Dinesh D’Souza should have married her, had brown babies with her.
By Sujeet Rajan
NEW YORK: Listening to Ann Coulter talk is psychological torture, could lead to sleep deprivation and depersonalization: it’s possible that the white bubble gum you were chewing happily before her voice started to waft into your soul, could be swallowed and returned back to your mouth cud-like in cows; changed color as well, become brown or black, as the color of your skin may dictate. Prisoners at Guantanamo Bay are often forced to feel this way, I presume.
It’s also possible you may feel deep trauma, as if the ceiling fan fell on your head. Become disoriented. Instead of loving the disco, you may start to do a buck-and-wing, enjoyed by blackface performers, and cakewalk dances, popular amongst the plantation slaves in the 19th century.
Or worse, imagine Coulter’s maniacal look — she with the wide and crazy-looking, bright-spots on Ceres eyes, and fan-my-long blonde tresses-to-make it blow-as-I-glare and gloat, to accentuate that creepy, gone horribly-wrong intellectual madness – and fall in step with the French Quadrilles, elaborate steps in fixed order – to denote perhaps a zombie white world where only white flowers bloom. Colored hydrangeas and red roses please mutate. Leaves! Don’t you dare turn brown!
Reading her books might be worse, so I’ve desisted till now, to retain my sanity, and importantly, my identity.
There was a slim chance to reclaim Ms. Coulter to the world of the living sane, but damn you, Dinesh D’Souza, you failed all the colored people of the world living in America. When you had the opportunity, dated her, you should have just taken one on the jaw for your brethren, become a martyr for immigrants like yourself, thrown in the towel, proposed to her, brought her to that altar, populated her with brown babies, and made her more tolerant to poor helpless brown (and black, and yellow, and anything mixed like four-cheese Mexican) folks.
But poor D’Souza, can’t really blame him too much. He must be a pukka desi deep inside, must have his Indian pride intact (or perhaps, dismembered by now) too: for how long could he have tolerated Ms. Coulter verbally vandalizing him with caressing, loving incantations of “you peasant, you ingratiate with your baloney of loving the Aryan race, you dirty fellow who brought all the diseases to America,” as they decided to relieve some stress on satin sheets after a grueling day stranded amongst whitewashed walls bathed in bright glaring white lights of TV studios. No amount of headstand yoga and trusted Kama Sutra poses can help one in that situation, not even D’Souza.
So he escaped, and damn, left us to be dragged to the xenophobic bowels of the world as dictated by Ms. Coulter. We could well have addressed her by now as perhaps Mrs. Ann Coulter-D’Souza, who transformed into an admirer of Angelina Jolie. We could have been relieved (or at least imagined) that when she declares herself with grated teeth as a polemicist, who likes to stir the pot, it might have been chicken vindaloo with pepper-corns or Scotch bonnet, with some good old garam masala thrown in, she was talking about. Not being the racist she is.
In a fantastical world of extreme diversity, and hopefully before we discover life on a planet in outer space, imagine Ms. Coulter, if indeed she and D’Souza had become life-long partners, raising a brood, teaching her Indian American children and later her grandchildren who have Bangladeshi, Pakistani, Iranian, Chinese, Syrian, Eritrean, Sudan, Mongolian, and Mexican blood, the alphabets and inculcating some good old values:
A is for Antipathy.
B is for Bias.
C is for Chauvinism.
D is for Diseases.
E is for Enmity.
F is for Foreigners.
G is for Gripe.
H is for Hate.
I is for Illiberality.
J is for Jaundiced Eye.
K is for Kowtow.
L is for Loathing.
M is for Misogynist.
N is for Narrow-mindedness.
O is for One-sidedness.
P is for Peasant.
Q is for Quandary.
R is for Revulsion.
S is for Slant.
T is for Twist.
U is for Unfairness.
V is for Visa (denied).
W is for Warp.
X is for Xenophobia.
Y is for Yell.
Z is for Zealot.
