As some men are especially sentient and the Earth flies in circles, it’s once again time for Right Wing News to rate “The 20 Hottest Conservative Women In The New Media.” Ta-daa. If this game sounds neanderthal and beneath your evolution-studded grasp don’t worry. It’s pretty easy to understand. Men stare at pictures of women and then they rate them. The lists are e-mailed, and the News posts the results. The ratings came out just today.
If you end up the number one woman on the list then you are the hottest. If you end up the number twenty woman then there are nineteen other ladies preferable to whatever you are. Honestly, number one is so far prettier than you it’s merciful to pretend you’re “hot.” We should probably agree you’re better suited for a tournament of “skank.” Your grim appearance barely interests the eros of gentlemen as stately as Ace and Ass-Rocket, and why shouldn’t that be widely known? Timeless truths are laid bare by the pursuits of mutual dignity and respect and also by the universal reverence for human life.
Now I will not be as callous as the alleged ‘fans’ of these women. No. How is it fair of me to look at the mere appearance of a particular human being and judge? Why would a sane person do that? Where on Earth would it be civilized to label a woman an 8 as opposed to a 7? And who is to say I’d rather be shot out a crap cannon than have sex with a gun-nut? Who? Would it be gracious of me to gaze at Hot Official Number Seven, Monica Crowley (better than #8 worse than #6) . .
. . and suggest she stop wearing propeller beanies for a bra? That would be shallow. Critical. No. And would it be tactful of me to suggest to Hot Official Number Fourteen, Kristina Ribali (better than #15 worse than #13) . .
. . that she throw away her Li’l Undertaker Makeup Magic kit? I don’t think so. It would be coarse. Awkward. I will not do it. And how would it reflect upon me to comment of Ms. Coulter, Hot Official Number Eleven (better than #12 worse than #10) . .
. . that a replica of sturdy Ann would make a fine hat rack? It would reflect poorly. I shall avoid it. And just how would it make Jenny Erikson feel, Hot Official Number Sixteen (better than #17 worse than #15), if I were to let her in on a secret?
Black men don’t frequent The James Earl Ray Memorial Library. No point in expecting anyone long since graduated from Harvard. Which might make her feel silly after sitting there for so very long, pining for a president never to show. Still, friends, the sort of woman who’d stalk a guy across a third-rate law library with a come hither façade and a bolt-action squirrel cannon? Smokin’.