I found Uncle Nunzi standing on a 10-foot ladder painting the front of his seashore home in Wildwood. As he moved the brush back and forth, he puffed on his ever-present black stogie, achieving some kind of syncopation between the act of painting and puffing. The ladder on which he stood wobbled more than my position on the Iraq War. I had the feeling at any moment Uncle would go tumbling to the sidewalk, not only injuring himself, but wasting a perfectly good stogie. I did the only thing I could – I held the ladder.
Afterward, as he relaxed with a glass of his homemade wine while I sipped some lemonade (not made from concentrate), Uncle told me about a powerful dream he had the night before. He was at a fairground at an event sponsored by a local radio station and the featured guests were Sean Hannity and a leggy blonde woman Uncle didn’t recognize at first.
Not being the shy type, Uncle walked right up to Hannity, who was autographing his new book, "Why Liberals are Responsible for the Bird Flu." Hannity offered to autograph a copy, but when Uncle saw the $30 price on the dustcover, he decided to pass. Hannity, looking remarkably like a precocious Regis Philbin, smiled and told Uncle, "You’re still a great American." Whereby Uncle replied, "And you were a great altar boy."
In the meantime, Uncle became entranced by the leggy blonde at Hannity’s side. She was also autographing her own book, "Why Liberals Hate Me and are Lousy in Bed, Too." Hannity, seeing Uncle eyeing her, said, "That’s Ann Coulter. Quite a dish, huh?" Uncle said he didn’t know about that, but she could use a few pounds. He offered to buy Coulter a roast pork sandwich. When she turned her nose up at the offer of a little porchetta, Uncle began to lose interest.
Hannity bubbled over with boyish enthusiasm as Coulter shouted, "Has anybody seen those Witches of East Brunswick in the crowd" (her nickname for four 9/11 widows whose main crime seemed to be disagreeing with the president on the war in Iraq and forcing Congress to agree to a 9/11 Commission). "I thought so," Coulter said. "They’re probably out celebrating the deaths of their husbands."
"Isn’t she a cutie?" remarked Hannity, who was bouncing up and down on his toes with the excitement of it all.
Coulter held her book up to the cheering throng.
"It’s just a shame that Timothy McVeigh didn’t plant those bombs in The New York Times building," she shouted. "Of course, I mean after everyone had gotten out of the building – except for the editors and reporters." Hannity was splitting his sides with laughter by now, almost choking on that corn dog he was chewing.
Coulter was wearing a revealing outfit and Uncle found himself counting her ribs as she continued to address an adoring crowd carrying signs like "Jesus Hated Liberals."
"We would have a better Supreme Court if someone put rat poison in Judge Stevens creme brulee."
"She just cracks me up," Hannity sighed, tears running down his cherubic cheeks.
Someone in the crowd shouted, "Give it to Hillary!" Uncle could swear he could see foam dripping from Coulter’s mouth.
"Let me quote myself on that accused rapist husband of hers," Coulter said. "There were only two choices when Bill Clinton was in the White House – impeachment or assassination."
"She’s got a million of those lines," Hannity laughed.
Uncle noticed the only time Hannity stopped laughing was when he realized Coulter was selling more books than him. That seemed to sober him up. "She’s pulling everybody’s leg," he said to no one in particular. "Doesn’t mean a word of it."
A look of envy came into his eyes, "But she sure can sell books."
By the time the rally was over, Coulter and Uncle Nunzi had become like old friends.
"My nephew’s a liberal," he told her.
"If there weren’t liberals, nobody would buy my books," Coulter replied.
Her whole tone was softer and if Uncle didn’t know better, he almost felt as if she were flirting with him. They wound up in an Italian restaurant sipping wine, with Coulter telling Uncle how much money she had grossed from sales of her book and Uncle telling Coulter she would sell even more in his neighborhood if she put out an Italian language edition. Uncle ate two platefuls of linguine and hot sausage while Coulter picked at a manicotti. She asked for bottled water.
Pointing to the bottle of Panna, Uncle said, "you and my liberal nephew have something in common. He likes bottled water, too."
"He sounds interesting and godless, too," Coulter said with a wink.
That’s when Uncle woke up.
