Let me be perfectly clear. Putin is a single mother with BPD. The Ukrainian people and all those who stand up for democracy around the world and here in America are the single mother’s son who has Gender Dysphoria. Volodymyr Zelensky is what happens to the little boy’s penis after gender confirmation surgery: the hairline recedes; the face becomes densely enervated, vasocongested tissue; and the scalp loosens sufficient to act as a hood and cowl to the more sensitive skin of the face. During press conferences, he rubs his face on the spray of microphones. His faces drips, ejaculate runs out his eyes, nose, ears. He tries to deepthroat a microphone, stuffing the foam in his mouth. He whimpers in frustration. He would like to be manhandled. He wants rough trade, but doesn’t know how to ask. He imagines a curbside abduction: the panel van panel slides open. Inside a man extends a bouquet of wand-type massagers, ergonomically contoured handles duct-taped together. At the lectern, Volodymyr’s scalp tingles, effervesces, rains down pinpricks against the walls of his vagina, withdraws. His face, for the first time since gender conformation, gleams. His skin like milk, marble-smooth and luminous. His adam’s apple vibrates in his throat. Surgeons will remove that later. Hospital staff will put the shavings in alcohol, preserved in a glass jar. On Friday nights, the nurses will get drunk on vodka spiked with cough syrup, grape Jolly Ranchers slowly dissolving in the plastic cups. Gathered around a desk in an empty office, they will then remove strips of his Adam’s apple and lay each strip on a blue hand-towel next to a wooden ruler, taking a picture. The nurses titter and laugh. One by one, they begin to clear their throats, expectorating phlegm, the only light from a banker’s desk lamp, a florescent tube in a shade of green glass. There’s too much phlegm. The nurses can’t stop clearing their throats. They present obsessive-compulsive disorder. The drunk-and-feeling-no-pain nurses, their chests warm and tingly, numb with codeine and alcohol, hock up loogies and spit into a shiny metal trashcan they pass from one to another, pressing down on the little steel lozenge of foot pedal at the base to raise the lid. Holding the garbage can in her arms, a nurse feels the viscous slime coating her throat roil up like a used female prophylactic to burble and swell, thicker than albumin, in the back of her mouth. Her mouth full, phlegm forces her lips apart, crowning like the ping-pong ball the magician produces. She mashes the pedal, the lid jerks up, and “plop” as the sputum slides down the contours of the black vinyl bin liner. Nurse after nurse, the squat gleaming metal trash can passed around. With the noise of the nurses obsessive-compulsively clearing their throats, the creaky hinge and the metal lid crashing down barely register. A slender nurse, dusky with straight black hair in a ponytail, massages her sternum through the v-neck of burgundy scrubs. She looks pensive, purses her lips. She scowls. Her features harden, then tremble. She feels the prophylactic of phlegm ripple up her throat like Volodymr Zelensky’s excess foreskin. Aside from the little strip necessary for his facial hood and cowl, he has no use for the extra foreskin. What comes out of her involuntarily parting lips, pushed apart from within by the ping-pong ball force of excess foreskin, is the vagina Zelensky has become, all except his face, which is still a densely enervated bulb of vasocongested tissue, a ruddy wad of clitoris mashed against the microphone spray of wand-type massagers still begging for a quote from the President. His nostrils quiver, his eyes roll back. His features compressed into a postage stamp of elastin-deficient flesh, pores wide, enormous, dilated, ejaculate the color of ginger ale dribbles out. The foam windscreens drenched, microphones short out. Audible clicks, pops.