For the last three weeks, my head has been itching incessantly. At first, I wasn’t sure what the cause was: a skin rash? Eczema? Allergic reaction? Then I remembered my date with Ann Coulter, who had tried to gnaw my head off.
It was our second time out together. I had just picked her up from her weekly Daughters of the American Revolution Garden and Racquetclub Meeting. As far as I could tell, she spent most of the time in the backyard.
“The cricket eggs are delicious,” she said, laughing. It was a long, sultry laugh and her breath smelled like a fine mulch. She draped a long, slim green leg over my thigh. “Not as good as the heads, though.”
My conservative upbringing had prepared me for everything–prayer in public schools, bathroom breaks in airports–but nothing at all like this. She asked me to pull over. What could I say?
Five minutes later, she was rubbing tree bark up against my neck. She called it a “garnish,” which, at the time at least, I thought was kind of sexy. There was a tickling feeling underneath my collar, which I mistook for her tongue (or proboscis?) but realized later that it was only the larvae (which had burrowed inside the tree bark).
She demanded that I act like Al Franken or Keith Olbermann. I asked why and that’s when she started nibbling on my neck and called me Michael Moore.
That pretty much wiped out my arousal right there. I hit the accelerator, opened the passenger side window, and waited for her light, fluttery, deadly, malodorous body to be sucked back into the teeming void from whence she sprung.
But, damn, my neck still hurts.
Doubletake 
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