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A recent reader report has us proudly announcing that, for the second time in just as many weeks, Ann Coulter has made contact with calories:

A perfectly fine meal at the Union Square Cafe was ruined when she-devil Ann Coulter and some geeky guy were seated at the table next to us. At first glance, we thought she was the bimbo second wife of the obviously wealthy gentleman, who was complaining about the problems he was having in getting ownership of the new baseball franchise in DC. After he was done complaining, she launched into a long monologue on her career, liberals, her daddy's career as a union-buster, and the woes of owning an apartment on Park Avenue. Her words weren't as offensive as I'd expected them to be (my boyfriend and I were hoping to provoke something by conspicuously showing her that us gays can have stable relationships, too) but her voice was worse than nails on a chalkboard and definitely made me lose my appetite.

We feel for this unwitting witness but, politics aside, it's more important that we get some nutrients in Ann before she gets really ill. We may not like her, but we certainly wouldn't (openly) wish death upon her.
(If, God forbid, her malnourishment leads to her failure to menstruate, well, maybe that's for the greater good. But we didn't just say that. Oh, yes we did.)