My internal organs were in an uproar: my feminist heart had sunk; my informed, liberated brain had spun, when my politically incorrect loins spoke. 

There was something just so titillating about that man, that manly man, that unreconstructed macho nacho-eating guy, that snatcher of pretend criminals, that imaginer of carnage. Mysterious behind his gun and likely cheese-smeared mask. I truly don’t understand why the birth boom that was predicted by some when real manliness returned to the stage didn’t happen! 

They were right all along—I had been conned by the left-wing media and my education to think I wanted personal responsibility and autonomy, not realizing all those outlets were fooling me so they could control me, lure me into their communist trap so they could do, uh, something or other. 

OK, I admit when I reach that “for what?” point I get rather lost, but now I realize that my female hormone-saturated brain, geared only to breeding and obeying, could never have understood anyway. 

 I’ll leave that to that manly man, that rugged hunk of metal and sweat, who, unaddled by elite schooling, surely understands perfectly. He’ll tell me what it is necessary for me to know to help him in his quest to preserve our culture, and thank goodness he finally has the backing of our leader, if not the backing of the laws.   

I’ve been swept along on a tide of short sentences and misspoken words from America’s Favorite President and now I understand!  This guy is for us! Never mind how we don’t see people like us around him at his tasteful palatial home. We ladies will make ourselves into people he wants to see. We’ll extend our hair, fake our eyelashes, plump our breasts, remove excess ribs and Spanx-squeeze any remaining fat and flesh downward and outward so our bottoms wiggle and wobble for men’s delight. Because that’s what we’re here for. 

Our leader’s brought the real men out of the oppression they have been suffering under, the true men, men who want to show the world their true colors—white, red and blue!

Seeing ICE in action has shown me what a real man is. From now on I’m going with the big guys with the big guns—real ones, not pumped up biceps! 

I’ll trad-wife it all the way, though I’m a bit past baby-making years. But between Botox and silicone no one need ever know unless those fake news people put out some AI-generated pictures of that portrait I stuck in the attic.

So my manly man is a bit older than I assumed, once his mask slipped down. So his grammar is ...interesting. Creative, you might say.

I don’t need a man who knows when to use who or whom, when he’s got that seriously sexy lumpy silhouette from the armor he needs to protect himself from those terrorist drug-dealing sex-trafficking farm workers, street vendors and pizza makers. 

He knows he’s a man and wouldn’t want to be a woman—even if the belly his armor hides somewhat resembles one that’s nine months pregnant. 

He took his ICE signing bonus and bought himself a big black pickup truck, its front way higher than his head and he’s NOT going to brake for nothing!  

And I‘ll give up my ex-urban sophisticate life and join him in the real America: the Walmart parking lot. We’ll wave in passing to Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas. He’s popping in to pick up baloney, mayo and white bread, and mingling with the real Americans to cleanse the stench of the swamp off of him, before hopping on one of his “friend’s” private jets to St. Bart’s. He works so hard for us! 

And we’ll feel blessed we have his like to preserve our way of life. “Badges? We ain’t got no badges. We don’t need no badges. I don’t have to show you any stinking badges!” And no Constitution, either.  Oh, hoo…my  very knees grow weak!