Ann Coulter slowly entered the private meeting room at the White House and took an empty chair in the silent circle of seated people. They all looked at her with curiosity; each was wearing a tag with their first name on it. Ann smoothed her hair nervously, then got to her feet again. She knew the time had come to admit her problem, and she knew that this supportive group was the place to do it.“Hello,” she said, her voice shaking slightly. “My name is Ann.”
“Hello, Ann” the people around the circle murmured.
Ann bit her lip and continued. “My name is Ann,” she said again, defiantly, “and I’m a-, I’m a-,” she closed her eyes and took a deep breath before blurting out the horrible truth.
“I’m a Francophile! I love France and all things French! I eat croissants and French toast for breakfast. Never all at once of course...” she continued, bravely. “My pantry is stocked with Evian water. I love truffles. I own stock in Airbus.”
Ann looked around the circle for support. A few heads nodded, and a few people smiled, encouragingly.
“I drink chardonnay and eat French fries. I own a French poodle. I wear Chanel No.5 and furnish my house in Louis XV–style furniture. I go to Jean Renoir film festivals and sing along with Maurice Chevalier records and read Dumas and Balzac and collect prints by Monet, Matisse and Cezanne!”
Ann turned and grasped the hand of the man nearest her. “I don’t care if Texas is bigger than France!” she cried. “Have you ever been to Texas? They eat chicken-fried steak down there! Have you ever eaten chicken-fried steak? I’d rather eat the Michelin tires off my Peugeot! I think all that over-barbecued meat has made their brains go soft. If I have to go to another God-damned bar-b-cue and eat stringy, over-cooked steer-bones drenched in ketchup and steak sauce and wash it down with that antelope-piss Coors calls “beer” I think I’ll scream!”
Ann’s body was shaking. “I love France!” she shouted. “I vacation in Paris and write poetry on the banks of the Seine! I know all the words to La Marseillaise! I... I... I’ve French-kissed Karl Rove!”
Ann collapsed on the floor, weeping. A heavyset man in spectacles got up, walked over to her and patted her on the shoulder.
“It’s all right, Ann,” Dick Cheney said gently. “But the White House Chapter of French-Lovers Anonymous meets three doors down. This is a Presidential Cabinet Meeting.”
The people in the circle murmured. Ann looked up, wiping her tear-streaked face. “Does... does anyone have any brie?” she gasped before collapsing back into a blond, bony heap.