Nov 17, 2021 • 23M


A piece of Trump-era political satire previously printed in PENTHOUSE magazine.

Cintra Wilson
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Dear Readers:

I realize this piece is quite dated, since it first appeared in Penthouse at the beginning of the Trump administration, but I felt like it was an interesting document of the time, and that you’d get a few yuks out of it. I mean, it’s not like anyone actually read it in Penthouse. I felt it deserved another trip around the flagpole — and it’s not like the Republicans are in any way improving.


(WARNING:  The following is a piece of blistering socio-political satire, that is guaranteed to offend absolutely everyone.  If you are of any faith, race, creed, or gender and easily offended…just walk away.  Otherwise, your reading of this introduction implicates you in a good-faith contract, to wit:  You, the reader, consent to agree not take chunks of this piece out of context in order to pillory, vilify, or publicly renounce the author and/or this magazine. Should you read this article, become grievously offended, and try to distort the satiric intent of this author or this publication, the reading of this paragraph is a tacit acknowledgement that you are a humorless, context-deaf troll, and potentially open to a lawsuit of crippling proportions. READING PAST THIS POINT IMPLIES THAT YOU ACKNOWLEDGE THESE GUIDELINES AND THE DEVASTATING CONSEQUENCES OF ANY ACTIONS CONCERNING THE DISTORTION OF THIS ARTICLE OR ITS INTENT HENCEFORTH.  If America was smarter, or capable of understanding the concept and/or value of satire, caveats like this would not need to exist. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED. )

Welcome, Friend.

While the rest of the country may be wringing its aprons, heaving its federally subsidized transexual breasts, and sobbing like groped Mousketeers into their reclaimed hemp sofa-cushions about how bad everything is about to be in the face of this awesome new presidency, We The People Who Buy Pornography In Print (the way God originally intended both pornography and the Constitution) are in for four years of a country that is going to be like an extended stay in at a Saudi sheik’s personal Viagra Dome in the middle of his Victoria’s Secret model slave-village.

The purchasers of print pornography, i.e. gentlemen like yourself — are, statistically speaking, white, God-fearing Republicans.  You like to keep America as safe as your Constitutionally-guaranteed right to bear assault rifles.  You may, as men, face great challenges in the days to come, In your efforts to protect your women, your sex-lives, your secret sex-lives, your minorities, and your assault-rifles, by getting them all to consent to your locking them in custom-built closets with adequate ventilation, like your cigars — despite all historical evidence pointing to the fact that incarceration is the best proven antidote to escape.

You and the Greatest American President in History have important things in common: you understand that our society’s current definition of “truth” is, in fact, a venal, snake-hearted liberal deceit, perpetrated by heedless, anti-authoritarian “news” outlets whose exclusive purpose is the wanton and shameful kneecapping of corporate, industrial, and military progress.

Truth, as we know it, is relative, constantly changing, often inconsistent, stranger than fiction, and entirely reliant on an executive and military force capable of punishing you for not believing it.  These narrow-minded voices of so-called “Democracy” will always assume that fender-benders in which your Lincoln Town car T-bones a baby-carriage are the fault of the driver, no matter what the baby was wearing to provoke the altercation. 

Finally, justice will be on our side.

Once all of the interfering, naysaying, jabbering, myopic, concave-chested liberal hacks are dispatched into their various federally mandated quarantine arenas, this is going to be the greatest four years in history.  History may as well just roll over and die now, or at least lay back and enjoy it…because it is going to be absolutely unrecognizable by 2021.


Our new POTUS is going to do what previous American presidents have been too cowardly ever to do before: kick foreign policy completely out of America, and make sure it remains back in the sinister teeming shores from which it sprang.

If this presidency will prove anything, it is that there is no problem too big to oversimplify.  You just have to believe, like our new Commander in Chief, that our Commander in Chief is bigger than the issue.  It’s true: Our new POTUS is physically larger than the entire geopolitical arena.  Our greatest of all possible new Presidents shits bigger than the Middle East. 

Why confuse power with issues, when the only real issue is power itself?

We now have a man in the White House now who isn’t going to be afraid to pick up the big red phone, light a cigar, call Henry Kissinger, call him out for being a beaky-faced pansy in ladies’ zipper-boots, then ramrod a billon megatons of death wherever it is necessary.  Anywhere.  Globally. 

