Late Night, New York Times:
In the smoky back rooms of the New York Times offices at 229 West 43rd Street (between 7th and 8th Avenues) in Manhattan, New York, Bill Keller is plotting with his loyal reporter-revolutionaries on how next to destroy America, or, certainly, at least bring down the White House. Certainly, the directives from the mountains of Pakistan have gotten more specific.
Oh, sure, sure, the Times tried to be subtle under Howell Raines. In the corner, Judith Miller, sucking on a Dunhill through a long ivory cigarette holder, still winces at the thought that her devilishly ironic reportage on the faux WMDs in Iraq was taken seriously by the White House and, indeed, the nation as a whole. It's a burden when one's dry sense of postmodern humor is misinterpreted or, even worse, unnoticed by the citizenry of hinterland USA, which would be anyone who doesn't commute between the Hamptons and the city regularly during the miserable New York summer. Still, al-Qaeda was pleased as Miller's reporting helped lead to the recruiting bounty that is the Iraq War. But, of course, she had to be castigated by outsiders, and now, alas, now Miller must enter the building, unseen, through the back elevator so she can attend the planning meetings.
Bill Keller holds court, demanding from his drooling, savage demi-human employees how next to draw blood. It's not enough that the Travel section pointed out that Cheney and Rumsfeld own homes in a Maryland vacation town. He wants the Dining section to review Dick Cheney's favorite DC steakhouse so the terrorists might learn where they could poison the Vice President. He wants his reporters to get out there and discover where George Bush's secret Crawford, Texas ranch is. When someone points out that the White House actually invites reporters there, Keller explodes, "Don't you get it? It doesn't fuckin' matter if the information is readily available in a hundred, a thousand other goddamn places. What matters is if we, the newspaper of record, aggregate it and report it in a piece. Then, then we know we will have done the bidding of our al-Qaeda masters." The reporter-goons nod, understanding their hideous mission.
Off in the corner, Miller giggles. When Keller asks her if she has anything to add, Miller spits out, slowly, through a mucus and merlot-filled voice, "It's never enough. Don't you get it? It's never enough. At some point, they're going to come after you, after your children, your wives, your lovers, if not with a subpoena, then with a gun or a camera." She laughs more loudly now as Keller asks her who she's talking about. "Does it matter who, Bill? Does it?"
Keller dismisses the fallen reporter, and turns back to his minions, ready to head out and reveal more secrets about the ultimate good that is the Bush administration.
Correction: One of the pieces of the Coulter plagiarism puzzle must be tossed. It was always the weakest example. For this passage: "A few years after oil drilling began in Prudhoe Bay, Alaska, a saboteur set off an explosion blowing a hole in the pipeline and releasing an estimated 550,000 gallons of oil," Coulter does cite an August 24, 1982 Washington Post article by Jay Mathews that reads, "The worst -- and most mysterious -- break occurred on Feb. 15, 1978, when someone, in an apparent act of sabotage, blew a hole in the pipeline near here that spilled about 550,000 gallons of oil."
While no doubt some will look at this and go "A-ha, all the allegations are false," nothing could be further from the truth. The Rude Pundit stands by, and re-emphasizes, motherfuckers, every other instance of plagiarism in Coulter's work, especially now that it's been backed up by the New York Post. Coulter's plagiarism is at least as bad as that of Kaayva Viswanathan, whose book, How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild, and Got a Life, was recalled by its publisher.
Oh, by the way, Coulter does not cite any source for her main point of the example: "Six weeks later, the birds were back." Indeed, Prudhoe Bay is more or less fucked up for the birds.
