STOP WHAT YOU’RE DOING and gather ‘round, boys and girls.
I want to speak to you today about a serious subject. A terribly important, highly sensitive, mighty serious subject. That subject, as some of you may suspect, is balls. Balls. Cojones. Stones. The Family Jewels. The truth, boys and girls, is that Donald Trump has none…and neither do you.
“But of course I have no balls,” you say, because it turns out you’re just a child, and everyone can see that you’re a child, and children do not truck with brobdingnagian bollocks. About this, you are quite clearly correct, seeing as how you’re wide-eyed and slack-jawed and verily prepubescent. Some of you will surely say “But I am an adult,” and with somewhat more colloquial color, adorned in American Flag regalia and spittle-laden mouth froth, with beers and backwash adorning your copy of Mein Kampf, which is obviously preferable to The Origin of Species, because it probably discusses simians, and that’s just not right. But you are entirely mistaken about this, because these days real adults gotta have balls—everyone knows this—and you clearly do not, seeing as how you’re just a righteous rube and an athletic supporter of Simian Don, which is pointless. He does not much care for adults of either sex—seeing as how they have balls—and adults with balls do not much care for him—and this does not describe callow kiddies like you at all.
No, The Big Chimp wants to Make America Great Again by appealing to greenhorn chuffs who don’t have the sense that God gave an athletic supporter. Children are easily frightened, you see, and large-type simians like Donald Trump positively excel at abusing women and children with their stubby fingers, and their flehmen response, and their Manichean mating grunt, which these days sounds a lot like incitement to riot with locker room talk and a copy of Mein Kampf. Real adults avoid territory like this, because it’s been thoroughly marked, and everyone can smell it, and this particular brand of scat is positively nauseating to mature men and women, and anyway the whole point is to keep the slope head simian in his cage.
Sadly, there’s a mighty thin line between fear and excitement, and in the shadow of shiny objects, it’s easy for children to get starry-eyed and foolish. They don’t yet carry cojones, you see, nor the courage and common sense that accompanies them. One thing leads to another, and pretty soon pan troglodytes everywhere are pissing vinegar and talking trash and helping to Make America Hate Again. Simian Don is out of his gilded cage, slinging shit all over the southland, and that old rebel wind is really beginning to stink.
Real men and women cherish little boys and girls, and cherub children of all kinds, but Simian Don does not. Sure, he loves his little girls, of course, but he does not respect them at all. Believe me. He does not like bonobo babies who look like they’re from another part of the jungle, and who do not worship the same douchebag dollar-sign deity that he does—when he’s not worshipping his own simian self. Oh no. This land is his land, and it is strictly reserved for chickenhawk chimpanzees that look like him: white bread xenophobes with Patriot pop guns and prepubescent pew lesions; rich-bitch raconteurs with money money money and shiny shit to sling; bitch-slap bullies who used to be good little girls and boys before some nut sack simian sold them something shiny. Simian Don’s knuckle-draggers are all the same—living in fear of far-away lands, enthralled by the law of the jungle, and wanting bigger bananas than they got. Plus, screw women and taxes and the social safety net—and the fucking Origin of Species—sans the balls, of course.
Now, boys and girls, imagine what you could do if you actually grew a pair. You might get yourself a moral compass to wander your way out of the jacobin jungle. You might have the spunk to vote with the brains you ain’t got instead of the stones you ain’t got in order to get some of the bananas you ain’t got. You might form an opinion about The Origin of Species after you read it, instead of before. You might even learn how to treat women proper, instead of just masticating poster-boy platitudes from Ezekiel and Deuteronomy, which some shithead shyster with shiny teeth assures you applies only to crooked liberals and Presidents from Kenya, and not to Simian Don and dolts with daddy issues.
But you won’t. No, you’ll continue to judge with jejune rage, and froth at the mouth from beers and belches, and do whatever it is that knuckle-draggers do with shiny objects in the far reaches of the fascist forest. You’ll Make America Grate Again in all the ways that enlightened man fears most: righteous in its racist religiosity; fetid it its feckless fear, harrowing in it’s hate-filled hubris, and laughably bodacious sans its lilliputian balls. And the America of our wondrous childhood—the America of hopes and dreams, of purple mountain majesties, of the huddled masses, yearning to be free—the America of the people, by the people, for the people—shall forthwith perish from the pillaged Earth.
So stop what you’re doing, boys and girls, before some simian sycophant hands you your hat. Recess is over, and now it’s story time. Today, we’ll be reading from The Jungle Book.