Diplomacy, like disco, has had its day, and now it just looks stupid.

Tough guys don’t dance, and real men don’t need to talk about anything but themselves.  And they sure as hell don’t read so-called “intelligence reports,” written by special reporters with very special interests hell bent on obfuscating obvious realities by confounding them with zillions of meaningless details.  We tested these intelligence reports on chimpanzees in the Pentagon vivisection ring — and after trying to analyze a few dozen of these inscrutable white-papers, all the monkeys voluntarily shot themselves.


We’re not speaking, of course, of the angels in our centerfolds.  They are ambitious, attractive, hard-working and healthful young ladies with minds as open as their buttocks to the rigors and challenges of maverick-style innovation.

We’re talking about all women who can be considered a “New York 5” and under.  Nobody wants those. They don’t even like themselves! What’s the point of keeping them on a payroll?  Who wants to look at that in their family? Nobody.  That’s our point.  You don’t, or you wouldn’t be here.  Any female you wouldn’t want to see barefoot, pregnant, and chained to your gold pedestal sink will have options.  Those willing to undergo mandatory sterilizations will be exported behind the soon-to-be-built ‘Wailing Wall’ on the scenic isle of Lesbos; those unwilling will participate in compulsory hunting exercises with Ted Nugent in all of the calendar months excluding boar season.  Hell hath no fury like the most dangerous game, so expect to see a dramatic rise in laser-scope crossbow stocks.


What’s left of the few sordid Planned Parenthood clinics will be transformed into combination Day Spa/ tiki-bars, where young and/or eugenically qualified females will be given federally subsidized massage classes, football-viewing lessons, and a Spanish Fly Happy Hour in all locations equipped with our new state-operated jacuzzi suites.

As far as sex-education in schools is concerned, we’re developing an internet meme campaign to convince women over the age of twelve that they can’t get pregnant if they’ve been dieting drastically enough for their bodies to go into ketosis.  If that doesn’t make them hot enough to land successful husbands, at least they’ll make better tips in topless bars under freeway overpasses, all of which will receive special personalized commendations from the President for their tireless efforts toward sustaining the morale of working men nationwide.


Our First Lady will be an inspiration to all American women in their ambitions to be thin, demure, obedient, incapable of speaking English, and hot enough to be featured in professional softcore projects.

Melania will be an Ambassador of Hope, educating women everywhere on such issues as nipple health, the dangers of wearing denim following bikini-area waxing procedures, and lectures based on her nutritional pamphlet, “Be Smart For 150 Calorie a Day.”

In honor of our country’s children, The First Lady will tour American grade schools in 2018, promoting her educational children’s book,  Boo-Hoo, Mr. Jew, Nobody Is Killing You.



Obviously - and you can see this just by looking with your untrained eye at any jungle, ocean or forest — the whole nature mess has gotten way out of control.

 Nature is a privilege, not a “right” handed down from a Sky God that just flies free into the web of your “dreamcatcher.”

Have you ever had sex with a woman who has been living in a giant redwood tree for three months? No?  We’ll tell you why: you don’t even want to think about those armpits.  The ecological idealism of the 1960’s arguably failed because of women, and their absurd assumption that participation in “Free Love” excused them from their duties of brassiere-wearing and regular hair-removal.  Bigfoot sightings can probably be attributable to unfortunate hikers catching a glimpse of tree-sitting activist Julia Butterfly Hill, while she was trying to scuttle over to a logging-camp Port-O-Let to wring out her pubic kilt.

The Paris Agreement only proves that nothing good has come out of France since it stopped waggling its limp, ruffly wrists and mime-swatting haplessly at Algeria.

Let’s face it - climate change was made up by scientists who absolutely never got laid in high school or the eight-plus ridiculous years they wasted taxpayer money to get through college, just to punish the successful, alpha-type businessmen who have always gotten laid, by whatever girls they wanted, just by walking up to them and grabbing a fresh handful of Krugerrand-quality squack whenever they felt like it.

Global warming is a myth, just like Bigfoot, the Holocaust, Pokémon and the female orgasm. Scientists shouldn’t waste any more time tearing their thinning, unswirlable hair out over polar bears floating out to sea on melting slabs of ice — America is making new polar bears, and they’re going to be way better than the old ones.

(Besides, in the best hotels, ice is free.)

