By Taylor Lewis
Lost and heartless in the Water Temple. Needled dead on the dusty field of Blood Gulch. Axe-hacked by Steve on the pale-green isometric plains. Doused by Hydro Pump from your rival’s Blastoise. Headshotted in the Vietnamese brush from an M16.
Plummeting into the black void after a mistimed jump over a walking mushroom, complete with a jingly coda marking your death.
The Democratic Party has suffered all these ignominious deaths at the tapping thumbs of the male American electorate, especially those whose main hobby involves pwning noobs on PlayStation in the small hours. It’s game over for the party—a blue screen of death. Cast off, out of power, belittled, humbled, humiliated, licking their wounds, icing their bruises, rubbing their lumps, ointmenting their scars—Democrats look like Glass Joe after three pummeling rounds with Little Mac.
Worse, few if any donkey-pin bearers grasp any of the above video game references. They realize their damage bar is depleted, and that the player (your average red-blooded Yankee) has tossed the joystick and moved on. Polling bears out this bro boredom.
So how does the rainbow-pronged party fight a multifront war, after it’s sustained heavy losses and is only making slogging headway with a dying demographic? More particularly, how can the purple-haired mare woo back the virile stallion?
First, by doing the most feminine, liberal, bureaucratic things possible: throwing millions at consultants to construct a PowerPoint detailing the proclivities of young men. The same brain trust that gifted the country the can-can dandy Tim Walz is having its pockets stuffed even more to win back Uncle Sam.
Second, and possibly most important, an acronym for said endeavor must be coined. The DNC’s annual calendar has every month marked with a skin-and-sex abbreviation appreciation. Democrats, who almost entirely staff the laptop-job industry, think in abridged terms so as to lasso in every outré identity. (Can the El Capitancompute just how long the LGBTQ formula extends before every last kink is included?) On its andros-grasping schema, the Dems have settled on SAM: “Speaking with American Men.” The project is, of course, doomed from its first letter. If there’s one thing guys have an innate revulsion for, it’s someone speaking.
Third, if men are to be prompted in sharing their feelings—already an abortive task—the question is, who will be the kind, open, generous, and receiving soul to do the prodding? Certainly, the professional Democrat apparatus, stacked to the gills with donor dollars and data-driven trends analysts, won’t employ a walking bullhorn for the most caterwauling progressive causes. Right…? *ERRRRRRRRR.* Meet Olivia Julianna, a “queer, plus-size, disabled Latina” (her words) who is graciously advising her side how to attract the more libidinous sex, despite her sapphic predelicitions.
The signal problem is, besides looking like she spent prom night crying in a Wendy’s parking lot, Julianna only has one suggestion for the Democrats’ lack of juevos: it’s a non-issue. How she womansplained the nugatory predicament: “I spend a lot of time on college campuses… I love young men. I love frat guys, and in that I realize, even the ones who identify as conservative are almost always pro-choice. Almost always pro-gay marriage. You’d be surprised at the number of them who supported Black Lives Matter. I feel like people kind of just lump them into this box when the truth is, again, a lot of them are with us on the issues.”
Hear that fellas, you’re woke libtards and don’t even know it! If there’s anyone with a ruched sausage link on the pulse of soused-out fifth-year-seniors, it’s a Stay-Puft schoolmarm whumping her stumps over mail-order misoprostol.
Now, hairy-chested honor demands I acknowledge Ms. Julianna (Is it Ms. or Zis? One can never keep abreast of the pronoun police’s dictates.) has denied any coordinated effort on converting dudes into Dems. But, she insisted, to her Instagram followers, she’ll continue to “advocate for young men to get the policy agenda that they deserve.”
Frankly, she’d be better off streaming “Grand Theft Auto V,” cruising for trulls and beating them into sanguine pixels, than lecturing guys on the public policies “they deserve.”
The Democrats’ official plan to take back testosterone isn’t a whole heaping lot better. SAM, which is sitting snug on $20 million, was constituted by an abortion non-profit founder, a Gen Z pollster, and a former Tennessee Titans linebacker who was bested in a statewide race by the most-hated, most Canadian senator. Losers, uterus vacuums, and clipboard questioners—a mucho macho combo! SAM’s findings are, in simili modo, worded in therapeutic parlance: young, American gents are “stressed, ashamed and confused over what it means to be a man in 2025.”
Such a telescopic diagnosis couldn’t be more off the mark. Few, if any, men are “ashamed” or “confused” about their chromosome count. (That worrying is exclusive to freakazoid autogynemphiliacs like Dylan Mulvaney.) Whatever feelings of dejection they have are reactive to their perceived abjectness. Consider the gauntlet the American male has traversed in the past decade, from university inquisitions into intimate life, to pushy skirted teachers screeching demands of compliance, to being suspected of harboring murderous misogyny, to the undermining of tactical labor for the benefit of service work. Which political party is most wedded to the “it’s her turn” philosophy? Not the one that crushed Hillary Clinton and Kamala Harris.
SAM’s only other counsel is “buying advertisements in video games,” which wouldn’t be the worst idea unless the Democratic Party hadn’t already chopped its log off last fall by featuring Gov. Walz playing Rep. Ocasio-Cortez in Madden over Twitch, only for the former assistant football coach to infamously gush between his sagging jowls that his opponent “could run a mean pick 6.”
That remark alone will guarantee the family jewels stay safely tucked within the GOP for at least another decade. Live by the longhouse, die by the longhouse.
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