Continued from page 1
Sitting somewhere in arena will be interesting. Coulter will glare with her right eye at massive structure and lament that its lugubrious bathos was built with lachrymose tax dollars by schadenfreude liberals; all words found on pages 128 and 129 of her book.
Not to worry. Excuse yourself during first fight and go to gift shop in lobby. You’ll want to buy a voice-activated electronic dictionary with a LCD screen. There is no gift shop, but there is hair-coming-out-his-nose hotdog stand guy and — just your luck — he’s still got a few electronic dictionaries for $14.95; $16.95 with mustard.
Back in stands, you can now understand Coulter. Contretemps, you learn, means, affliction; epiphanic means something akin to religious, and @#%&* (page 309) means Hillary’s serious about running for president.
Wise guy that you are, you’ll want to have a bit of humor ready when Pacers and Pistons square off in row 12. While Artest is punching an epiphanic (page 105) fan in nose, you will turn and look Coulter in eye and quip, “Geez, I didn’t know these guys could play hockey!!”
If she sniggles (not in her book), you’ve made a hit. If she rambles on about why white hockey players don’t get fined for fighting because they’re, uh, white, then you’ve got a ways to go.
With game over, it’s time to escort Coulter to a fine dining establishment. At your date’s behest, you mark Ben and Jerry’s off list. Chinese sounds good and if you can’t understand your waiter, does it matter? You can’t understand your date, either.
The conversation turns to politics. (Who woulda known.) Coulter’s right eye gleams as she rants about feminist cornpones (page 235), gun owners’ rights and need to squarsh IRS like a bug. So far so good. You decide you may have met your match.
But then you bring up civil liberties and Coulter tussles her hair and – gasp! – she has a left eye after all. Her right eye now covered, she goes apoplectic over smarminess of war on drugs (pages 246 and 44.) “It’s not about drugs,” you explain. “It’s about personal rights.”
Her left eye glares.
“You know,” you add, “like Patriot Act.”
Her left eye bugs out.
Enough is enough, you decide. Noting O tattooed on her forehead, you get pick up tab. And tip.
The evening ends when you walk Coulter to door of her crib and give her a friendly kiss her on her tattoo. “No wonder,” you surmise, “the Libertarians in Connecticut didn’t want her on their ticket.”
Your conclusion is ineluctable (page 30.)
Author of The Prayer of Hannah and The Late Great United States.