The biggest challenge in writing a blog this election season is finding topics no one else has written about or discussed on TV. So…
You can imagine the thrill when I had an epiphany in the middle of the night recently. Like a thunderbolt between the eyes, it hit me: I should undertake an analysis of something others had mentioned but no one else had dared explore in as much depth as I was planning, nor with such laser focus.
Donald Trump’s genitals.
Not just any essay, but a satire, the way vintage radio’s absurdity maestros Bob and Ray had once meticulously dissected the evolution, the very essence of the bologna sandwich (and you thought the bread had always been placed on the outside).
Why not Trump’s genitals? Were they not in the public domain? Hadn’t Little Marco had his own brush with them when still a candidate?
Surging with energy, I sprang from bed, charged to my laptop, hit Google and began taking careful notes.
First the externals: the penis, the urethra and, of course, the scrotum. Plus internally, I could choose among Trump’s seminal vesicle, testes, vas deferens, epididymis, prostate, bulbourethral gland and ejaculatory duct—components we all take for granted as they perform their essential tasks unnoticed and unheralded.
But there was no need to choose. I wanted them all in my blog.
I’d rarely been this turned on. Pulse pounding, I was as wild-eyed and pumped as a mad scientist in his laboratory, excitement building as his adrenalin overflowed along with his beakers. I could see it in front me, the blog of the century, all glory to me.
I decided to stress Trump’s two scrotal pouches—for their visual potential, naturally. Yet this presented a problem. In my brief blogging experience, I’ve learned that blogs have to have photos to hold readers’ interest.
Uh-huh, exactly. Where in hell could I obtain a photo of Trump’s balls? Not from him.
Dear Donald, please send me an autographed photo of your balls.
Wait…wait. They didn’t have to be his balls. They could be random balls, anyone’s balls—that I would then label Trump’s balls. And there were balls photos galore online.
But wouldn’t that be deceptive, unethical? Didn’t make a difference. This is the Internet, I told myself, where there are no ethics. And besides, who would know the difference?
Who? What was I thinking? Trump would know the difference immediately. His balls would be huge, of course, far larger than ordinary balls. Maybe like medicine balls.
He could sue. Count on it, he would sue, charging that the misidentified balls in my blog’s photo were inferior to his, costing him delegates by creating the impression he didn’t have what it took to be President.
Even if he didn’t sue, I knew how much he loved playing dirty. He would surely counter attack in typical fashion, stopping at nothing in a ferocious, multi-media assault on my genitals which, my God, could show up on the front page of The Enquirer. What’s more, with his money he could finance a reenactment purporting to show my epididymis storing, maturing and transporting sperm between my testes and vas deferens and sending it to my urethra.
This could be disastrous, for I’d always guarded the privacy of my reproductive organs. Yes, I could reply the obvious way by ridiculing his wife’s genitals, but that, too, would have consequences. I could predict with certainty, given Trump’s taste for vulgarity, how he would answer.
Unsure of a course, I decided to put my blog aside, return to bed and rethink the matter with a clearer head when I awoke. Which I did, concluding later that my Trump blog was doomed to fail because it was impossible to satirize someone who satirized himself every time he opened his mouth.
That’s what I told myself. But I knew the real reason I caved. I didn’t have the balls.