Betty Bowers Reviews Ann Coulter's New Book "Godless"

This week, sweet Ann Coulter released her latest in a series of pre-rehab books, entitled Godless. Naturally, the title led me to believe that it was an unexpectedly candid autobiography. Alas, she may be saving that book until after she's been strapped to a bed at Hazelden for a month. Instead of using this book to dabble in the bracing novelty of introspection, Miss Coulter turns her two-setting mind ("off" and "off her rocker") to hector us about religion.

Let's be honest: Reading a book about religion from Ann Coulter is tantamount to reading a book about dieting from Michael Moore. After all, who wants to be lectured about not being Christian enough by an almost-50 year-old boozehound in a black leather miniskirt who has never been married? Count me as having a healthy skepticism over whether Miss Coulter has saved herself for marriage. Or anything, for that matter.

In Godless, Miss (oh, how it pains me to refer to that serially-rejected spinster as "Miss," but something Miss Coulter usually eschews -- accuracy -- compels me) Coulter turns her shrill furnace of brayed invective, fueled by a bottomless quarry of prickly psychological damage, at the most despicable people in the world. No, not the maniacal murderers who flew planes into the World Trade Center towers, but the blameless Americans who had their flesh burned off of their bodies in those buildings -- and the inconsolable spouses they left behind.

Yes, she directs an anger that shirks all management on women whose husbands were murdered on 9/11. Apparently, in Miss Coulter's religion, the meek may inherit the Earth, but not before she's had a shot at making them cry first. With a mouth so busy frothing it apparently has no time to eat, Miss Coulter claims to be livid at these opportunistic widows for being crass enough to remember the event that killed the father of their children. She also gets prickly about them being compensated as a result of the catastrophe.

Frankly, I think she is simply exhibiting a fierce territoriality on behalf of herself and other Republicans who have used 9/11 to win elections and sell books. Her attitude seems to be: Exploiting 9/11 is our shtick -- find your own way to make money! This must account for why she doesn't take Lisa Beamer to task for registering "Let's Roll!™" on the trinkets she sold on the Internet.

Of course, Ann's every utterance is a carefully choreographed gambit to convert sensationalistic bad taste into sensationally good sales. In this way she is like another rapidly aging blond sex kitten, Madonna, someone else with no discernable talent other than getting people to ask, "Did she really say that?" Miss Coulter mocking the widows of men incinerated by burning jet fuel in the World Trade Center is just her competitive one-upmanship of Madonna showing up on a mirrored crucifix, all but screaming "Look at me! Isn't this SHOCKING?" And you have to give credit where it is due: Miss Coulter could squeeze ink out of a tombstone.

But in her mercantile zeal to say what sells, Miss Coulter endeavors to create an image that has apparently had a nasty falling out with reality, leaving them no longer on speaking terms. Indeed, to hear Miss Coulter speak (in that Martha Stewart-on-helium Connecticut lockjaw voice of hers), you'd think she is someone who actually embraces heartland, Christian, American values. In reality, however, she is less like June Cleaver baking pot-roast than she is like Samantha Jones baked on pot. Indeed, this is no piously serene Christian wife, but a braying loud mouth who wears super-slutty clothes, powders her bony nose more often than Lindsay Lohan (if you know what I mean), knocks back scotch with an alacrity that eludes Ted Kennedy since the advent of rheumatoid arthritis, lives only in cities filled with homos and screws anything willing to bang an anorexic skeleton. [Had I typed any of that I would have included the word "allegedly," but the Lord apparently countenances no such quibbles when he uses my keyboard to throw His voice.]

This brings me to Miss Coulter's teen tramp wardrobe. Miss Coulter showed up to the Today show this week wearing a black cocktail dress three sizes too small. At seven in the morning, mind you. No woman in New York wears a little black dress that early in the day unless she is burying someone dead, or looks like someone death, as she makes a Whore of Babylon predawn retreat from the previous night's licentious debauchery. This may account for why Matt Lauer told me that the poor thing smelled like an ashtray.

But it wasn't the color of the dress that was so telling. No, it was the "Look! I got myself one of those Brazilian waxes!" length that spoke more to a Jackie Stallone determination to hang on to youth with knuckles no longer white but bleeding. Indeed, it seems that Miss Coulter's whole sense of self comes from thinking she is a "hot young babe" who drives, presumably myopic, men wild with a sexual desire so ardent they no longer hear the nonsense she is saying. Goodness me, who would have ever guessed that the Achilles heel for most Republican man would be the sight of pre-operative transsexuals in dresses made for someone 20 years younger?

Miss Coulter suffers from an affliction I like to call Mariah Carey by Proxy. Celebrities who suffer from this debilitating disease so seldom seek help before some ruthless person takes a photograph of them. Mariah Carey by Proxy afflicts menopausal woman who think they would break the hearts of teenage boys throughout America if they ever showed up in public with a nipple-baring "Love Waits" tube-top. NOTE: Call your doctor if you find yourself wearing clothes that flash undernourished, middle-age legs and surgically-levitated bosoms, particularly when such revealing clothing is not appropriate for the occasion. Side affects may include wearing your hair like a junior high school cheerleader even though you are rapidly approaching 50.

Please join me in prayer for dear, sad Miss Coulter, as plastic surgery and Photoshop do not seem to be sparing this one-note minx from becoming the Baby Jane Hudson of the easy-to-fulminate set.

Miss Coulter's muse, Sylvia Miles (right). Miss Coulter has been overheard bellowing in bars the words made famous by Miss Miles in the film Midnight Cowboy:

"You were gonna ask me for money? Who the hell do you think you're dealing with, some old slut on K Street? In case you didn't happen to notice it, ya big Texas longhorn bull, I'm one helluva gorgeous chick!"

Read more of Betty Bowers -- the World's Most Fabulous Christian -- on her
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