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Sumo-Size Me

In her heart, you know she wants to be fat

By Richard von Busack

BY JUMBO, if this week's current events haven't proved the childish wisdom I learned back at the Eagle Rock Elementary foursquare court. Of course, I mean that beloved schoolyard chant, "Pickles, pumpkin, peaches! A bully always overreaches!" Ann Coulter, the screaming skeleton of the Souter-Reich (™, all rights reserved) had to withdraw her Democratic Convention column from USA Today. They had enough of her ad-hominum insults and her reference to the Democrats as ugly fat "pie-wagons." The delegates did often look like Let's Make a Deal contestants, let's face it. The would-be offensive column is posted at Ann Coulter's website, iamapsychoticskankfromthenutmegstate.com; try anncoulter.com if that URL doesn't work.

I know, you're saying (in this really wheedling, nasal voice), "Reeechard, how can you crow over a fellow journalist being brutally censored by the McPaper, man? Where's your solidarrrrity?" I am crowing. Cock-a-doodle-doo. This is Ann Coulter we're talking about—the most scabrous political commentator since they planted Westbrook Pegler's dead carcass.

In one mad outburst, she's exposed her own elitism. The use of fat-baiting in politics is relatively recent, as recent as some anti-Clinton diatribes. One of the then-president's associates (as recorded in Eric Alterman's book What Liberal Media?) complained about Clinton's staff being out of shape, in loose sloppy clothing, with tires around their guts, as opposed to the snappy, trim Republicans, with their military bearing.

One major reason Clinton was hated was that he was a donut-breath, a connoisseur of junk food. Such was the big deal revelation in Joe Klein's atrocious bestseller Primary Colors. Poor Clinton, sensitive to these gibes, practically wore out his knees jogging. Deprived of the solace of Krispy Kremes, he turned his addictive personality elsewhere, and thus was history made. Incidentally, Monica L., as seen in the tabloids, is now the possessor of her own private ZIP code; she has become rather stout, to put it plain.

Maybe it's Al Franken's fault for going after Limbaugh's weight, in the very title of Rush Limbaugh Is a Big Fat Idiot. Is that where the Rubicon was crossed, from implicit to explicit insult? Michael Morbidobesity's Fahrenheit 9/11 is attacked all over the Internet, not on the grounds of its misstatements*, but on the grounds that a man of his width ought not to do anything but hide his head in shame. On the radio in Shawnee, Okla., where there's a goodly number of butterballs, one of the local right-wing radio commentators was snuffling about how "I am not going to buy a ticket to Fahrenheit 9/11 just so Michael Moore can buy more pizzas!" Michaelmooreisretarded.com—and this isn't a fake URL this time—goes on about Moore's brain having "turned into a donut."

So, indeed, is this where the battle line's drawn? Not between the red states and the blue, not between the computer operators and the backhoe drivers, not between NASCAR fans and liberal badminton fanciers? Finally, it's between the fat and the lean? Sixty percent of the nation has a weight problem—and climbing. That means despite Coulter's abhorrence of fat people, she's already in the hostile minority. Starved and raving, the anorexic Coulter has good reason for lashing out. She's hungry! So what could possibly be her reason for turning down the fat- and sugar-laden bounty of our great nation. Reason? I guess I meant treason! Perhaps Coulter would prefer a plate of low-fat babaganoush and steamed mutton, such as is enjoyed by her fellow pork haters in the world of terrorism!

If Coulter wants to be a writer of the people, for the people, she'd better get off her bony, blue-blooded bottom and start chowing down. There are many all-u-can-eat cafeterias not that far from the polo-pony countryside she dwells in. And lest she turn it around on me, let me state it plain: I weigh 278 pounds, Ms. Coulter. What are you doing for America?

*Which don't amount to jack compared to what he got right.

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From the July 28-August 3, 2004 issue of Metro, Silicon Valley's Weekly Newspaper.

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