This two part work of fiction was originally published just a few days after Bulldog Pundit launched, at a time when few people were aware of the existence of this site. I’m reposting it at this time because I believe that (a) it’s a wickedly funny piece of satire and (b) record numbers of people are flocking here to enjoy my excellent writing and partake of my wisdom. Without any further ado, I present you part one of Anna and the King of Drumthwackit. Part two will appear tomorrow at this time. Enjoy!
It’s a gross understatement to call it one of the strangest dreams I ever had – prompted, I am certain, by a day of busy blogging followed by pizza, wine and some quality television time. As it happened, I tuned into a troublingly bizarre episode of the forensic crime drama Bones titled The Foot in the Foreclosure, featuring a secret social club where rail-thin women who indulge in the so-called “feeder-eater” fetish derive vicarious jollies by watching fat men eat.
After wolfing down too many slices of pizza covered with onions, peppers and sausages washed down with too many glasses of cheap California Chianti, I crawled into bed, where a strange thought popped into my head: “Could this be the reason Ann Coulter is so ridiculously ga-ga over New Jersey Governor Chris Christie?”
As I drifted off to sleep, the question spun round and round in my head – like an otherwise sedate carousel that escaped the control of the carnie – and I heard the sound of female voices.
A stick-thin girl in her twenties, her long hair swept up behind her head a la Sarah Palin, hummed gently to herself as she carried a covered dinner plate into a cluttered office, where an emaciated Ann Coulter leaned over a MacBook, bony fingers clattering a noisy staccato on the keyboard as she finished writing her latest column vilifying as utterly demonic the mobs of liberals who line up for carb-laden scones at Starbucks every morning.
“Suppertime, Ann” the girl chirped as she placed the tray down on the desk. “I brought you your favorite.”
La Coulter clacked out the final sentence of the last paragraph with a flourish, saved the document and then wheeled around in her chair, rubbing her hands in anticipation of gastronomic satiety. With an equally enthusiastic flourish, the young assistant whisked the cover off of the dinner plate, revealing a single poached chicken nugget, a floret of steamed broccoli and three raisins.
“Oh my God, Noelle, are you trying to make me fat?” Ann hissed, her sunken eyes bugging out in surprise and revulsion. “There’s a pile of food on this plate. I can’t possibly eat all of it.”
The assistant wrung her hands in despair. “I’m so sorry, Ann…it’s just that…that…”
“Just what?” La Coulter retorted as she spread a linen dinner napkin on her lap and unscrewed the cap from a bottle of spring water.
“It’s just that you look a little…thin.” Noelle lowered her head as La Coulter glared back with a gaze that would freeze an oasis in Death Valley.
“Are you insane? Look at me, you stupid twit…I’m a freaking blimp. And you should be one to talk…I saw you sneaking that extra strawberry last night. I’m having serious second thoughts about you, Noelle.”
The young girl continued wringing her hands, deeply shaken by her error in judgment and desperate to undo the events of the past five minutes. Her first instinct was to serve a single baby carrot and she wanted to kick herself for changing her mind.
“Please don’t fire me, Ann. I promise to never screw up like this again. I’ll do anything to keep this job.”
La Coulter arched her eyebrows and smiled sardonically. “Really? Anything? Cool. Eat all of this.” A shriveled finger pointed at the dinner plate.
Noelle gasped in horror. “Oh, dear God….please. Please, not that. Anything but that, Ann. I’ll clean your treadmill with my toothbrush. I’ll use my own pay to buy you Right-Size Smoothies. I’ll – “
“You’ll eat everything on that plate if you want to keep your job,” La Coulter snapped. “Do it, Noelle. NOW!”
With trembling hands the young woman picked up the plate and the fork and took a deep breath. This was more food than she ordinarily ate in two days. Stabbing the piece of chicken with the fork, she sighed in resignation as the nugget approached her lips. Her tear-filled eyes pleaded for mercy, but were met with a piercing stare of glacial contempt.
