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by Cheryl Seal
Tuesday, Jun. 13, 2006 at 10:48 AM
He's baaaaaack! Our intrepid mouse in the White House (he objects to being called a mole) is back with his latest, most shocking revelations ever!
(To see the article with illustrations, go to Cheryl Seal Reports at http://cherylsealreports.com/deepthroatandcoulter.html
By Cheryl Seal
Ann Coulter is that hard-faced tall woman with the lank bleached-blond hair who maintains a sort of Rodney Dangerfield-goes-political personna (although Dangerfield was more charming). She is the darling of the rightwingers - a sort of mascot attack dog willing to threaten the "ungodly" with bodily harm. But some interesting facts have begun to emerge about Coulter. First, it was revealed that she is not registered to vote in the district where she claims to based in Florida. She is in fact currently being investigated for a minor form of vote fraud in which she voted in another district where she is NOT registered.
But now it is also revealed that the church that Coulter claims to attend, the Presbyterian Church of the Redeemer, not just regularly, but with all sorts of folk in tow, never heard of her. She's not a member and no one can vouch for her ever having attended.
Now my intrepid political informant, a mouse based beneath the floor in the West Wing of the White House who prefers to be known as " Deep Throat II" has revealed the shocking truth about Coulter. I hadn't heard from Deep Throat in a while - he's had relatives visiting from across town who got a little too used to the ample bounty of Deep Throat's digs (a single mouse could live a year just on the Twinkie crumbs left scattered around Karl Rove's office in a week!). It took him forever to dislodge the clamoring clan - he finally had to use the old "mouse flu" scare.
Anyway, Deep Throat gave me a call this week (he uses the phone in the Oval Office after hours, as the push buttons are nicely illuminated and, as he wryly puts it, "almost too easy to push"). He told me he had run across some information so explosive he felt he needed to see me in person. So we arranged a meeting in front of the White House on the Pennsylvania Avenue side on Saturday afternoon at 1:00 pm. At 12:55, I was standing on the sidewalk in front of Chez Bush, peering in through the 10-foot-high, razor-wire-topped chain-link fence and trying to blend in with a group of Chinese tourists. At exactly 1:00, I spotted Deep Throat. He just sort of appeared, perched atop a nearby five-foot jersey barrier, wearing his characteristic trenchcoat and sunglasses.
I greeted him and discretely showed him the agreed upon payment – a baggie of organic granola with almonds and banana chips and a chunk of Stilton cheese that made the Chinese tourists all turn their heads and sniff questioningly
Satisfied, Deep Throat nodded, then ordered, "Call a cab.”
“That’s for me to know and you to find out,” he replied mysteriously.
After an hour of frantic and futile arm waving and other gesticulations, a taxi was snagged. Soon we were speeding off to a destination given to our driver, Ram, in perfect Hindi by Deep Throat. "You are a mouse of many hidden talents!" I said, impressed. He simply smiled and pushed the collar of his trench coat even higher.
After a convoluted and I suspect completely unnecessary tour of the most bombed out looking parts of DC, Ram finally stopped in front of a large modern building: NBC Studios. Deep Throat directed the cab to the back parking lot and told Ram to pull into a space at the edge of the lot. Parked next to us was a massive black SUV with smoked glass that had bumper stickers that read: “”This SUV is Rapture Ready,” “God Hates Liberals,” and “Bush Said It, I Believe It, That Settles It.” Deep Throat chuckled. “Hmm…I see Tim Russert is already here.”
“What are we doing?” I asked, perplexed.
“Just wait and see,” the mystery mouse replied. “It will be worth your while.”
Ram and I just exchanged questioning looks via the rearview mirror. We knew we were in the presence of a master.
A few minutes later, a big trailer pulled by a truck cab pulled into the lot – the kind of trailer you see parked at the edges of on-location movie sets, or carrying rock band gear. The trailer circled the lot furtively (as furtive as a 20-foot trailer can circle), then finally pulled off in a corner behind the building, near the dumpsters and loading area. A cigarette-smoking redneck in a NASCAR cap climbed out of the cab, paused and glanced carefully around. Thanks to Russert’s 6-mile-to-the-galloner, we were screened from his view. The redneck, a thin, long-legged guy in dusty jeans and obnoxious pointy-toed cowboy boots, threw down his cigarette and strode to the back of the trailer. He looked around once more, then unlocked the rear door, climbed in, and disappeared.
“What now?” I asked, mystified
“Wait and see.”
So we waited…and waited. After about a half hour, I started to bite my nails and Ram started to snore. Still we waited. Finally, after nearly an hour, I heard the trailer door creak open. But, it was not the redneck. Instead, out of the trailer stepped a tall blond woman in a miniskirt and high heels that screamed “Look at me…please!!!!”
