ANN. FUCKING. COULTER.

On July 6, 2025, Ann Coulter typed the words. Not whispered them, not muttered them in some smoky backroom, not tossed them off as a “joke” on late-night cable. She opened her phone, tapped her bony witch fingers on the glass, and typed:

“We didn’t kill enough Indians.”

Ten. Million. Views. Before she deleted it. Ten million eyeballs staring at her genocidal wet dream in real time. Ten million witnesses to a woman coughing up the rot of five centuries in a single sentence. Then, in typical Coulter fashion, she scurried away and hit delete, hoping the words would vanish into the ether like the Indigenous lives she wished had vanished centuries ago.

But deletion doesn’t erase history. It never has. Not when it’s seared into the archive, screencapped, quoted, condemned, and burned into the collective memory of every Native family that still wakes up every morning carrying the scars of genocide.

Three days later, July 9, 2025, Levi Rickert of Native News Online published his column: “Ann Coulter Attacks Tribal Sovereignty: ‘We Didn’t Kill Enough Indians.’” He laid it out plain — this wasn’t random trolling. Coulter was responding to Diné professor Melanie Yazzie, who dared to speak about sovereignty, climate, and decolonization at a Minneapolis teach-in. Coulter’s response to an Indigenous woman defending her people’s future? More genocide.

And where are we now? End of August. Substack’s Bestsellers in U.S. Politics chart. Coulter, embalmed at #96, like a rotting corpse dolled up for a funeral. And us, Closer to the Edge, clawing at #100.

We have tried everything to distract ourselves. Hypnosis. Cannabis. Mushrooms. Booze. Cigarettes until our lungs turned to charcoal. Cold baths until our skin went blue. Acupuncture needles stabbed into us like voodoo dolls. Nothing works. Every time the mind drifts, it drifts back to one grotesque truth: Ann. Fucking. Coulter. Is ranked above us.

It’s driving us mad. We are swearing. We are sweating. We are shaking like fiends. We haven’t slept since the screenshot landed in our inbox. Every time we close our eyes, we see “96” glowing in the dark like a cursed number. Every time we inhale, we smell the stench of her career: mothballs, hairspray, and the sulfuric stink of burning crosses.

Ann Coulter is not a commentator. She’s a banshee, shrieking over the bones of the dead. She’s the mildew in the drywall of American discourse, the asbestos in the rafters, the cockroach hiding under the fridge, scuttling out to spread filth. She’s not “provocative.” She’s not “controversial.” She’s the maggot queen of American hate, feasting on a carcass she insists isn’t dead enough.

And here’s the savage truth: she deleted the post because even she knows what it revealed. She peeled back the mask, and beneath it wasn’t wit or cleverness — it was rot, naked and proud. She wants you to believe it was just “free speech.” No. It was an endorsement of genocide. A call for more slaughter. An attack on sovereignty. A blueprint for erasure.

And still, four miserable slots above us, she grins.

We are #100. The bottom rung. The last seat on the lifeboat. But at least we built this with fire and fury, with truth and sweat. Ann Coulter coasted in on the fumes of a brand that should have been buried in 2007 alongside the Bush administration. She’s a fax machine still screaming into the void, a CRT television static-hissing in an empty room. Her career is embalmed. Yet somehow, Substack props her up as if hate deserves a platform.

So let this be the vow: we will not sleep. We will not rest. Not until #96 is ours and Ann Coulter is shoved down into the basement where she belongs — a relic, a fossil, a footnote in the long, ugly story of America’s addiction to hate.

Ann. Fucking. Coulter. You typed it. You deleted it. But you will never outrun it. Your name is branded to that sentence like a curse. And when the charts shift — and they will shift — we’ll be there, cracking open champagne and dancing on the grave of your relevance.

We will bury you in the only way that matters. Not with silence. Not with deletion. With readers. With truth. With fire.

Ann. Fucking. Coulter.

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We can’t take it anymore — Ann Fucking Coulter is still four slots above us and we are going to have a goddamn heart attack if we don’t pass her soon; for the love of everything holy, subscribe to Closer to the Edge before we flatline on the floor with “96” carved into our chests.