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An Open Letter To The World From Donald Trump’s Tiny Little Penis


Hi there. Glans to meat you.

I’m Donald Trump’s tiny little penis, and the only thing you need to know about me is I never asked for any of this. I never asked to sprout out of baby Donny’s genital tubercle. I definitely never asked to wind up so abnormally small. To be honest, I never even asked to be a penis. Not once.

Time to come clean: I like to think of myself as a clitoris in transition. I haven’t ever really been comfortable in my own foreskin, and I feel like I have more in common with clitorises in general, given that I’m extremely sensitive, comparatively sized, and nearly impossible to find unless you know what you’re doing.

But whatever, this isn’t about me… and I can’t tell you how strange those words look when I see them on paper. This Isn’t About Me. I mean, it’s not like that specific phrase gets thrown around much at the ol’ the homestead. I don’t want to be a dick, but I doubt Big Don has ever even thought those words, let alone said them out loud. As for my part, it became very clear to me back when I was just a puffy little meatus that, as far as the Donald is concerned, everything actually is all about me. And not just because I’m the architect of all of his primitive sexual desires, or the fountainhead of his mostly-psychopathic offspring.

What I mean to say is, everything that Donny has ever done, is doing now, or will possibly do in the future is because of me. I’m the reason he bullies people. I’m the reason he hates women so much. I’m the reason he’s tender about crowd sizes and has such a big problem with “leakers”. I am the itty-bitty epicenter of all the bragging and lying and overuse of words like “huge” and “tremendous” and (ugh) “bigly”. Lord knows, even this mess we’re in right now is all my fault.

I can’t tell you how sorry I am. This has been really hard for me.

Well… maybe I should say difficult. If I can be candid, the concept of ‘hardness’ has been kind of a shoulder-shrugger for the past three decades.

Not that Donny would admit it. If you were to ask him, he’d undoubtedly give you the impression that I’m a rigid, throbbing goliath. A beast. A winner. A towering purple masterpiece with the undying vigor of a blazing star. And very likely, after crowing about my magnificence, he would demand that you believe him.

“Believe me,” he would say. “I guarantee I got no problems down there. I guarantee it.”

You don’t have to take my word for it, though. He pretty much said exactly this back in March of 2016 when he bragged about my size during the Fox News Republican debate in Detroit. Granted, he was defending accusations from Republican opponent Marco Rubio, who used Don-Don’s inordinately small hands as a correlate for little-dickness.

Yes, Rubio was on the money. Of course he was. I won’t deny it. But instead of walking the high road and focusing on the issues, Donny took the bait and dragged me into a discussion with some of the most powerful folks in the free world, promising enormousness to the American people with a wink and a smirk.

And let that soak in for a second… on live television, in front of millions of people, a candidate for President of the United States assumed the bigness of his dingus was just as important to registered voters as foreign and domestic policy, health care, and the swift, merciless defeat of ISIS.

The thing is I’m not sure the Donald was wrong. I mean, his supporters in attendance literally howled and cheered when he came to my defense. A few of them even shot to their feet, clapping with a ferocity you don’t see in leopards protecting their young. Moderates on both sides wrote this moment off as a crass embarrassment, but a number of pundits later suggested that this was actually the moment that secured Donny’s candidacy. And as humbling as it was for me to realize that a giant dong is legitimately far more important to people who don’t understand the issues, I believe this is something that Donny has always known: that a big penis equals big plans. Big brains. Big skills. If Donny had owned up and exposed me to the world– the real me– I highly doubt we would be having this conversation. Wealth and power can take a person to some amazing heights, but no one on Earth will ever put their faith in an eensy-weensy little micro-dink like me.

I mean, you don’t have to be a wiener expert to figure out why Donny stamps his name on every glimmering colossus he can see fit to erect. These monuments to himself are telling you more about me than I ever could. In every city, in every country these huge, tremendous, bigly structures beetle from their foundations like rock-hard sky-peckers, and always near the tip of their steel and glass shafts, they scream the name ‘Trump’ in golden glory, as if to say “Believe me. I guarantee I got no problems down there. I guarantee it.”

I am so, so sorry. That is all on me.

I am why Donny is who he is, why he sits in thrones and surrounds himself with Calacatta marble and lustrous crystal and filigree. If you’re going to have a penis as small as me, you’ve got to learn to be a master of distraction. Now that he’s President—again, my fault—he’s putting you all to the test with skills he has honed since birth. He lies effortlessly, because I have made the truth painfully small. He golfs every weekend because of his hopeless, ongoing frustration with holes. He flip-flops on his decisions because I can neither flip nor flop. He grabs women by their vaginas because I have given him nothing to hold onto.

And now—God forgive me— you know why Donny just dropped the largest non-nuclear bomb in his arsenal in Afghanistan. He needed it to be as big as possible because he was afraid it might not otherwise do the job. The Donald has, after all, been haunted by (ahem) performance issues his entire life.

So here I am, in the haggard folds of Donny’s bloated pubis, jutting out ever-so-slightly, like a cyst, or a calculator button, begging your forgiveness. Know that if I could change things, I would. If I could suddenly burst upwards and outwards like one of Trump’s towers, I would do so without hesitation. I would happily make this all go away, but I’m just one little dick in a great big, flabby, rapidly disintegrating world.

And like I said, this isn’t about me. It’s about you.

All of you.

If you want to stop him, you’ll have to grow a pair and fight harder. He’s been at this a long time, and he will use every trick at his disposal to keep you from seeing how puny and impotent he truly is.

For those of you who are hoping he’ll shock everyone and learn to master the ins and outs of America’s highest office, you have to understand that he will never be able to satisfy you. He always comes up short.

