What the fuck are you doing in here," she spat.

I staggered back toward the sink and then suddenly composed myself. "Wait just a minute," I said. "What are you doing in the men's room?"

"Hmmpph!" She gave a thin smile. "You spineless liberal turd, this is the ladies' room."

I was momentarily confused, but something about the situation made me say, "Liberal? Who are you calling liberal? I'm parked outside in a handicapped spot, and I'm not even handicapped."

She gave a haughty laugh. We stared at each other for a few seconds, neither wanting to back down. I thought how Reno had refused to even engage Coulter during the debate. She had babbled some nonsense about healing hearts and the benefits of sitting down to talk over differences.

My thoughts, however, had turned sinister. I was thinking of a Brazilian friend of mine in Queens, who hunted rats with a metal stake in the basement of his tenement. He would impale them and thrust the thrashing, squealing fuckers into a bucket of water that he kept nearby until they… well, until they had no fight left.

Coulter recognized the sparkle of violence in my eyes and must have thought we were simpatico, because she finally said, "Want some coke?" She had been drinking it throughout the debate, but I wasn't thirsty.

"I'm in the mood for something stronger," I said.

"Like what," she asked, her eyes lighting like highbeams.

"I like a good bourbon," I said.

She laughed. "That's not what I had in mind." Then she removed a vial from her purse and tapped the contents out on the toilet seat. She began cutting it with an AmEx Platinum card. "You should do the first line," she said.

"That toilet seat is filthy," I protested.

"Not any more than the hands of a Peruvian cocoa farmer," she said angrily. "What's the matter, don't you believe in free trade?"

"Even Clinton supported NAFTA," I admitted.

"Ha! I love a good sense of sarcasm."

We were really hitting it off, so I reluctantly bent over and snorted. I'll admit it was high-grade. Soon we were both laughing and feeling no pain. I was even beginning to enjoy Coulter's company. I really had to whiz, though, and I began dancing around like Doug Flutie in the face of a Baltimore Ravens blitz, which seemed to make her a little nervous. Finally I pushed past her to relieve myself.

Meanwhile, Coulter stepped to the sink and gargled some tap water, then spat and inspected herself in the mirror, smoothing the wrinkles in her dress. "I'm getting fat," she said.

"No. No," I said, and I really meant it. "If anything you could use a good steak dinner."

"Ooooh yummy," she said. "Let's go order room service."

"What about your upset stomach," I asked.

She laughed again. "Oh," she said. "Don't worry about that. You might say I have my finger on it."

I followed her from the bathroom. As soon as I stepped through the door a meaty hand had me by the throat. I was slammed against a wall and came face-to-face with the security-type I had seen earlier. "You mother…" I choked. He was squeezing my windpipe tight in his fist.

Coulter protested. "Jeff," she screamed. It distracted him for a second, which was all I needed. Coulter's coke was top stuff and I quickly made a move which I had learned from a former Mossad agent, pioneered and perfected to keep uppity Palestinians in their place. Suddenly my attacker was curled on the carpet, his face twisted into a painful grimace. He was sucking for air and his hands were buried in his groin.

Coulter was impressed. "Wow," she said. "I once saw Wolf Blitzer fend off an aggressive autograph seeker with that same move." She looked at me like a wolverine might regard a rotting carcass. "Yeah, Blitzer's not so bad," she said absently, "for a Jew." Then she turned and walked toward the elevators. Clearly I was meant to follow.

I hurried to catch up. "Who was that guy," I asked, gesturing to her bodyguard, but she was busy peering into her purse and didn't seem to hear. "He looks familiar."

"He's had some publicity lately," she said. "Fucking liberal media! He's fallen on hard times, so I gave him a job as my bodyguard, just because he's been so loyal to the cause."

I couldn't place him, though, and I decided to change the mood with a stab at some levity. "Well, he certainly won't be having any fun tonight," I said as we stepped into the elevator.