As for water?

Let’s face it - since the invention of the earthenware jug, only raccoons and fugitives ever drink directly from creeks. The poly-gendered tent-hippies, seditionist Indians, and trash-eating freegan-punks trying to obstruct fruitful oil pipelines by frostbiting themselves into lavish emergency rooms are layabouts too stoned to remember to pay their water bills.

Let the eco-Muslims, lesbian tree-yetis, and French armpit-fetishists whine themselves half to death into bullhorns over little tiny chunks of frozen underground land too deep to be in the same time-zone as they are — but let all filthy protestors threatening to steal the potential future prosperity of the pipelines under our America heed this warning:  If blizzards, AIDS, malnutrition, or mysterious new antibiotic-proof viruses percolating in their squalor aren’t sufficient to kill them, the National Guard will be happy to do it as part of their mandate to protect the constitutionally protected alpha-personhood of all global corporations, regardless of their heritage, and their right to lay their pipe wheresoever they may benefit themselves (and by extension, the American people).

This fringe element of so-called “Native Americans” needs to stop boo-hoo-hooing about their so-called “spiritual connection to the earth” and go back to the casinos where they came from.  Mother Nature has remarried, and has better-looking children and bigger fish to fry now, Tonto.  Be a big brave boy and we’ll give you a handful of free drink tickets, and maybe even some new warm blankets for you and your shivering protest-pals.


This whole hullaballoo about Black Lives Mattering and whatnot really isn’t about entrenched poverty or systematic racism.

What is it really about?

It’s about time that black people stopped being so grouchy and complain-y and illegal drug-smoky, and started behaving in the ways that great black people did back when America was great.  For outrageously untrue reasons cooked-up by liars at liberal Universities run by overweight lesbian communists hell-bent on fist-bumping nonsense moon-man words like “diversity” into the English language, black people don’t do these great things they excel at anymore, because they think these activities and professions make them look too stereotypically black (which is obviously ridiculous, since they’re obviously already black and being stereotyped all the time.  Where do they think stereotypes come from?  The stereo store?)

 Here’s hoping that black people will be incentivized to find jobs in fields that align with their God-given talents — and by those we mean jazz, frantic dancing, heavy-lifting, barbecue grilling, caring and making buttermilk pancakes for white children whose parents are too successful to love them, Olympic track-and-field events, organized sports involving a ball (excluding polo and water-polo), composing the front lines of the infantry on battlefields, singing sad old spiritual music in beautiful harmonies, making hilarious faces when they think they are being attacked by ghosts… and of course pornography, in print or otherwise, for huge and obvious reasons. 

In summary: black Americans already have all the tools they need for successful lives as marginalized minorities, sitting right at their disposal.  They just don’t want to use them, because they’re either really angry guys who didn’t have dads because their mothers didn’t keep it tight, or, as Newt Gingrich enjoys pointing out, “Welfare Queens” who are too busy collecting Cadillacs and trying to be blonde, or they are creating a liberal media conspiracy by insisting that cops keep shooting them.

Meanwhile, already clean, articulate and successful black assets to America like Jay-Z, Kanyé West, professional athletes like Steph Curry, and other rap artists and stand-up comedians whose bizarre, vanity-license-plate-like names nobody can remember, will still be allowed and encouraged to thrive in their chosen professions despite their inferior skull-shapes (which, given all the outstanding technological advances happening in plastic surgery, motivated blacks will probably be able to fix eventually anyway…that is, if they are motivated enough to spend their entitlement blood-monies on self-improvement instead of large gold letters of the alphabet and midi-length NBA-jerseys.)

Race relation issues solved? O-Tay, Buh-Hweet! 

(RIP Buckwheat; one of the great black Americans.)



Dwight D. Eisenhower called it “Project Wetback.”

You should think of it more like asbestos removal.

This concept shouldn’t even be on the menu as something “racist,” because as any casino or hotel owner (like our POTUS) knows, the main businesses that will be hurt by deporting Mexicans are casinos and hotels, who rely almost exclusively on undocumented Mexican staff-workers to hand-scrub vomit out of all the infinite fibers of literal miles of low-pile indoor-outdoor carpeting with squiggly French-looking patterns that covers casino gaming floors, and otherwise prosecute a veritable nonstop bacterial warfare against an unrelenting siege of unthinkably horrific laundry stains by stirring massive loads of contaminated linens into gigantic steaming vats of weapons-grade bleach (the fumes of which alone can kill most white people, if we breathe normally near them ) for unthinkably low wages and without benefits (that dignified Mexicans are too proud to accept in the first place).

