ANN COULTER IS AN ALIEN
“ANN COULTER IS AN ALIEN”, claims Lou Dobbs.
ASSOCIATED PRESS September 26, 2011 In a shocking revelation today, former CNN anchor Lou Dobbs dropped an emotionally charged bombshell on the already fractured landscape of Republican politics. In a sometimes tearful recounting of his four year affair with Right Wing Barbie Doll Ann Coulter, which evidently began during the Iowa Caucus in 2007, and ended at that same political venue four years later, Dobbs went into great detail about his fatal attraction for Coulter’s bellicose beauty, and the eventual, and inevitable break-up that occurred in Des Moines last month. “When I found out the truth”, said Dobbs, “I tried to stay the course. I mean, I loved this woman, or whatever she turned out to be. I knew I couldn’t go on without her. But there is only so far a man can go when confronted with circumstances beyond the pale of any acceptable form of human behavior. When I found out the truth, I was devastated”.
Dobbs recounted the early blissful days of their affair. “Love sometimes makes you blind. I knew there was something different about Ann, that she was not quite normal, but I let it go. Then that night in Wilkes Barre, well, that’s when Ann’s charade ended, and my world turned into a living nightmare”. Dobbs and Coulter were attending a fund raiser for then Senator Rick Santorum in Wilkes Barre Pennsylvania in October of 2009. “We shared a room at the local Holiday Inn. I was awakened by an odd noise in the middle of the night. I instinctively reached for Ann, but she was not in bed. As I sat up, I noticed an intense light coming from under the bathroom door. As I approached the door, the sound grew louder – like a thousand voices speaking a hundred different languages all at once. Not speaking really, but kind of chanting. Chanting in a hundred languages, rhythmically, like some kind of pagan ritual. I quietly cracked open the door just a half inch or so, just enough to see inside. And that’s when I saw it. That’s when my life came crashing down around me”. Dobbs claimed that the bathroom was filled with smoke, and bright flashing lights. “And there she was, or it was, right there in those bright lights. It was Ann, and then it wasn’t Ann.
She kept changing shape, and shifting into different colors, and then it happened. Her head changed shape as the chanting grew louder, turning and changing until it was unmistakable. I stood there, frozen with shock and fear, but there it was, right on Ann’s unmistakable body – it was the head of J. Edgar Hoover. And his mouth was moving – the chanting sounds coming from somewhere inside. And then I heard a voice in the middle of all that babble. A voice singing in English, and the head started changing shape again, and the flashing lights like strobes in a disco became even brighter, and the song became recognizable. It was God BlessAmerica, and suddenly the head morphed into, it was horrible, and yet it was so familiar, and right there on Ann’s beautiful, slender body was the head of Kate Smith singing God BlessAmerica. And I was so horrified that I must have moved and somehow pushed the door open, and in a furious nanosecond of rearranged reality, the lights disappeared, and the chanting too, and the form in front of me changed shape rapidly right before my eyes, until all that was left was Ann. She was naked, and covered with sweat, and breathing heavily, like someone who had just run a marathon, and we just stood there, me in the doorway, and Ann in the center of the bathroom, and the only sound was Ann’s gasping for air”.
Boggs claims that Coulter revealed everything to him that night, at least everything she knew. She told him of her earliest memories, as a child-like form, without structured memory or familial connections, who was from another world, but she didn’t know where. She wound up in foster care and was then adopted, never revealing her true alien indentity to her new family. At a young age she had discovered that she had the ability to shape-shift during certain lunar cycles, and morph into those people she found heroic. She told Dobbs of her great loneliness, longing for someone to know the truth, and love her in spite of it. And then they met that night in 2009, at the Iowa Caucus.
“She wanted to tell me the truth, but she was afraid of my reaction. So that night in Wilkes Barre, I found out everything. But I loved the girl, so what could I do? I know this sounds crazy, but I decided to try and stick it out. I mean, she didn’t look like an alien most of the time. Just every so often she got all smarmy and noisy and morphed into her heroes. So what? Nobody’s perfect”.
