Dear Ann Coulter, we need a chit-chat. Ever since you endorsed Hillary that fateful night on Fox, you've been growing on me. The problem is, you haven't been growing. To be perfectly frank, we didn't care so much about your eating disorder before you came out and told Hillary exactly what we've been wanting to say to her all these years re that husband of hers: "You're too good for him, Hillary". But there's a worrisome trend: as your public statements increasingly reveal you to be a mere parody of yourself, your eating habits are following suit. What is this we hear about you eschewing food to chew Nicorette all night at some fancy gathering of the hateful over the weekend? Oh sure, you were there with Bob Novak, and vehicles for the Bush Administration's relentless and profligate abuse of power make me lose my appetite too, but come on, lady: we all know that of all the things God was hoping you'd give up for Lent, calories were pretty far down the list.
What's the deal? I hear you're dating Lloyd Grove these days; dude doesn't exactly have an emaciated indie rock physique...so what's it? Well, duh! It's a long-harbored mental illness. But knowing you, adopting some sort of touchy-feely First World clinical term to describe what you'd probably describe as basic figure maintenance would fly in the face of all your flawed ideological principles, so here's my advice: don't. You don't have time for an existential crisis. Don't succumb to one. Instead, just eat something. A sandwich, a Snickers bar. Regular Americans do it every day. You don't have to go bingeaholic, babe, just pack a Luna bar in with whatever amphetamines you take every morning. And in lieu of the chablis, try a beer! What's more American than drunkorexia, Ann?