Dear Ann Coulter,

It has come to my attention that when it comes to neoconservative commentators, lots of people, both your friends and foes, have been unfair about your image. I’ve read it in the papers and heard it on the street: Of all the right wing pundits, you are regarded as “the attractive one,” or “totally hot.”

I know how much it hurts to be objectified like that. I keep telling people, "Love me for my mind, not for my washboard abs and silky voice." They try to sway me by complementing my cooking, or pretending to be impressed by my collection of rare books. But I know the truth: All they're thinking about is sex, sex, sex. In your case, I’m inclined to say that few of these people have ever read your rousing political essays, which would give them a richer understanding of your more intimate thoughts and feelings. I know that, deep inside, there’s a sweet, tender Ann Coulter, an Ann Coulter with a soft spot for manicures and hand-knit table coasters. But all these people see is a stunning blonde Amazon goddess with shimmering straight hair and piercing eyes. It just makes me sick.

Well, you’ll be happy to know that while the ignorant masses slobber over the press photo on the back flap of your book, I for one won’t see you in such a dim light. No, Anne Coulter, you just aren’t my type.

Oh, there’s no doubt you’re an attractive woman. A slim, tight body and flawless Nordic features are enviable aesthetic traits. Your irises are intent and unflagging; your no-nonsense visage heralds an inner fire that smirking Al Franken could only hope to stoke. And if I must be frank, then I’ll add that I wouldn’t kick you out of bed for eating crackers.

And yes, compared to the looks of your colleagues, you win hands-down. Rush Limbaugh just isn’t the beefcake he once was, and Sean Hannity is a little too I-R-I-S-H, if you catch my drift. And you’ll be happy to know, I don’t “swing that way,” anyway. But if I did swing that way, or if sometimes I privately perused the “bi-curious” section of the filthy leftist alternative newsweeklies, I admit that I couldn’t imagine rolling around in the sack with Bill O’Reilly. Hard as it is to say, you are, by default, the “hot one.”

I mean, sure, it’s easy to picture romantic strolls with you, down the boardwalk, arm-in-arm, jeering the out-of-work hippies and sharing an ice-cream cone. I can see us kibitzing over a candlelit dinner and trading repartee with the (hopefully Caucasian) waiter. After a fancy Euro-trash meal, which we would deride and refuse to finish, we could catch a movie and make out and giggle in the back row. Sure, it’s a dandy illusion. But honestly, Ann, as much as I love and respect you as a person, my heart just wouldn't be in it.

Don’t feel bad. My type isn’t your typical “blonde bombshell.” Not that you’re typical by any means, but I’m more into the “full-body,” if you know what I'm saying. Chiseled features and distinct jaw lines are nice and all, but in my opinion, there’s nothing wrong with a little “junk in the trunk.”

Please don't misunderstand: You've got an incredible taste in fashion. Form-fitting monochromatic suits and attorney skirts are very flattering on you – not that you need any flattering! – but I’m more of a jeans-and-a-T-shirt guy. Not like those liberal-inspired pre-slashed stonewashed jeans types; those girls can trade as many STDs as they want with their America-hating biker friends. I’m talking about pure GAP, baby, with a flashy Abercrombie halter-top and crazy, punk-rock hair. Damn, I’m getting hot just thinking about it.

I know what you’re thinking: “I can change. I'm not a static personality. I can cut loose now and then.” But that's not what I’m looking for, Ann. I don't want a woman who’ll get a tongue-stud on the fly, just to impress some rockin’ stud like me. You’re special just for being you, Ann, and that’s what’s important. So don’t run out and buy yourself a pair of knee-high London-style fuck-me-boots from Bovvers. We have a word for those people, Ann, and that word is poser.

And it’s not just looks. I just can't see you riding shotgun in my Land Rover, crashing through the Yosemite with a Coors like in one-hand a doobie in the other. That’s the kind of woman I want – a woman who can roast soy-dogs over a campfire and talk on and on about her favorite Aerosmith album, pausing just long enough to sniff the air and say, “I think there’s a rainstorm on the way.”

I wouldn't want you to give up your life of crushing the liberal media with clever turns-of-phrase. You have your life, I have mine, and the two spheres just won’t cross over, baby. It’s okay. We can move on.

And in the meantime, in a couple weeks, would you mind passing along Condoleezza Rice’s digits? She’s got a sweet ass.

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