By Ann Coulter
Okay, faggot. It’s go time. It’s time to meet your maker, whatever alternative god that might be in your case. And I just want to know one thing: Do you have any last requests before I suck out your life force?
How do you think I’ve lasted this long? I’m 812 years old, faggot. The only way for me not to shrivel up and die is to suck the life force out of wimpy little faggots like you. I’ve been doing it for centuries, and I’ll keep doing it. Who’s going to stop me? You?
In the swampy bog where I live, there’s a closet full of the empty, drooping skins of all the hundreds of faggots like you whose life force I’ve sucked over the many, many years. I send out my best friend, Batty the vampire bat, to search for new blood. And what do you know? He found you, at a faggoty, pansy-ass coffee shop. You were probably ordering a double soy latte.
So where’s the last request already? It’s just like a wimpy fag like you to be so indecisive. I haven’t got all day here, you know. Okay, let me help you out. What would a wimpy faggot like you wish for with their dying request? I know. World peace? No, no. I know. A female president. No, wait, a gay president. No, a gay, female president. There we go. I think I nailed it.
Now open up so I can get at your miserable, faggoty life force.