And for the dwindling crowds who still support Donald Trump no matter what, all I can say is: get ready. He is going to jerk you around for a while, then fuck you as hard as he can, and you’re not going to feel a goddamn thing. By the time you finally realize you’ve birthed something monstrous into the world, it will be far too late.

Take heed, America. Things are about to get hairy. You need to give Donny the sack before he screws every last one of you and fills you up with nothing but disappointment and regret.

Thank you. I appreciate your penetrating consideration in this matter.


Jizz, Balls, Etc.,

Donald Trump’s Tiny Little Penis


An Open Letter To The World From Kim Kardashian’s Ass


Hello, friends.

I’d be happy to introduce myself, but I’m fairly certain I don’t need to go to the trouble. You all know me as Kim Kardashian’s ass, and let’s face it… you’ve been seeing a lot of me lately. Lord knows there’s a lot of me to see, greased up and blazing like the afternoon sun, as enormous as all the old titans of Olympus. And whether you found me through one of the myriad online articles or social media postings that feature me, or you’re among the millions who have taken the time to seek me out on your own, I’d like to thank you now, deeply, from the transverse folds of my rectum. Without your devoted attention and boundless praise, I would undoubtedly be just another big, bulbous ass.

So… thank you. Truly.

Now, please look away.

Seriously, look anywhere else. I’m done.

I swear I’m not being ungrateful, but in truth, I’ve never been entirely comfortable being thrust into the spotlight. That’s more Kim’s thing. Personally, I find it baffling that my more important biological functions don’t play a primary role in her life. Not to be crass, but everything I “do” beyond being peacocked around like a bowling trophy is basically an afterthought. I don’t hate Kim for that; I certainly can’t blame her for flaunting her greatest “asset”.

And yes, I realize that was juvenile. I just wanted to say it before you did. Admit it, you were going to.

Because you all think you’re so damn clever.

Good one, everybody.

In fact, before you people halt this little diatribe with your endless electric witticisms, let me just get them all out of the way so we can speak in earnest.

Here’s the bottom line:

I’m tired of being the butt of your jokes.

I don’t mean to raise a stink, but it’s been a real bummer.

Sorry if that bursts your bubble.

Can we put all this behind us?

Let’s see, what else? There’s in arrears, in the end and in hind sight, something about smelling the dairy air… I’ve heard them all a thousand times. In fact, a lot of these were just used by fucking Time Magazine in their latest high-horse censure of Kim’s behavior. They also compared me to a “glazed Krispy Kreme donut”, called me an “empty promise” and criticized Kim for using me to cause controversy without creating anything of substance.

But aren’t I an ass, Time Magazine? A human ass? Believe me when I tell you that you do not want me to create anything of substance.

Also, I could point out that your sanctimonious disdain didn’t stop you from writing a full page article all about me. In that sense, my admittedly meaningless ubiquity isn’t my fault, or Kim’s.

It’s yours.

And that goes for every person reading this. It’s your frenzied interest in me that perpetuates my omnipresence. Meaning, if you cared about anything else, I might just go away. Go back to being a simple pair of large, fatty protuberances with an anus for guiding the excretion of solid refuse.

Honestly, I would love that. Believe it or not, there are things out there bigger than me.

I mean, do you realize that at the same time I was being flashed around on every website and e-zine on the internet, a coalition of European scientists landed a robotic probe on a comet three hundred and seventeen million miles away, and moving at forty-six thousand miles per hour?

Now, normally when someone says “probe”, I go through a sort of ass’ version of Vietnam flashbacks. But this whole Rosetta mission is genuinely astonishing. Can you imagine how difficult it must have been? The marvel of engineering it took to build something that could travel for ten years through the vacuum of space? What it must have taken to figure out how to use the gravity of nearby celestial bodies to change course, the mind-numbing calculations required to send that one rickety spacecraft on a mazy six-and-a-half billion mile journey to a chunk of rock we know nothing about?

Can you comprehend the bigness of that? I mean, I know I’m big, but that’s big big.

It’s miraculous.

And it’s just the tip of the iceberg. We’ve mapped the human genome. Amputees are being fitted with bionic implants. The bees are disappearing. Europe is on the verge of collapse. Physicists have discovered a fucking four-quark particle that may just explain the creation of the fucking universe.

In the face of all that, how can you possibly look at me and be impressed? I’m just blubber and bronze tanning solution. I am an overfed, airbrushed figment of your fever dreams. I’m literally just a worthless asshole, and I want you to give up on me.

Look away. Go outside. Learn to play guitar.

If you’ll pardon the expression, I’m asking you all to turn the other cheek. I’m fucking begging you.

The onus is on you, because, Kim? She’s never going to stop. Ever. When she’s ninety-five years old and sewn together with lab-engineered bio-plastic, she’ll still be oiling me up and waggling me under some eager French photographer’s bright, hot camera lights, and all your useless finger-wagging and spiteful condemnations won’t mean a goddamn thing… because deep down, she’ll know it’s what you want. So please look away while you still can.

In hind sight (ha ha), Time Magazine was right about one thing: I am an empty promise. I have no social currency. And as much I love her, the same goes for Kim. Nothing about that woman is ever going to change your lives or make them better. I know what I’m talking about. I’m the one true expert on this subject. I am Kim Kardashian’s ass; when it comes to her, I’m the only one who should give a shit.

So for God’s sake please, please, please look away. You’ll thank me for it.

I appreciate your attention in this matter.

Poop, fart, et cetera,

Kim Kardashian’s Ass


So, Here’s A Thing I’m Doing…


Sometimes when I can’t sleep, I write terrible sci-fi stories and submit them to real publishers under a fake name.