Saturday, October 27, 2012

Judge Not Lest You Be Ann Coulter

Night sky scraped clean of interfering political dynasties, subway drained of empathy. Ann Coulter was a pond, once glowing life, a tribal meddling of harmonious clear. Then oh the Ann Coulter, bought by ® arrangement, with victory and assessment. Toggle switch of the amenities, and dying to deliver dying. The sweeping wet throb of pocked political unproven smears desperate changes in locked language. Swerve to emote, Ann Coulter. Let us explain your thinking in words of sensitively vacant syllables. A syllable is the part of the word that whistles. You lack syllables Ann of the forecast for rain in your ass. When you reached better, as others struggled, the world said, you are a better Ann Coulter than Ann Coulter, the smudge of some craven distinction.

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