Donald J. Trump: Teeny Weeny Peenie (@RealDonaldTrump) (@POTUS)

I know it. You know it. And you might as well face it, the rest of the world knows it.

You have a teeny weeny penis.

I mean, c'mom. You're 70 years old. You're 50 pounds overweight. You subsist on fast food grease and fat and empty carbs. It doesn't work anyway, so you might as well admit it.

You have a teeny weeny peenie!

One reason we know, Donald, is because you bragged about your penis size on national TV. Any man who has to brag about the size of his genitals is saying "It's not so great down there" (and you bragged when Marco Rubio made fun of the size of your hands, yes you did, and in front of an audience of millions of people!)


You did, Donald, you did, and let's face it, those stubby little fingers do not hold a lot of promise for the size of whatever that is you have almost protruding from your groin.

Another reason we know, Donald? Phallic symbols. Who else but someone feeling inadequate would erect a monstrosity like Trump Tower and put their name on it? And Donald, you didn't stop at just one! C'mon, admit it, you have a serial phallic symbol problem.

And Donald—Rubio was right, and not only about the size of your fingers. By your bullying remarks about the physical characteristics of others, including a disabled reporter, you have forfeited the right to expect not to be skewered because of your teeny weenie.

But the main reason we all know, Donald, is because of your hand-faxing problem.

Here, let's let Graydon Carter tell it:

The myriad vulgarities of Donald Trump—examples of which are retailed daily on Web sites and front pages these days—are not news to those of us who have been living downwind of him for any period of time. I first encountered Trump more than 30 years ago. Back then he was a flashy go-getter from an outer borough eager to make his name in Manhattan real estate. Which he succeeded in doing in the only way he knew how: by putting his name in oversize type on anything he was associated with—buildings, yes, but also vodka, golf courses, starchy ties, and even a sham of a real-estate school. Most people who own private planes include their initials as part of the tail number. Not Trump. On his campaign jet, a Boeing 757, his name runs from the cockpit to the wings—in gold letters, 10 feet high. 

Like so many bullies, Trump has skin of gossamer. He thinks nothing of saying the most hurtful thing about someone else, but when he hears a whisper that runs counter to his own vainglorious self-image, he coils like a caged ferret. Just to drive him a little bit crazy, I took to referring to him as a “short-fingered vulgarian” in the pages of Spy magazine. That was more than a quarter of a century ago. To this day, I receive the occasional envelope from Trump. There is always a photo of him—generally a tear sheet from a magazine. On all of them he has circled his hand in gold Sharpie in a valiant effort to highlight the length of his fingers. I almost feel sorry for the poor fellow because, to me, the fingers still look abnormally stubby. The most recent offering arrived earlier this year, before his decision to go after the Republican presidential nomination. Like the other packages, this one included a circled hand and the words, also written in gold Sharpie: “See, not so short!” I sent the picture back by return mail with a note attached, saying, “Actually, quite short.” Which I can only assume gave him fits.

Those are the words of Graydon Carter, founder of Spy magazine and, since 1992, editor of Vanity Fair.

"What, Vanity Fair? Fake News! Failing magazine! Alternative facts! Yooge hands! Yoooge!"

Fuck you, Donnie.

Here's the link to Graydon's post in Vanity Fair's November 2015 issue.

I just have to say anyone who, like Frank, the freaky guy at the office who is forever photocopying his butt, sends images of his hands decades later to someone who called him (accurately) a short-fingered vulgarian, is insecure, and with good cause, about the size of his penile unit.

So yeah, @RealDonaldTrump, you have a teeny teeny, teeny weeny wienie!

I know it. You know it. Everyone knows it.