I'll Have an Arnold Palmer

Trump's Small Dick Fears Rise Up Again

Donald Trump spent the first 13 minutes of his rally this weekend in Latrobe, Pennsylvania talking about golf legend Arnold Palmer’s club. No, not his nine iron: his nine iron. Not his driver: his driver. Not his wood: his wood. Not his dick, his… oh, wait, yes: his dick.  

Apparently, it was big. Trump put it this way:

Arnold Palmer was all man. And I say that in all due respect to women, and I love women. But this guy, this guy, this is a guy that was all man. This man was strong and tough. And I refuse to say it, but when he took showers with the other pros, they came out of there — they said, “oh my god, that’s unbelievable.”

Trump’s obsession with size is not new, and it doesn’t take a Freudian psychoanalyst to conclude that he is deeply insecure about the size of his own penis (though Stormy’s description of it as mushroom-like did provide a clue).

If this were anyone else, I might put on my sex educator hat and say a few reassuring things. I might start by saying that porn has given us all a very unrealistic vision of what most penises look like. I might note that the average size of a flaccid penis is only 3.61 inches long, and the average erect penis is only 5.17 inches long. I’d probably point out that this is not very big, and I might even get out a ruler to prove it.

After that, I’d likely note that many sex partners (regardless of gender) prefer an average penis to one of those porno King Kong dongs because penetration is more comfortable and oral sex is easier.

I’d probably wrap up my pep talk with a more professional version of “it’s not the size of the ship, but the motion of the ocean.” After all, being a good lover is not about being well-endowed, it’s about being attentive to your partner’s pleasure.

But it’s far too late for Donald to get this pep talk, and he doesn’t deserve it. The pussy-grabbing, moved-on-her-like-a-bitch, adjudicated rapist has no interest in being a good lover, and penis envy may be the least significant of his psychological diagnoses. (We might actually need that Freudian psychoanalyst to explain the others, but I suspect narcissism, sociopathy, and a heck of an Oedipal complex.)

I’ve been saying for years that we all would have been better off if Donald Trump had been born with a big dick and/or his father had ever loved him, but there’s nothing that can be done about that now. He’ll just have to wallow in his feelings of inadequacy. I am worried about the rest of us, though.

I talk about penis size for a living. I think we should all talk about penis size more often so that no one else has to grow up wallowing in feelings of inadequacy, but even I find alarming that a major party nominee for president spent 13 minutes of an official presidential campaign event talking about anyone’s penis. (Maybe not more alarming than the 39 minutes he spent quietly dancing to music, but alarming.)

It's classless, disrespectful, and surely a sign that Trump’s mental deterioration continues to worsen. Dementia patients are known to lose their inhibition and start saying inappropriate things. Being crude is part of Trump’s persona, but the candidate of 2016 would not have said this in public, nor would he have called his opponent a “s**t vice president.”   

Of course, the biggest irony in all of this is his reasoning for telling the story at all:

And I had to tell you the shower part of it, because it’s true. What can tell you? We want to be upfront, we want to be honest.

The man who told 30,437 documented mistruths during his four years in office, who can’t stop talking about immigrants eating pets, who continues to say that children are getting gender surgery at school, who boasts that his rallies have no empty seats to people who can actually see the empty seats, and who has forced everyone he’s ever employed to sign an NDA just had to tell us about a long-dead golfer’s giant cock in the name of complete honesty.

Okay, sure.

Now, to be completely honest with all of you; I’m only here for the headline. I love Arnold Palmers (the half lemonade/half iced tea drink that the golfer either invented or just ordered a lot), and I couldn’t miss this weird opportunity to talk about penis size. In truth, though, I wasn’t going to write a newsletter at all this week. I spent the weekend in Miami with my 14-year-old visiting my parents, my sister, and of course Taylor Swift, and now I am behind on all things work and laundry, which is why I have no more sex-related stories for today.

I do want to take a moment to reiterate what I said in “Swifties Don’t Care Where You Pee.”  The Eras Tour is the one place I’ve been in years where it feels like everyone is on the same side.

We can chalk some of that up to privilege and a self-selecting crowd (not everyone wants to see her in concert, and many who do couldn’t afford the tickets). That’s only part of it, though. There are a lot of sequins in the audience at a Taylor concert, but we are not all the same. And it’s more than just being fans of the same artist. I’ve seen other cultural icons in concert—Paul McCartney, Bruce Springsteen, Prince—and they do not elicit that same feeling of unity.

It can be hard to explain this to non-Swifties, but here’s what I came up with about two hours into the show when she was striding across the stage in three-inch stiletto Christian Louboutin boots with a big smile on her face despite (or maybe because of) the pouring rain. (Forgive me because it’s going to sound hokey especially coming for someone as cynical as me.)

Joy, love, and gratitude.

She looks like she’s having the time of her life up there even though this is her 140-somethingeth show, and she thanks her fans for making it all happen. There were over 61,000 of us in Hard Rock Stadium on Sunday night, and she seemed genuinely grateful to all of us for showing up. The night was all about her—her talent, her showmanship, her outfits, and her massive library of songs—but she tried to give us the credit. Contrast that to a certain presidential candidate who shows nearly open disdain for his supporters and makes rallies all about him, and you can see why this is so refreshing.

I’m sure that some of the people who gave me friendship bracelets as we were walking up the steps or the ones who fawned over my daughter’s leafy green sequined dress in the bathroom and promised her that it gave the Folklore vibes she was going for (IYKYK) will vote for Trump in November. But I didn’t care because we weren’t in Trump’s world at that moment we were in Taylor’s, and she leads with joy, love, and gratitude rather than hatred and division.

Plus, she’s voting for Kamala. (I guess I’m still a snarky cynic after all.)