  In the New Great Old America that we’re making Again, we hope to repair the impending Mexican labor-gap by aggressively promoting new legislation that will make prostitutes legally accountable for restoring all the towels, sheets, upholstery, leather, velour, Egyptian cotton bathrobes - in short, any porous surfaces onto which they were responsible for the emission of bodily fluids — to the sanitary specifications of the owners of the hotel rooms, cars, or private sex-planes in which they did business.

It’s high time that prostitutes started taking responsibility for their own disgusting behaviors in a way that will benefit their own workplaces.  To paraphrase another great American Presidential sex-addict, John Fitzgerald Kennedy: “Ask not what your hotel-owner can do for you, but what your prostitutes can do for hotel-owners.”

Also, whores should be forced to mow lawns.  It’s the least of the apologetic gestures they will be required to start making toward your wives.  Gardening is therapeutic, which is why we mustn’t persist in our decades-long habit of letting our yard-work languish in the calloused hands of potential Mexican terrorists.

Wretched refuse from other teeming shores are encouraged to renounce their American citizenry and check themselves out via Ellis Island, if they can summon up the gusto and fortitude to hike up their colorful ponchos and play their bamboo pan-pipes in subway stations long enough to afford the tourist ferry.


If this sounds classist and unfair, consider that literally anyone can build a raft, paddle it out to international waters, and engage in all of the casual drug use they want.

But hey: how about that Air Force One?  Now…that’s a sex-plane.  Way better than that purple thing Snoop Doggy Dogg used to fly before his tragic brainwashing at the hands of crypto-Jamaican insurgents.


Let the whining, werewolf-legged, Marxist gender-vandals and impotent, overeducated, Jewishly long-fingered PhDs in their ivory towers worry about inane “facts” like calculus, the so-called “social sciences,”  and oxymorons like “critical thinking.”  Smarter, less educated people know that the “truth” — like the aliens — is Out There, and America gets to decide what it looks like…and the rest of the world, as they have always done, will absolutely love us for it and buy T-shirts honoring it.

Besides, you can’t really trust any information anymore.  Between the fake news stories on Facebook that earned us this Great President, the Russians and the Chinese hacking into your iPhone to watch you go to the bathroom, the very real threat of robotic vampires, and the corrosive effects of a liberal majority of fat, shrieking, bitter old women going hysterically apeshit and threatening to abuse pain medications and saw superficially at its wrists with kitchen knives because men like you are constitutionally incapable of being attracted to them… America has enough problems.  It can deal with its trust issues later.  Right now, it should sit down, take a deep breath, and do exactly what you are doing: it should masturbate into a printed magazine, the way Jesus might have done today if the Jews hadn’t hung him up to dry like a big stack of wet money.

Well, Jesus might not… but we shouldn’t hold this against him.

The late Penthouse founder and publisher Bob Guccione knew Jesus Christ personally, and we can tell you, Sirs:  Jesus was no Donald Trump.

(We’re not suggesting Jesus was gay, but he definitely never got married…and he certainly didn’t have a wife who was hot enough for this magazine.  Don’t blame The Christ for loving other men, though.  He was probably just loved too much by his sexually-repressed mother. )

Eight years from now, who knows?

Nobody in the liberal vulture media fucks with your hairstyle when it’s under a Pope hat.  That’s all we’re saying.

Now sit back, Gentlemen, and punish all these hot, glossy young pussies to smithereens. You paid for them.  You’re their Commander in Chief now. Make them all beg for a good Presidential dick-slapping.    It’s exactly what they’ve always dreamed of. 

You, Sir.

They salute you, Sir, because they’re very, very afraid of what you’re going to do next.

Oh pweeease, Mister, don’t turn this page!  We awe just a bunch of coed teens,  babysittoos, and other accidental “LA 10’s”  twying to have a wittle party, and all our pwetty cwothes fell off!!!  We feel so naked and oily!! Oh pwetty pweese don’t turn the page!!

You’re in control now.

Artwork: “Orange Voltaire,” oil on linen by Cintra Wilson, 2020