Surviving Trump’s America

Our love life deteriorated during the presidential elections of 2016. Before this time period my lover wasn’t a left leaning feminist.

   Now the answer is usually no when I make sexual advances. We used to have such an active, participant sex life together until the media subverted the mind of my lover. A mere search history on my laptop will disclose what appears to be the life of a pitiful bachelor addicted to free online pornography.

   All that spews out her mouth is anti-Trump rhetoric, which conveys to me a strong distaste for males in general. It’s no wonder I’m not getting any sexual gratification.

   She came home the other day after a vigorous workout with her feminist friends, shooting her mouth off, making the same monotonous points. Nothing but misandry.

   I had a hammer, nail and an old photo of us together from a year ago, when we were happy. My plan was to hang it on the wall. Maybe it would trigger her to renounce this new, nasty persona.

   “Remember this picture, honey?” I asked. “We were so happy.”

   “Yeah I remember it,” she said. “Just not the way you do. And don’t refer to me as honey! Save your patriarchal talk for those other Trump supporters you affiliate with.”

   She was still stretching from the workout, flashing all that armpit hair when I said, “You’ve been mistreating me since your ‘New World Order’ candidate lost the election. I’m only putting up with this because of my love for you. I hope you understand this.”

   Before I could finish she interrupted me by laughing. This is what set me off.

   “What the fuck are you laughing at?” I asked.

   “You and your emasculated emotions,” she replied. “Do they even make real men anymore?”

   “I don’t know, bitch! Maybe they don’t after your fucked up feminist movement subjugated the country!”

   She reached back and cold-cocked me directly in the mouth. At this point I was disoriented, spitting blood on the wooden floor. That’s when I found out something new about myself. I was capable of vile, heinous acts of aggression.

   The hammer was still in my hand when I succumbed to an irrepressible rage. With a single blow I placed my lover in critical condition by swinging the hammer, underhanded,  into the one place that once brought me immense pleasure.

   She fell over in excruciating pain afterwards. Our living room was now a bloodbath. The screams of agony haunting me to this day.

   The same hand I used to victimize my lover, is the one I used to turn myself in. Shame and guilt dominated my heart and soul to the extent that I pled ‘no contest’ at the court hearing.

   The press made me out to be a monster, and rightfully so. My government name is a thing of the past. I’m now known as the Vagina Butcher.

   With plenty of luck, good behavior and a baptism, I could be up for parole by 2029.



Michael Marrotti is an author from Pittsburgh with a chemical imbalance and lack of patience. His writing has propagated the small press like chlamydia in Beechview. He’s been faithfully volunteering at the Light Of Life Rescue Mission for the past three years now, the man believes in action.  His chapbook, FDA Approved Poetry is available on Amazon. He can be contacted here:


© Michael Marrotti



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