Leave it to Coulter to find the silver lining.

I guess the Lindsay Clancy trial has put an end to that whole thing about a woman being president. Clancy has become a feminist hero for slaughtering her three children, whose names, in case anyone cares, were Cora, 5, Dawson, 3, and Callan, 8 months.

For that brave response to “postpartum depression,” she’s attracted hundreds of female admirers, who stand petulantly outside the courthouse in pink T-shirts, demanding her acquittal.

When Muslims pull this crap, blaming their gang rapes on the trauma of being asylum seekers, we’re not as understanding. But when women claim mental anguish from giving birth, we’re supposed to treat it as if it’s a disease as real as cancer and blame the doctors for not dispensing a magic pill to cure the batty lady.

Whether Lindsay has postpartum psychosis, is bipolar or a witch, to quote another witch, “What difference, at this point, does it make?” She still twisted an exercise band around the neck of her 3-year-old, his little legs kicking, then strangled her 5-year-old daughter until she went limp, before proceeding to garrote her 8-month-old baby.

A woman’s work is never done!

The pink ladies seem to think that if enough of them say, That could have been me, everyone will shout in unison, LET THAT POOR WOMAN GO! as opposed to, No. Woman. President. Ever. Thus, the organizer of the pink ladies, Renee Kimball, said of Clancy, “Any one of us could be sitting in her chair.” Okay, fine. But then none of you should ever be sitting in a chair at the Resolute Desk.

A big fat “Amen” to THAT.