According to Dobbs, her morphing habits changed abruptly about six months later, when she dissolved into Ronald Reagan during the act of sex. “I’ve never been so horrified in my life. I mean, there I am porking the woman I love, and right at the best part, I mean just when I’m about to come, she morphs into the great communicator, and Ronnie starts sticking his tongue in my mouth. Hey, there are limits, you know?” Coulter’s sexual changeling conflagrations became more frequent, yet somehow Dobbs managed to remain intrepid. “It was humiliating. Ann’s need to become her heroes now happened every time we had sex. One night I’m boinking Dwight Eisenhower, and the next night it’s Roy Cohn. And then the dressing-up and acting-out started. I’ve got to admit, Ann was pretty hot in black leather, but not when she turned into Richard Nixon, and made me crawl around on all fours on the floor and eat a can of Alpo while he told me how he had been unfairly crucified by an unfriendly press, most of whom were employed by the Kennedy’s. I guess I must have boffed just about Ann’s whole heroic line up: Joe McCarthy, Genghis Kahn, Ted Bundy, Donald Rumsfeld, Margaret Thatcher, Al Capone, Vlad the Impaler, Torquemada, Ma Barker, even Dubya, and each one with their own particular quirky sexual needs – boy, it was exhausting.”
Dobbs then talked about events at this year’s Iowa Caucus, events that would bring his extra-terrestrial love affair to a sad end. “And there we were, in Des Moines for this year’s caucus. In the same hotel where it all started four years ago. Seems like yesterday, but then again it doesn’t. I had just hung up on my editor, a little difference of opinion on my new book, “In God’s Way”, when Ann came out of the bathroom in some silky thing that clung to that luscious, tight body of hers like nobody’s business. Well, one thing led to another, and we were going at it hot and heavy, and all the while I’m thinking, ‘Please don’t turn into Mussolini’, but it keeps getting better and better, and Ann’s all worked up like she’s been stuck between floors for an hour in an elevator filled with Democrats, and I’m just about ready to unload when, all of a sudden Ann’s head starts growing and growing, and splitting in two, and I start hearing music and, low and behold, growing out of Ann Coulter’s delicious body are two heads in cowboy hats, singing, ‘Happy trails to you, until we meet again….’, and I realize that I am staring into the faces of Roy Rogers and Dale Evans. And I’m still boinking away, as unfazed as possible, under the circumstances, when I hear the unmistakable sound of a horse whinnying. And old Roy looks me right in the eye and says, ‘Ok Lou boy, time to turn yourself around and make Trigger one happy Palomino.’ Well, that was just about all I could take. I loved this Coulter woman, or whatever she was, but I’d be damned if I’d give it up for Trigger”.
Dobbs claims that he got dressed, and stormed out of that hotel room, made a call to the AP, and arranged this Press Conference. “I wanted to get out my side of the story before Coulter made with the extraterrestrial machinations to the Press as these alien creatures will do. It’s weird story I know, but the God’s honest truth. Why, I’d stake my reputation on it”. Calls made to Ms. Coulter, as well as NASA were not returned. Both the Republican National Committee and Fox News refused comment.
© 2011 Shaun Costello
THE THIRD HAND
THE THIRD HAND
by Shaun Costello
Excerpted from the “Seventies” manuscript:
Sex, Gangsters, and Deception in the time of ‘Groovy’
By the middle of 1974, my time was pretty evenly divided between CBS Sports, and Star Distributors, the porn unit of the Gambino Crime Family. Out in Hunterdon County, my girlfriend Jane had quickly outgrown my birthday gift to her the previous year, a little chestnut gelding called Applejack. She was an athletic and natural rider, and wound up buying an open jumper who nobody except Jane seemed able to ride. She called him Bojangles and did wonders with him. I tried riding him only once, and was so terrified by the experience that I almost quit riding altogether. I sold little Applejack to a local teenager, and started riding school horses during lessons, which never lasts long. Show Barns make their money on lessons and on selling expensive horses to horseless riding students like me. After a few weeks of taking lessons on their school horses the sales routine began. “Shaun, what can I say? You’ve outgrown the school horses, and if you’re really serious about riding then it’s time to find you a nice thoroughbred.” Essentially they were saying, “Either you’re going to own an expensive, fine tuned jumping machine, or you’re going to remain a horseless slob, looked down upon by all concerned.” So within a few weeks, not wanting to remain a horseless slob, I forked over the money for a stunning bay thoroughbred gelding who I called Dawn Patrol. The problem was that Dawn Patrol was a five year old and only a year off the track, so he was completely green. This meant that I could only ride him under professional supervision, which wound up costing quite a bit of money. If I wanted to go hacking with Jane off in the woods and fields I had to rent a school horse from the barn, while my difficult-to-ride thoroughbred remained in his stall eating me out of house and home. I was now in way over my head.
