⚠️CONTENT WARNING⚠️

This article contains graphic language and descriptions of sexual assault, racism. misogyny, and gender-based harassment.
Reader discretion is strongly advised.

DONALD TRUMP HATES WOMEN.

That’s not hyperbole. It’s not even a controversial take. It’s not up for debate. He sees women as objects, vessels for his seed, props for his ego, tools to be used, drained, and discarded.

He’s built his entire existence on exploiting them: sexually, financially, emotionally. He doesn’t respect them. He doesn’t value them. He violates them, verbally, physically, legally—and then mocks them for bleeding. He treats them like shit because to him, that’s all they are.

If you support him—if you cheer him on, vote for him, wear his name like a badge of honor, well, I’ve a dose of medicine for ya. It’s going to be a tough pill to swallow but swallow it you most certainly will.

You are not innocent.
You are complicit.

You are advertising your willingness to excuse the abuse of women. You may not hate them the way he does, but you sure as hell don’t love them either. You’re fine with them being raped, broken, silenced, and thrown away—as long as it gets you what you want—owning the libs, right?

It ain’t “patriotism.” That’s not “conservatism.” It ain’t American. It’s misogyny.

Wear it proudly, on your forehead or on your chest, maybe even on your Cybertruck—because it’s the fucking truth.

It wasn’t a confession. It was a goddamned victory lap. When Donald Trump said, “grab them by the pussy,” he wasn’t caught in a moment of weakness. It wasn’t boys being boys—it was the first glimpse at just how fucking vile Donald Trump really was-he was reveling in his depravity.

He said it like a man who knew the rules did not apply to him. He said it like a man who’d done it before, would do it again, and knew he’d still get a standing ovation. And he was right. That recording didn’t end his career—it launched his presidency. That tape wasn’t a scandal; it was a signal to every man who ever felt entitled to a woman’s body: I am your sensei! I am your champion!

This isn’t locker room talk. This is predator talk. That wasn’t shame in his voice—it was swagger. It was a man bragging about assault the same way others brag about their bowling scores. Because to Trump, it was a deal—his power in exchange for her silence. Her body as collateral. Her dignity as the cost of doing business. That’s not misbehavior. That’s pathology.

E. Jean Carroll didn’t just accuse Trump of rape. She dragged that memory into the light knowing full well he would try to crush her for it—and he did. He sneered. He called her a liar. He claimed she “wasn’t his type,” like sexual violence is some twisted fucking compliment. He deflected, he mocked, and then, with the cruelty of an infantile sociopath, he used his followers to humiliate her all over again. It’s not enough that he violated women—he needs them shamed for surviving.

And people cheered. Still cheer.

There are more than two dozen women. Twenty. Four. And still—his supporters say “he’s just a guy.” No. He’s a predator who laughs in the face of accountability. A man who built his empire on hush money, NDAs, and forced silence. And if that doesn’t bother you—if you can still look at him and see a leader—you don’t just tolerate misogyny. You live in it. You wear it. And maybe it’s time you admit, the only reason you don’t see the blood is because you like the smell.

II. THE BUTCHER.

When Trump isn’t laying hands on women, he’s laying waste to them with language—weaponized, venom-dripping, gleefully cruel. He doesn’t just insult women. He dismantles them. Piece by piece. Thought by thought. Identity by identity. He doesn't argue with women—he erases them, one nickname at a time.

“Low IQ.” “Ditzy.” “Birdbrain.” “Goofy.” “Dumb as a rock.” “Crazy.” “Wacky.” “Horseface.” These aren’t just playground jabs. They’re surgical strikes. Words chosen to humiliate, to devalue, to take powerful women—senators, governors, journalists, prosecutors—and drag them back to the dirt where he thinks they belong. Every woman who dares to speak against him becomes a target. He doesn't attack their policies—he attacks their existence.

Because that’s the trick, right? If he can convince his followers that a woman is dumb, unstable, or just a little too emotional, then he doesn’t have to answer to her ideas. He just has to point, laugh, and move on. It’s strategic misogyny. The kind that sticks. The kind that spreads.

This is a man who looked at Nikki Haley and saw a “birdbrain.” Who saw Liz Cheney and thought “low IQ warmonger.” Who repeatedly called Mika Brzezinski “dumb as a rock” and “crazy.” Maxine Waters? “Low IQ individual.” Nancy Pelosi? “Crazy.” Kamala Harris? “Hoe.” Not even a name—just a sexual slur with a smile.

It’s always the same playbook. If a woman’s smart, she’s a fraud. If she’s emotional, she’s unstable. If she’s assertive, she’s a bitch. And if none of that sticks? He just degrades her appearance. Like Stormy Daniels—he paid to sleep with her and still called her “horseface.” Because in his twisted world, even the women he uses deserve to be insulted.

He doesn’t see women as humans. He sees them as threats to his fragile masculinity. And the only way he knows how to fight that threat is by turning them into jokes—ugly, shrill, unstable, slutty, stupid, crazy jokes.