By now, you might wonder as to what my gripe against Ms. Coulter is. Well, earlier today, I listened to a radio interview she gave to John Gibson of Fox News Radio, to talk on her new book ‘Adios America: The Left’s Plan To Turn Our Country Into A Third World Hellhole.’
Some of the less than charming ranting by Ms. Coulter had passionate malevolence for immigrants, quilting legal and illegal immigrants together for a tapestry of hostility – she thinks of colored immigrants as peasants who bring in diseases and primitive cultures.
Some ugly and totally untrue ‘Coulter Gems’, unsubstantiated by fact: ‘H1-B visa is a total scam, it’s a way to bring in computer programmers as indentured servants’; ‘It’s not even foreigners coming as simple programmers on H-1B visas, it’s Bolly-ready-locky-ready (I’m puzzled by that one, but I think that’s what she said)12-years-olds who are brought in for sex as concubines, as janitors, and bus boys’; ‘Bangladeshis take the STEM jobs’; swine CEOs who say they are getting smart immigrants, what they are getting are indentured immigrants’; ‘forget the diseases, the immigrants are coming here who are from…gang rape, children rape, incest rape’; ‘All the peasant cultures bring in primitive cultures, their approach to women, children, their sexual preferences, littering, corruption, all peasants, they are behind hundreds of years behind Americans.’
Ms. Coulter’s solution to get rid of immigrants: ‘rounding up grandmothers and small children and busing them out of the country.’
Listen to the interview here (fair warning, you might lose appetite for a few days soaking in the unbridled racism):
God bless Ms. Coulter and hopefully some churches can throw in a prayer or two that she never has to sniff a fart by some uncouth immigrants in a crowded New York subway car, and her soul be saved from perdition. Maybe, a hymn can be rendered immediately to have her finely toned legs walk only on the finest of Persian red carpets in rooms full of Italian chandeliers instead of what Dominique Lapierre endured in the Pilkhana slum in Calcutta, living amongst lepers, to write the ‘City of Joy.’ May degenerate peasant cultures never intrude on her lifestyle as she eats some artisan bread made by ‘peasants’.
Some years ago, I was invited to a lunch reception at the Metropolitan Republican Club in Manhattan, with Charles Krauthammer as the keynote speaker. I needed a stiff drink to relive the stress of being subjugated to a bleak stare from two blokes in the elevator, which made me quickly check if my trouser zip was open when I went to the washroom. They looked disillusioned staring at me; abject despair tucked in tight, but coming through like the dark shadows crept onto the walls in ‘The Ring’: as if the last refuge for white men in the city had been usurped by smelly Indians.
Another character who made polite talk with me during the reception informed me with zeal that he liked Bobby Jindal but America had enough of already “one”. He stopped there, seemed to mumble, took a swig from his glass, and then bracing himself as if I would lunge at him in deadly fashion with my Scotch and canapé, carried on bravely: “Barack Obama”.
I almost assured him that though I had met Gov. Jindal in Louisiana when I covered two of his campaigns, really liked him as a person and admired his intellectual prowess and capability as an administrator, I really did not favor his brand of ultra conservative politics. But I stopped just in time and took a bite of the canapé instead, realized that what my instant buddy was referring to was the color of the skin of the two politicians, not their political leanings.
Why I bring this in now, is that I can totally see Ms. Coulter in all her 7’ 8’ inches height (she is actually six feet tall, but not many have recorded her incredible one extra feet of concrete brains forking out like the horns on an antelope and of course, the 8 inches heels of her stilettos, adding to the effect of her being like one of the titles of her books – demoniac) being deified in such a right wing crowd, using a bauble to bring emotions to order. I see myself being singled out by her and then hear the dreaded words with a pointed finger at my miserable brown self: ‘Get out of here you dirty peasant! Get out of America!’
Sorry Mr. Dinesh D’Souza, if that brought back some painful memories and made you cringe.
To Ms. Coulter, I have only sweet words for her charming demeanor, dialect and disposition towards colored immigrants: osculate my brown breech.
(Sujeet Rajan is the Editor-in-Chief of The American Bazaar)