August passed into September, and my porn production output continued at a frantic pace while I still spent weekends trying not to look foolish attempting to ride my fine tuned jumping machine, and watching Jane tear over Jump courses on her
chestnut monster with the reckless abandon of the fine rider she had become. She had risen to a full level above me, but I was happy with our situation. My life seemed to work. I was maxed-out, but as long no surprises came my way I could manage this level of activity. It was at this point that my mother called to tell me she was getting re-married.
This matrimonial announcement immediately put Jane into wedding-present mode. So, with our gift perfectly wrapped, we jumped on the Metroliner and headed to Washington DC, where the event was to take place. Both the ceremony and the reception were to be held at the townhouse of Michael Gill, a close friend of my mother’s new victim, and a man who had made a
lifetime career out of being the nephew of Mamie Eisenhower. He was one of those Washington political parasites who lived on the perks when his party was in power. The republicans still held the Whitehouse so Michael Gill was on the dole. It was never made clear to me exactly what Gill did, but from the look of him, I was certain that not all of it was legal.
The ceremony was to be presided over by a Seventh Circuit Appellate Judge, and attended by a collection of Washington’s best and worst characters. My mother’s new husband had owned restaurants in the Washington area for years, and seemed well liked. Bob Dole was there, as was Dick Cheney, Ed Musky, and what seemed like every lobbyist in the capital.
On the other side of the reception was a delegation of boys from the Bonnano family in New York, some of whom looked familiar. What an amazing gathering. Some of them had gone to law school to learn how to defend criminals, and some of them had attended “The University of the Streets” to learn the subtle nuances of the import/export business, but all of them were gangsters. I hadn’t seen this many republicans in one room since the televised coverage of the 1972 Convention.
I introduced Jane to the happy couple, who really did seem like a happy couple, and who in turn, introduced us to our host. Michael Gill took Jane in tow, “Young lady, before the ceremony begins, let me introduce you to our guests”, and off they went. While Jane was glad-handing the guest list, I decided to explore Gill’s house. The main floor contained the cavernous living room, its walls decorated with many photographs of Ike and Mamie, and where the wedding guests were milling about. Just down the hall was an equally large formal dining room with more photographs of the Eisenhowers, a chefs kitchen where the caterers were busy
prepping the banquet, and various and sundry pantries and storage cabinets. The floors above contained bedroom after bedroom, each one with walls covered with more Ike and Mamie pictures, that seem to go on forever. Next to the kitchen was a door that led to the stairway to the basement. I decided that Gill’s basement might be worth exploring, and I was right.
Michael Gill’s secret subterranean playground was a wood paneled wonderland of adult entertainment. A screening room, with couches instead of chairs, where guests could watch adult films while stretching out together in total comfort. The next room was decorated in a kind of cruise ship motif, with port-holes painted on the walls, round life-preservers hanging everywhere, and deck chairs for the comfort of the ship’s passengers. In the
center of the room was the biggest hot tub I had ever seen, accommodating maybe ten to twelve wet revelers at one time. As in the previous room, there was a large movie screen, and through one of the port-holes I noticed an 16MM movie projector.
The shelves in the projection room contained 16MM prints of feature films, all pornographic. As I went through the titles I was horrified to find several little movies that I had made for Sid Levine the previous year, and I was in about half of them. So Michael Gill had seen me in action. But how could he have gotten his hands on theatrical films that I had made for the DeCavalcante crime family? Then I remembered the boys from the Bonnano family who were upstairs for the wedding. The wedding! I made a bee-line for the stairway and arrived just in time. Jane was furious whispering, “Where have you been? Everybody’s been waiting for you.” I just said, “Don’t ask.”