She smiled wryly. "Jeff doesn't need his, shall we say, equipment, to have fun," she said, still rooting around in her purse. "If you had kicked his ass, then he would have a long lonely night, if you know what I mean."

I didn't, so I dropped it.

Coulter had a real fine suite on the top floor. As soon as we entered, she kicked off her shoes, lit a cigarette and collapsed on the bed. "Order some room service," she said, flinging the menu at me. "I'll have steak."

I ordered two prix fixe surf and turf specials. Meanwhile she peeled off her dress and when I hung up she said, "I can't wait; I need some meat now." Naturally, I obliged. But I didn't enjoy myself. Coke usually makes me feel like a human inferno, but Coulter was cold to he touch, and hard and bony. It was like grinding naked against an elm tree during January. When we were finished she lit another cigarette.

I ran my fingers over some smooth scar tissue on her ass. "How did that happen," I asked.

"Another product of our public schools," she asked with contempt. "Can't you read?"

I grabbed a lamp and held it over her. "BOB'S BITCH," it read in a shaky hand that looked like it had been carved with a kitchen knife. "Jesus," I said. "Didn't that hurt?"

"Does this hurt," she asked, stabbing her burning cigarette against my shoulder.

"Goddammnit," I screamed, batting her hand away. "You fucking crazy bitch!" I stood up and glared at her, but she just sneered in silence. "Fuck," I muttered as I walked to the bathroom.

As I closed the door she said casually, "He was more of a man than you'll ever be."

I splashed some cold water on my arm. Lying on the bathroom floor was a copy of Gear magazine. It was a few years old and Christian Slater was on the cover. I sat on the toilet and flipped a few pages. The masthead was dog-eared. "Bob Guccione, Jr. - publisher," it read.

Suddenly there was a commotion outside: Boom. Boom. Boom. "Room service," a man called.

"Leave it outside," Coulter responded.

"Ma'am, I need a signature…"

"Goddammit," she roared. "I said fucking leave it outside."

I tried reading some of the stories but it was no use. I slapped the magazine to the floor and washed my hands. I could barely look at my self in the mirror. Now I knew how Eva Braun felt. I was tempted to just grab my stuff and leave, but I had another idea.

Coulter was lying on the bed in a bathrobe and smiling when I returned. A magnum of champagne rested on the table and she held a flute in each hand.

"Here," she said, handing me a glass.

I held it aloft. "I'd like to propose a toast to Howard Dean, the new chairman of the Democratic Party," I intoned. "May he bury Karl Rove in the dusty scrub outside Waco, Texas, under a headstone that reads, 'I liked Bush, but I liked buggery better.'" Then I gulped down my champagne.

Coulter threw her head back and laughed. "I love a good joke," she said.


"I know what you are." Suddenly she was serious. "You'll be sorry you sick, traitorous liberal. I'll have you cleaning porta-potties in Guantanamo." Then her face twisted into a sneer. "Soon you're going to be very confused."

I already was. My head began to reel and I saw two Ann Coulters. Her laugh slowed down like something from a funhouse. She sounded like James Earl Jones on slow-mo. Oh, God, I thought. She's poisoned me. I dashed for the door, opened it and rushed into the hallway, where I crashed into the room-service tray, sending steak and lobster tails flopping to the floor.

And that's all I remember. The next thing I heard was a light tapping sound. I opened my eyes, and I was sitting in the front seat of my car in the parking lot of the hotel. It was daytime and a man with a cap was standing outside my window with a flashlight in his hand. How the hell did I get here, I thought.

I looked around. The empty beers cans littered the floor. Had it all been a weird dream? The guard tapped again. As I lifted my arm to unroll the window I was seized by a sharp, stabbing pain. I pushed up my sleeve and there I saw a fresh pink scar the size of a dime. I looked at the guard with terror in my eyes.

"You gotta get outta here, buddy," he said. "This is no place for you to be hanging out."

He must have been reading my mind.

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