“That’s Ann Coulter!” I exclaimed.
Ram woke up abruptly at the name as if from a nightmare and peered wildly about. As we watched, Ms. Coulter wobbled off into the studio via the back door, tripping over her heels just once.
“So what does this mean?” I asked, still mystified. “That Ann Coulter having an affair with a redneck?”
“Come with me to the trailer!” Deep Throat exclaimed eagerly, leaping onto my shoulder. “Ram, keep a look out – beep that horn twice if you see anyone coming.”
“But what about the redneck guy?” I protested. “He’s still back there!”
“Ah, but what you think you see may not be what you are really seeing,” Deep Throat responded cryptically. “Trust me!”
We went over to the trailer door. Deep Throat asked me to hold him steady on my palm in front of the lock, which he picked expertly with a modified paper clip he had brought. (if you will recall, lock picking is one of Deep Throat’s special talents). I pushed the door open and we went inside. The place was well lit by an overhead sunroof-skylight. It was clearly a dressing room – a ladies’ dressing room, complete with clothes racks, a fancy three-way full length mirror, and a mirror-surmounted vanity piled high with makeup, brushes…..and wigs. Blond wigs.
“Ann Coulter wears wigs?” I asked, not sure how significant this finding was.
“Keep looking,” Deep Throat urged.
I did. That’s when my eyes fell on the NASCAR hat, discarded on the floor next to the vanity. Then I saw the dusty jeans tossed over the back of a chair. On the floor next to the chair was a pair of obnoxious cowboy boots. A light began to go on. It was when I noticed the falsies draped halfway out of a bureau drawer that total illumination set in.
“Ann Coulter is…..a man?”
Deep Throat chuckled. “Actually….Ann Coulter does not exist.”
“Then who is it we saw going into the studio?”
At that moment, we heard Ram beep the horn. I peered out and saw Ram being questioned by an NBC rent-a-cop While he was occupied, I quickly left the trailer and locked it behind me. I rescued Ram, who just about to be detained on suspicion of being swarthy. “He’s with me!” I said authoritatively (as authoritatively as someone in jeans and a T-shirt with a mouse on their shoulder can sound). “ I’m Ms. Coulter’s assistant. She asked me to run to the store for lemons. She likes to suck them right before going on the air.”
Having apparently seen Coulter in action, the cop didn’t question this explanation and let us go.
Soon we were rolling back toward the White House to drop Deep Throat off. Ram was so relieved he took the direct route.
By the time we arrived, I had gotten the whole shocking story. It was true! Ann Coulter does not exist!! Nope, that tall, scowling lady in a miniskirt is no lady at all! He’s a guy named Fred Schwartz all decked out in drag! Fred does not live in Florida. He lives in a condo in Queens paid for funds laundered through several rightwing groups, including Citizens against Almost Everything, The League of Reactionary Voters, Corporations for Christ, and the Cousins of the Confederacy. Coulter’s writings are all supplied by Fred’s uncle Bernie in Brooklyn, a failed playwright who also writes the occasional TV commercial copy for Sneaky Sam’s Used Car Sales. Fred drives the dressing room trailer to all Coulter’s appearances. No one has yet figured out that he and Coulter are one in the same. But lately, Fred had gotten sloppy. Like that bit about trying to vote in Florida where, of course, there really is no Ann Coulter, except in theory. And he also forgot that the time he went to the Church of the Redeemer, he went as himself, namely Fred Schwartz. So of course, the folks there didn’t remember any blond celebrity prancing through.
Deep Throat suspects that it was Bush’s pushing for the gay marriage amendment that has made Fred more careless of late – a sort of “accidentally on purpose” unconscious syndrome. Seems there’s a certain interior decorator in Teaneck, New Jersey named Nathaniel that Fred’s been seeing for some time. It’s getting pretty serious and Nathaniel’s not the sort of guy who would settle for secret flowers and the title of “roomie.” And if he ever found out that Fred and Coulter were one in the same, well, let’s just say that Nathaniel is an activist and wouldn’t have much sympathy with the “theatrical license” argument.
Ram was so excited by the whole adventure that, when we stopped outside the White House, he scribbled his name and number down on a Dunkin Donuts receipt and pressed it into my hand. “If ever you two need another cabbie and lookout,” he said in Hindi, which Deep Throat translated for me,” Please to call me!”
As I watched Deep Throat disappear over the jersey barrier and into a secret tunnel beneath a holly bush, I just had a feeling this wouldn’t be the last of my adventures with him….and maybe Ram, too.
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