The ceremony passed without a hitch, my sisters cried, and the reception began. Michael Gill hadn’t taken his eyes off Jane since we arrived, and it was making her uncomfortable. Gill, who’s constantly filling my glass, was telling me a series of bizarre stories about the sexual capabilities of his insatiable, nymphomaniac girlfriend. She was a mousy little thing, who I’m sure no one at the reception suspected of having a third hand located in her vagina, yet Gill maintained that this was the case. Now I knew that he recognized me from the movies. Why else would he be constantly whispering in my ear about his girlfriend’s sexual exploits? If he knew, did his pal who was in the midst of marrying my mother also know? Did Cheney? Dole? Musky? Just how many members of the United States Senate had watched, in the comfy confines of Michael Gill’s underground pleasure chamber, the movies I had made for the Mob? Gill was still relentlessly whispering. “I guarantee you young man, the slippery grasp, the velvety fingers, your zorch will be the happiest little guy on planet Earth.” Zorch? I hadn’t heard that word since I was twelve. At this point Gill decided that I should meet his pal Dick Cheney who, for the past few months, had been running Gerry Ford’s transition team, working just under his buddy Don Rumsfeld. “Dick, I’d like you meet the bride’s son Shaun. He’s a film maker you know.” Cheney turned with an outstretched hand, “A real pleasure Shaun. They make quite a handsome couple. A film maker, huh. Not a member of the press are you?” “No sir, not at all.” Cheney was sizing me up. “What kind of films do you make?” He was peering at me over the top of his glasses. “Golf sir, my last film was about the British Open.” Cheney smiled, “Golf. That’s the ticket. The great American common denominator. Everybody loves golf. Did you know that President Ford is quite an accomplished golfer? Plays with the pros all the time.”
So here we were at my mother’s wedding reception. Michael Gill was standing between Bob Dole, who was endlessly telling great jokes, and Dick Cheney, who was explaining how his friend Gerry Ford would save the GOP from ruin; and in between Dole’s Jokes and Cheney’s explanations, Gill was whispering in my ear about how it would feel when his girlfriend got that third hand in her vagina around my zorch. The only improvement that I could see on the theatricality of this moment might be the addition of a little acid, but I guess you can’t have everything.
The reception began to wind down and, before I could tell Jane about Gill’s subterranean amusement park, he was already telling her about his new gazillion gallon hot tub which, he proudly told her, was big enough for the whole neighborhood. He was having an intimate get together after the reception ended. Just a few couples would be there. Fun, open-minded couples, and we were invited. How could I have been so stupid? Gill was selling me on the sexual talents of his mousy girlfriend, while my mother was saying “I do”, in order to get his hands on Jane. This was truly hilarious. So my mother and her new hubby went over Niagara Falls in a barrel, and Jane and I took the short walk to Union Station, leaving Michael Gill and his three-handed girlfriend to swim laps in their hot tub.
Back in New York, I had stopped by Sid’s office to pick up a couple of checks from Star, and their office had a different feel. The young guys who did the grunt work, carrying boxes of film cans from one floor to the next, were all wearing suits. Normally these guys wore tee shirts, so I asked them what was going on. Paulie, who was the youngest, and always joking around, seemed strangely serious. “We’re in the banking business now”, he said. “Got to look good.” The banking business?
So I took Star’s checks down to the Franklin National Bank, like I always did, and a change had been made. The Franklin sign above the building had been replaced by one that read European American Bank. Inside all seemed as usual, with the exception ofsome of the bank’s personnel. Sitting at desks formerly occupied by the branch’s officers were employees of Star Distributors, wearing suits and looking a bit out of place. Charlie, the manager who had worked for Franklin, was still there and greeted me. “Hi Shaun, what have you got today?” “Just a few checks, Charlie.” He smiled. “No problem. Come on in the back.” As we walked toward the back of the bank, some of the “officers” winked or gave me the high-sign. In the bank’s back room four long tables had been set up, and they were covered with cash in various denominations, some of it stacked, and some of it just in piles. There were five or six men, all wearing suits, and all recognizable to me as employees of Star, sitting at the tables, counting the money, and putting the cash in large corrugated cardboard boxes. I gave the checks to Charlie, who reached into one of the boxes and handed me an enormous stack of freshly laundered hundred dollar bills. “Things are going to be easier from now on”, he said while counting out the last of my cash. It took a few of these odd transactions before the scandal hit the papers.
The Sicilian Mafia, fronted by an Italian businessman named Michele Sindona, had bought out the failing Franklin National Bank, renaming it EAB. The administration of the bank’s branches was to be the responsibility of New York’s Gambino crime family, along with the DeCavalcantes. So that’s what happened. I wondered why they didn’t just call it the Mafia National Bank and get it over with, but of course I never suggested this idea to the boys. So the European American Bank went about doing business with most of its employees bearing a strange resemblance to the cast of Mean Streets.
© 2011 Shaun Costello