Write all the editorials you want. March for whatever cause gets you going. Use whatever moral code floats your boat. The truth is, there’s no getting around it.

This big baby needs a spanking.

We’ve been bad little boys. Terrible even. We let all of the liberal crybabies whine to us about equal rights, the environment, and “nazis in our government.” And you know what you need to do to a baby. You gotta give ‘em a smack.

That’s why I think we’ve gotta just “spank” (metaphorically, of course) these leftist crybabies on the bum. Now, I’m sure some of you are thinking that I’m being a little weird right now. I’m sorry for the awkward phrasing, but I’m just trying to get a point across. This isn’t me writing about some kink or something. This is me writing about what’s wrong with this country and why it needs the strong hand of fascism to come down. Hard.

Case in point: I was taking a walk through the city the other day when I saw a large cluster of people in the streets. They held signs saying “No Kings.” As I looked at their faces, I saw piercings, man buns, and eyes that seemed to still be able to register emotions other than pain and shame. Pansies! This whole damn country’s gone too soft. What we need is a rough, dry, workman’s hand to smack us across our bare, soft bottoms. I want to feel the creases in his palms leave labyrinths of red marks on my pale, sensitive skin. If we don’t, the liberals win!

Now, some may argue that the problem with fascism is that you can never be sure that the government’s boot won’t come down on you. Good! I hope it does. I want to feel those dirty heels dig into me. I’ll look up and see Daddy’s frown as I squeal my pleas for forgiveness. He might give in… or he might not. What I want doesn’t matter anyway. And it shouldn’t. All I know is it’ll be worth it to feel the big boy scowl at me.

And another thing about big boys. In the past few years, we seem to have forgotten what strong men are. We’ve let soy boys lead us from the holy path into a barren field of hipster glasses and pumpkin spice lattes. Whatever happened to men? That seemingly extinct animal used to own this world. They wore leather jackets and rode on motorcycles. If you did bad, they hit you with sticks, and baby, you’d be sure to feel it! I can’t tell you how many times I’ve walked out of a gas station bathroom with red marks on my keister. And, persistence not yet relegated to fairy tales and the hushed whispers of warriors made to sheathe their swords, I kept coming back. Because I’m an American. Because I believe in my country. 

So let this be a plea to all of the big boys down in the white house. Take us over your knee, pull our pants down, and make us scream like the Beatles have just shown up on the Ed Sullivan show. I want to feel something in the way you move your palm onto my cheek. And what’s that something, you ask? Fascism. Make me raise my arms up and scream your name. Metaphorically, of course.