Donald Trump and Agent Orange

Ever wondered why the fuck Trump is SO orange? The answer lies in Trump’s perineum and a Mexican Dermatologist.

The saga begins in a gilded tower, atop which Donald Trump, forever plagued by vanity and the terror of fading into obscurity, contemplates his complexion. “I can’t be out here bronzing every damn day like some sun-worshiping schmuck,” he grumbles. He grabs his phone. His tiny thumbs scroll past tanning beds, beta-carotene supplements, and spray booths in a futile search for the ultimate solution. “It’s got to be permanent, yuge, the orangest anyone’s ever been,” he declares.

The finest minds in dermatology, cosmetic surgery, and unlicensed experimental sciences are summoned. Doctors scratch their heads, their credentials glowing like diplomas framed in gold leaf. Trump envies that glow. They propose serums, transplants, and even an ultraviolet microchip. But Trump dismisses each in turn, snarling, “Weak! Low energy! My base deserves better.”

Enter Dr. Rafael “El Loco” Hernandez, a disgraced biologist-cum-madman from Tijuana. A man who once built a biosynthetic penis for his pet iguana, Dr. Hernandez specializes in alternative solutions. He pitches an idea so insane, it immediately appeals to the ex-Next-President’s sensibilities. “Señor Trump,” he says, rolling his R’s like he’s carving marble with his tongue, “you need a gland. A gland that transforms your libido into… how do you Americans call it? Agent Orange, no? This will circulate through your veins, painting you with a glow unmatched by nature.”

Trump’s eyes narrow. “Agent Orange? Like from the war? People tell me I love the troops. This is perfect. But what’s the catch?”

Dr. Hernandez hesitates. “The gland, it must be implanted… in the perineum.”

“The perineum?” Trump repeats, squinting as if hearing the word for the first time. He waves it off. “Wherever that is, doesn’t matter. Do it.”

The procedure is clandestine, performed under the dim light of a Mar-a-Lago wine cellar. Dr. Hernandez works tirelessly, threading Trump’s body with bioengineered ducts that convert his untapped sexual energy — of which there is a suspicious surplus — into a slow drip of chemical orange. Post-surgery, Trump awakes with a sensation somewhere between radiant confidence and relentless ass itch.

The results are instantaneous. The orange hue intensifies, surpassing all expectations. News anchors can no longer capture his image accurately; his visage becomes a smouldering blur on TV screens. QAnon followers herald it as divine metamorphosis, while others, inexplicably, suggest it’s a reflection of his “inner light.”

But there are side effects. Whenever Trump feels a surge of arousal, whether sparked by a Diet Coke ad or an intern carrying a stack of unread legal documents, his skin fluoresces brighter, leaking orange streaks onto furniture, handshakes, and poorly tailored suits. International incidents ensue when he hugs foreign dignitaries, leaving their garments streaked with unremovable tangerine blotches that cause irritation and blindness.

At night, alone in his quarters, Trump begins to realize the price of his vanity. The gland hums, converting every impulse, every fleeting thought of Stormy Daniels or Ivanka’s modelling days, into a searing, chemical orange. His sheets reek of synthetic chemicals, his body dripping the toxic glow like sweat in the Florida heat.

He calls Dr. Hernandez in a panic. “This thing — it’s too much. I’m glowing like a damn nuclear pumpkin! Fix it!”

Dr. Hernandez’s laughter echoes through the phone. “Ah, Señor Trump. The gland feeds on desire. To stop the glow, you must let go of… your impulses.”
“Impulse control? Are you kidding me?” Trump shrieks. “I’m a man of instinct! This is who I am!”

And so, the glow persists, casting him as both idol and pariah, a radioactive orange beacon of hubris. His followers worship him as a demi-god, his enemies dub him “Agent Orango.” Meanwhile, deep in Tijuana, Dr. Hernandez watches the news, sipping tequila. “Traitor to my country?” he mutters. “Maybe. But an artist, no?”

Originally published at stephenprime.com on 10/01/2025