“Eat it.” La Coulter leaned back in her chair and took a deep swig from the water bottle as Noelle bit down on half the nugget and began to chew. And chew. And chew. For the next three minutes she masticated until the meat became a fine paste.
“Now swallow it.” Coulter stared intently as Noelle gulped down the tiny portion of chicken paste and gently ran her fingers along her own throat as she also swallowed, imagining that it was she consuming the tasty morsel.
A second bite finished off the nugget and another two bites dispatched the broccoli floret. Noelle had to sit down. Her face was ashen and bathed in a cold sweat.
“I’m full, Ann. I…I can’t eat another bite. I swear it. I can’t.”
“Oh, I think you can, Noelle. There are still three raisins left. I want to see a clean plate.”
Determined to end her own agony as quickly as possible, Noelle pierced two of the raisins, brought them to her mouth and consumed them whole – without even chewing them. La Coulter gasped and felt an electric thrill. The girl had to snap her neck back to get them down, only to begin breathing heavily from the force the food exerted on the walls of her stomach. If she had not already reached her limit, she was pretty damned close.
“One more raisin, Noelle. You can do it. I Have faith in you. And if you can keep it down, you’ll get a twenty-percent raise.”
The girl’s face brightened somewhat; visions of a nautilus workout machine in her own apartment banished the desperate warning signal her gut was sending to her brain and she stabbed the raisin with her fork. For a moment, all was peace and serenity, but the moment was tragically short-lived. Noelle began salivating uncontrollably, a sure sign of what was about to happen – and did happen, as she dropped from the chair to the floor and regurgitated the entire meal, sobbing uncontrollably as her body twitched and convulsed with dry heaves.
La Coulter sighed. “You disappoint me, Noelle. But at least you tried and I won’t fire you. Now get out of here. I’ll clean up the mess.”
The girl continued to sob as she crawled out of the office on her hands and knees, rising only to close the door behind her. La Coulter plucked the raisin from the fork and popped it into her mouth, slowly chewing the fruity morsel and savoring its sweetness for a full five minutes before washing it down with several large gulps of water. She burped and then announced to no one in particular, “Oh man, I’m stuffed.”
“What to do next?” she wondered to herself, delicately blotting the corners of her mouth with the napkin. It was seven o’clock in the evening, her weekly column was finished, and she had no other plans for the night. Nothing hobbles a hyperactive mind worse than boredom and she could sense the first pangs of ennui already gnawing on the fringes of her subconscious. She toyed with the idea of climbing onto the roof of Del Gado’s Bakery and huffing the exhaust from the bread ovens.
A moment’s reflection impelled La Coulter to abandon the notion when she realized they would not start baking bread for another eight hours.
As she impatiently strummed her claw-like fingernails on the desk and her brain raced to figure out what to do next, it suddenly occurred to her that it had been days since she last checked her Twitter mail. Turning back to her laptop, she clicked on the Twitterdeck icon to start the application. There were five Twittermails waiting to be opened.
“Oh goody,” she exclaimed, clicking on the first message. But her enthusiasm wilted when she saw that it was from @JohnnyMac - the nom de Tweet of none other than John McCain.
“Ah, yes, ” she sighed. “Mr. Bipartisan. The man who gave us Barack Hussein Obama by throwing the 2008 election. What’s the problem now? Did he run out of Depends?” She clicked on the icon for the message.
It opened up and read: “What’s shaking, Stick Chick? Haven’t heard from you in a while. Cindy says Have a sandwich, for God’s sake. LOL.“
“RINO dick,” she hissed under her breath and deleted the message.
The next message was from the Jenny Craig people, begging her to give them permission to use images of her body to photoshop “after” pictures in print ads for selected celebrity clients. Kirstie Alley reportedly offered $2 million and a lifetime supply of both ipecac and Fleet enemas if Ann agreed. She rolled her eyes and deleted the message.
The remaining Twittermails made her stomach flutter as a light sweat broke out on her forehead. They were from him…@NJZeppelin.
End of Part 1