I was going to take a pot shot at photo radar for this column, then I stumbled across Ann Coulter's diatribe on the Oscars. Her rant is designed not to amuse or inform, but to offend. The column is racist, homophobic and facist. This is the woman that believes that Joseph McCarthy is just a poor persecuted right-thinking patriot. I'm not sure if she says these things for effect, or if she really believes the horse shit that flows from her mouth. I don't subscribe to the notion of hell, but if I'm wrong, one consolation is that Ann's scrawny bleached-blond ass will sizzle there like pork sausage on a short order grill.
Har! Har! Har!
"Michael."
". . . and another thing you bitch . . ."
"Michael!" the Doctor says raising his voice.
"Yes, sir," I say.
"Put down the keyboard. We've talked about throwing things, haven't we?"
"Yes, sir." My keyboard suddenly feels heavy in my hand.
"Have you taken your meds today?" he asks.
"Well . . ."
"They will make you feel much better. Ranting about that nasty old Ann Coulter makes you feel all yucky inside, doesn't it?" Doctor Frankenstupe holds out some pills for me: one fat yellow one and one tiny blue one.
"Could I have two blue ones?" I ask. "They'll help calm me down."
"Just this once," the Doctor says. After I take the pills, he waves at me with three fingers and shuts the door. I spit out the yellow pill and flush it down the toilet.
"I feel much better now," I say to no one in particular after the blue pills kick in.
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