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