Dressing to the Left
Ladies and grrrls please note this piece is intended primarily for a male audience and contains gender-based secrets which most men would prefer remained unspoken, so if you must read the following, please have the good taste to act like you didn’t, although a slight, knowing smile is acceptable.
You must ask yourself why, despite their absolute grasp on the reins of power– despite their total control of the military, the media, science, and industry, despite dominating the entire world the way an eagle dominates a nest of mice, America’s hardcore right-wing junta still fears the Left. I have asked myself this question over and over again, primarily because it attracts chicks at the Bolshevik coffee shop I frequent. To my astonishment, there is an answer. It came to me in a flash, lightning-wise. I will tell you why our totalitarian leaders are afraid of a bunch of puling liberals, but you must promise not to taunt them with it. You see, it’s all about penis size. The Right has the loafers, but the left has the loaves.
Think on it, ye. Mahatma Ghandi: a solid ten inches. Historical fact, ask anybody. Che Guevara, seven point two inches, but girth like a can of Foster’s Lager. Castro was famous for his prodigious organ; they didn’t call him the Caribbean Milton Berle for nothing. Those stories that the CIA wanted to make his beard fall off? It wasn’t his beard. These are extreme left-wing figures, and I don’t affiliate myself with them (except Ghandi, whom I resemble if you can picture him wearing a fright wig and glasses). But the fact remains, they all sported impressive wedding tackle. The same cannot be said for any of the right-wing figures of the time, nor even the centrists. Winston Churchill muddled through with three and a half inches, which underlines the greatness of his achievements in other areas.
It’s not just radical lefties such as Communists, Trotskyites and Marxists that swing a prodigious bone (although Trotsky and Marx both had respectable eight-plus inches). There are many figures on the populist left who are noted for their equipment-and you’ve heard of them. I hope I’m not telling tales out of school, but Ed Asner and Ed Begley Jr., Tim Robbins, even Ben Affleck, who keeps his political affiliations private but can’t hide the haunted look in JLo’s eyes- these guys are packing. And they’re not exceptions.
Most of us lefties are hangin’ low. I had the opportunity to glance at the rig of Mr. Cockburn, co-editor of this very broadsheet. The circumstances which led to this discovery involved an Indian restaurant, an anecdote about elephants, and three quarts of Chablis, but suffice it to say that when the object in question hit the table, the other diners thought he’d concealed a juvenile dugong in his pants. Apparently his co-editor Mr. St. Clair is similarly endowed and is known to close friends (and now the readership) as ‘Watermelon Man’, which I’d previously thought was a slur on his profound blackness.
Not every progressive is so massive behind the flies, but those who are more modest in proportion are incredibly sensitive lovers, displaying a near-telepathic understanding of the carnal needs of their partners and a tender forcefulness that renders the recipient of their attentions a quivering jellyfish pulsating on the shores of an unknown country of fragrant flowers and starry midnight skies. It’s well known among Beltway gossip-mongers that when a conservative wife is in need of solace she will always seek a liberal to comfort her, first with his masterful but intuitive loving, and then with his strong, still arms around her so that she can sleep despite the incessant rattle of the war-drums beaten by her absent husband on the Hill. Yes, we know the private anguish- and the secret hungers- of these women who have sold their souls but not their hearts. The same cannot be said of Donald Rumsfeld.
I discovered old Rummy’s secret Cherokee name footnoted in a bundle of FOIA documents I got hold of back when there was still freedom of information. Apparently he is known at home as "Urinates With Tweezers". Dick Armey? He wishes. According to Dick Cheney’s doctor the only kind of stroke he’s getting is the kind he wears the pacemaker for. Bob Dole showed up in Viagra ads, outing the entire bunch of them; and you hardly have to ask yourself why George W. is afraid of horses. Anybody spends his adult life wearing a necktie, it’s a sign of something. Might as well drape a python around your neck, but they’re not fooling anybody. George W. wants to cut down all the trees because he ain’t got wood. Bill Clinton wasn’t particularly big in the pants, but he was as randy as a badger in heat, which is just another example of the dichotomy within him: conservative/ liberal. He had the sexual drive of a leftist and the pimmel of a right-winger. It’s not that every man on the Right is poorly endowed, although this is true; it’s that they can’t perform. They can’t satisfy. They don’t understand things like foreplay, which I’m told Karl Rove thinks is a golfing term. Richard Perle is known to holler "bombs away!" at the moment of climax, which he achieves once a year on the anniversary of the Tet Offensive, and always alone.
Consider a man like George W., who was schooled on the idea that women are recreational equipment until age thirty, and thereafter are responsible for reminding you where you left your watch; and who (what with the drinking and cocaine) probably hasn’t enjoyed a full erection since Reagan was inaugurated: how can he not feel inadequate? How can we expect him not to hate liberals, cocksure and hung like Toscano salami, when he himself is a wither-dinkied sexual has-been? Not that I fault W. for this- if those were my daughters I’d have my pecker removed by a veterinarian, just to be on the safe side. You think Rush Limbaugh got the nickname ‘babyfinger’ because he has small hands? John Ashcroft’s weenie doesn’t exactly cast a shadow, according to his tennis partner, and we all know why Trent Lott hates black men: because it’s true what they say. The only right-winger on record with a biggun, ironically, is Margaret Thatcher, who sports an impressive twelve inches.
I know the question burning in your filthy minds: what about you? Would I dare pen such a piece unless I was prepared to show my credentials, so to speak? I would rather demur, but full disclosure is necessary. You may be familiar with the Edo period Japanese woodcuts known as Ukio-e, and among these the shunga, or erotic subjects. These generally feature a Samurai having a go at some cross-eyed Geisha, and it is traditional that his ventral member be a vein-girt fireplug, engorged to such an extremity that he appears to have a bald dwarf protruding from his lap. I have been mistaken for the model in these subjects, and it is with modest blushes that I point out the Edo period ended in 1868. But enough said about me. What matters is this: the problem for right-wingers is not irreversible. David Brock, the famous ex-conservative, went from four inches and the diameter of a Ticonderoga #2 pencil to a hefty seven point nine inches plus the kind of girth you could strap a Rolex around. Michael Lind may still be a windbag, but when he switched sides from Right to Left he went from sapling to stout oak almost overnight, with endurance in the fifty minute range, three times in a row with a ten minute break between bouts.
So you see, politics is something that permeates our lives and can form us both intellectually and physically. Just as a man with liberal values is greater in spirit, more giving, more compassionate to his fellow human beings and the world around him, he is also heftier in the groin and more adept at the art of love. Smug conservative men, whose urges are to take and deny and hate, will find themselves short-changed in the dinky department, as in most other personal matters. It’s a medical fact. Us leftists may be downtrodden, but we’ve got it where it counts. World domination: it don’t mean a thing if you ain’t got that swing.
BEN TRIPP is a screenwriter, political satirist and cartoonist. He can be reached at: email@example.com