If Liberals had Their Way, We Would not Exist

By Ruth Lindsay Cook-Ruth

Oh, brother. Here we go. I was contacted by the editor of this publication, a Mrs. Gabrielle Gussy Lunar, to submit a yearly column every year, at the beginning of the year, specifically the first day of the first month of every year. So, I suppose I'm a little late. But Mrs. Lunar doesn't seem to mind. She's just psyched to have a female voice ascending from the depths of this bottomless pit of a Buh-LOG, and a conservative one to boot. In preparation for this article, I checked out some of the past postings and was not delighted by what I saw. In fact, I was disgusted. Mrs. Lunar has approved of some real subversive hogwash on this website. Horseshit abounds, frankly. Real lecherous, pornographic, lascivious, inane, offensive horseshit. That aside, I am overjoyed to perform the duty and privilege of offering the sole conservative perspective on this publication.

Allow me, now, to relate my recent past. Specifically, last night and earlier today, that is to say: this morning, while the sun was still approaching its mid-day apex. But first: last night. Last night was the night that I decided to start writing my new book: The Big Book of Liberals and Their Liberally Libertine Ways: How Liberalism Is Destroying the Fabric of American Society, i.e. Christmas (NOT Xmas), Scholastic Prayer, Other Forms of Prayer, Like Public Prayer, Let's Just Say Christianity in General, etc. And Why Hollywood, a Metonym for the Movie Industry, Which is a Corporate, Free Market Entity that Caters to the General Public and Whose Only Agenda is to Make Lots of Money, Hates You, Your Family, Your Friends and Your Unborn Children, by Ruth Lindsay Cook-Ruth. I got a million dollar advance on this baby, based on the sales of my previous bestseller, It Smell Like Sex in There: The Inez Galeana Story, the Maid Who Cleaned the Oval Office Immediately Following the Act of Presidential Fellatio and Broke the Story that Rocked a Nation, by Ruth Lindsay Cook-Ruth. But this book will be different. This will do for conservative literature what War and Peace did for the novel; what The Simpsons did for animated, prime-time television; what Rush Limbaugh did for conservative talk-radio; what Bill O'Reilly did for controlled, thoughtful shouting and mic-cutting. My book is going to have it all: charts, graphs, statistics, words, sentences, interviews, numbered pages, a dedication, acknowledgments. An appendix! An index! A table of contents! It will be copyrighted. It will be broken up into different parts, which will in turn be broken up into chapters. Each chapter will deal with a very specific point. Each part will contain a group of chapters whose very specific points are somehow closely related. Each word, each sentence, will really mean something. There is going to be so much meaning in this book. This book is going to change the conservative cultural landscape. Forever.

The only problem: all I have so far is the title. But it isn't so grim. Not only have I decided on the title, but I've also decided on the very specific tone in which the book will be written. I want to convey a subtle, understated tone of extreme bitchiness. Just, like, "Who taught this bitch how to use Microsoft Word and why'd he or she do it?" sort of bitchiness. Testicle-tugging, banshee-shrieking, metal fingernails on a screaming, living chalkboard, off-the-meds, paranoid-schizophrenic, sociopathic type of bitchiness. But subtle. Like the Willa Cather of conservative literature. But last night, I was thwarted by writer's block. I was stuck. I was unsatisfied with every attempt I made at a first sentence: "Webster's Dictionary defines Liberalism as..." No. Too cliche. "If William F. Buckley was still currently breathing..." No. Too soon. "If I didn't believe in God..." No. Too unimaginable. "Hey! You! Yeah, you, you motherfucking, unpatriotic sack of bullshit. I'm talking to you, Liberal, you..." No. The subject, but not my intended audience. No, no, no! I just couldn't get into the zone. I shut my MacBook, picked up my iPhone and dialed the only person who could help me: my dear friend, my slutty comrade, my fellow culture warrior, the Samantha Jones to my Carrie Bradshaw, Ann Coulter.

We set a breakfast date for earlier this morning at Starbucks. I had a Venti White Chocolate Vanilla Chai Latte with a shot of Espresso and a raspberry muffin, while Ann opted for a cherry scone and a tall black Pike's Place Roast. We sat down at our table, at which point Ann took out a couple Oxycontin pills, crushed them with her portable mortar and pestle from Saks, and sprinkled the resulting powder into our drinks.

"So what's up, girlfriend?" said Ann.

"I'm having trouble with my new book, Ann," I said. "It's called, The Big Book of Liberals and Their Liberally Libertine Ways: How Liberalism Is Destroying the Fabric of American Society, i.e. Christmas (NOT Xmas), Scholastic Prayer, Other Forms of Prayer, Like Public Prayer, Let's Just Say Christianity in General, etc. And Why Hollywood, a Metonym for the Movie Industry, Which is a Corporate, Free Market Entity that Caters to the General Public and Whose Only Agenda is to Make Lots of Money, Hates You, Your Family, Your Friends and Your Unborn Children, by Ruth Lindsay Cook-Ruth, but I just can't get the content down." Ann nodded her head, took a gulp of coffee, shook out her luscious mane and crossed her gorgeous stems.

"First of all, great fucking title. Second of all, you should really play up your name. Use it as an angle. A Schtick," she said.

"What do you mean?" I said.

"I mean, Ruth. Truth. 'Ruth is here to dispense the truth!' Something like that. There's your first sentence," Ann said. I smiled and wrote it down in my notebook. Brilliant, I thought. I had my first sentence.

"Brilliant," I said. "I have my first sentence. Now what about the rest of it?"

"Well, Ruth, I can't write the whole fucking book for you. I mean, I've got things to do: book tours, television appearances, commencement addresses," she said, uncrossing her legs. She tapped the table vigorously and looked around the cafe, eyeing each patron suspiciously. "But I will tell you this. It's an idea I've been bandying about, but haven't had much luck with. But to me, it's the ultimate anti-liberal thesis."

"What is it?" I said, leaning forward expectantly, nearly knocking over my drink in giddy anticipation.

"If liberals had their way, we would not exist," she said. She leaned back and crossed her arms arrogantly. But she had the right to be arrogant. She was the Mighty Coulter. And she had just given me the rest of my book.

"Of course! It makes so much sense!" I said, and took a big gulp of my Chai Latte excitedly and hurriedly, burning my esophagus in the process. But nothing could have harmed me at that moment.

"Of course it makes so much sense," Ann said. "Liberals' ultimate goal is the extinction of the human race. They want everyone to be gay with each other and gay-married, which would lead to, um, hello: no more babies. And they want to abort the babies that do exist. They want everyone to be socialist and equal, which would destroy competition, and nothing would get done! The quality of our doctors would suffer and, thus, diseases would run rampant. We're looking at the end of days here, Ruth. And you're going to be the messenger."

"But, why me? Why not you?"

"Because, Ruth, you're my friend. I want you to have this opportunity. I want you to succeed. I want you to lead the culture warriors out of the darkness and into the light," she said, and I began to tear up. I was filled with an immense, overwhelming amount of love at that moment, for both Ann and the human race (excluding liberals). "Plus," she continued, "I've already written my next ten books. I'm pretty much set until, like, 2020."

We then hugged and parted ways. I went home and began work on my magnum opus, the tome that will not only change the conservative cultural landscape, but also save the world as we have come to know and love it. I'm already on chapter 4: Robin Hood and his Band of Gay-Marry Men, and am only taking a break from it right now to fulfill my contract for this sickening publication and to inform you all of the book that will save the world while it is still in progress. Hope and change are on the way, folks. And you needn't worry, because those two appropriated, abstract concepts are in the able, supple, manicured hands of Ruth Lindsay Cook-Ruth.