Yesterday in Baton Rouge, Donald Trump took the stage before a raucous crowd. He waved, roaring cheers commenced; he braced the podium and the cries became murmurs.
After receiving harsh backlash for a recent off-color comment about rival Ted Cruz, his supporters were not sure what kind of rhetoric to expect from the magnate. There were a few minor surprises: Trump announced that he would not be using foul language as he continues his campaign, a sentiment that received decidedly mixed reviews from the packed Baton Rouge River Center. Otherwise, the address featured the usual attacks – on Obamacare, on the press, on illegal aliens, on his Republican opponents.
Before the somber pledge to clean up his language, though, Trump began on an intimate note:
Yesterday my gorgeous wife asked what my favorite part of her body is. We were lying in bed, absolutely and finally naked, on the verge of despair but coursing with a nervous energy, this grand anxiety filling the room like slow sand and every word we shared bore the weight of tremulous, youthful confession.
“Baby, it’s your pussy.” She smiled.
Folks, what else could I have possibly said?
A shallow smirk spread across his face as solemn nods and uneasy grimaces swept through the steaming Louisiana masses.
Go ahead P.C. police – sue me! Seriously, was I supposed to just grab her cunt, shake it and say thiiiisss!!
A belt of laughter rose from the crowd. The candidate’s slick saffron jowls jiggled violently as he shook his clenched left claw.
His audience now attentively listening, Trump assumed his trademark hawkish posture behind the microphone.
If I can’t say ‘pussy’ what can I say? I gotta call a spade a spade! And I do, and often, and you know that.
Sure, I can call a black guy “African-American,” I can call a Mexican a “Latino” if you want me to, I can even say “LGBT” and “women’s rights” till the cows come home. But I am not gonna call a pussy a vagina or a pubis when I am in bed with my wife after a long, hard day’s work, or when I’m trying to describe our encounters to my friends, associates, and devoted readers. You got that?!
Trump points towards the members of the McKinley Senior High School Brass Band huddled below the stage, who looked sincerely confused.
We speak English in this Great Country. It is a rough tongue. It is not for the weak. We have a lot of words to use for a pussy and for a dick, and they may not sound pretty but they are what we have.
When a boy calls another boy a pussy, yes, he intends to emasculate his peer, but he is also expressing his frustration with being unable to describe the female body in any way that’s at all benign, or even inoffensive.
When my awesome wife says “touch my pussy” it’s raw, it’s powerful, it’s evocative, it’s consensual. But when a nice, conservative 18-year-old young man writes “I touched her pussy” it comes off as weird and sociopathic and misogynist, and guess what? That college entrance essay gets put in the shit pile, and guess who gets the big scholarship!
Trump slides out from behind the podium and gestures obscenely at McKinley’s first-chair trombonist Stefan Washington. A chorus of boos.
Trump collects himself behind the microphone, deftly reshaping his hair and straightening his tie simultaneously with both hands.
Are men just not allowed to write or speak about the female genitalia without sounding like some perverted mad scientist? What’s with that?? Christ!!
Thunderous applause. A beaming Trump glances up into the spotlights, his eye glinting spectacularly like an untarnished obsidian ingot.
He looks back upon the ecstatic crowd.
Let’s make America great again. Thank you, Baton Rouge.
Thank you, America.
Trump promptly steps down from the podium and into his wife. The brass band plays a jaunty bolero, and the cheering crowd marches together away from the stadium and out to the vast shimmering sea.