And if you’re still laughing, you’re not an innocent bystander. You’re in the arena with him, holding the knife.

III. WHORE LOGIC.

When Trump can’t outsmart a woman, when he can’t best her and we all know that there is no woman with a shred of dignity and intellect alive that he can, he fucks them.

Trump’s not creative. He’s not primal. He’s primitive. When he can’t outwit a woman, he degrades her. When he can’t diminish her accomplishments, he sexualizes her. It’s always the fallback. If she’s smart? She slept her way there. If she’s respected? She’s probably giving blowjobs behind closed doors. That’s not campaign rhetoric—it’s the pathology of a man who only understands women in terms of what they can give him: sex or silence or both.

Kamala Harris was Vice President of the United States. But to Trump? She’s a “hoe.” Not a political opponent. Not a public servant. Not a groundbreaker. A hoe. A walking, talking sex joke. He doesn’t care what she’s done or where she’s been. He doesn’t need facts. Just the suggestion or catty, jealous women who are miserable inside and out trashing another woman in his ear and hey, clearly she’s fucked her way to power! That’s enough to feed his ego and his circus of invalids—and that’s all he ever wants. Feed them hate. Feed them lies. Make them laugh. Make them pay.

And he does monetize it. You can buy t-shirts and bumper stickers with that shit printed right across them—“Kamala is a Hoe,” “Hillary Sucks (But Not Like Monica),” and worse. His campaign becomes a greasy, chlamydia-infested strip club of slander, and every insult a dollar in the jar. He turned sexual humiliation into merchandise. It’s a cancerous, grotesque fucking business model.

Let that sink in: the man who called Stormy Daniels “horseface” after paying to fuck her, who mocked E. Jean Carroll for speaking about her rape, who called women “slobs” and “dogs” and “disgusting” with the same lips he puckers out for adoration—this motherfucking swine profits from dragging powerful women back to the brothel that is his mind, whether they’ve ever been there or not.

Because to him, there’s no such thing as a woman he can’t fuck—only one he hasn’t yet fucked hard enough.

And if you laugh along, if you wear the shirt, if you chant “lock her up” or “Just Say NO to the HOE!”, let’s be clear: you’re not fighting for a country. You’re jerking off to the idea of watching a woman in power be stripped and shamed in public. You’re not a patriot. You’re a willing, paying customer at a snuff show and you are a fucking stain on our species.

IV: RED HATS, LIMP DICKS.

There’s a special kind of rot festering beneath Trump’s rallies—a lonely, bitter rage that smells like cheap beer, ball sweat, and resentment. It’s not just politics anymore. It’s a glass-infused bowel movement powered by the sexually insecure, emotionally stunted and intellectually inferior cult of men who blame women for their own pathetic failures and look to Trump as their revenge porn fantasy in an ugly cheap suit.

Trump didn’t create incel culture, but goddamn did he elevate it. He gave it legitimacy. A stage. A slogan. A leader. A fat-headed, feeble mascot who wears more makeup than most circus clowns. He said the quiet part out loud, and for every man who ever raged at a woman for ignoring him, who ever called a female coworker a slut for getting promoted, who ever sent a death threat to a journalist for having the audacity to exist—he was their guy! Finally!! Someone who hated women as much as they did! Finally!! Someone who’d say it on camera!

And he didn’t stop at words. He put that shit on t-shirts. He turned misogyny into a fashion line. Campaign stores and knockoff vendors alike selling garbage at flea markets, county fairs and rodeos across the nation that reads like 4Chan rage rants in Helvetica:

• “Kamala is a Hoe”
• “Hillary Sucks (But Not Like Monica)”
• “Lock Her Up”
• “Make Men Great Again”

This isn’t satire. It’s commerce. It's hate for profit. These aren't protest slogans—they're masturbatory trophies for the bitter, the inadequate, the aggrieved, the unfuckable. A way for men who’ve never had power to pretend they do by reducing powerful women to punchlines. The hats say MAGA, but the subtext is crystal clear: Put women back in their place!

And it’s not just men. Women buy into it, too—because internalized misogyny is real, and cult loyalty is stronger than solidarity. They wear the shirts. They parrot the slogans. They defend the man who would throw them under a bus and violently pin them against a changing-room wall for blinking too loud. Because power is seductive, even when it fucking hates your guts.

Trump gave a voice to the silent war on women—and worse, he gave it a market value. He turned rage into revenue. Degradation into demand. And every click, every dollar, every cheer at a rally when he mocks a woman’s looks or intelligence or sanity—it’s a sale. It’s another transaction. Cha-ching! It’s a signal. It’s a culture that’s not just alive and well, it’s wearing red and screaming its rancid Marlboro-breath right into your face.

You think this ends with shirts and slogans? Think longer.

Ask yourself what happens when enough men, armed with entitlement and rage, decide that women aren’t just jokes. They’re for sale.

V. “Peekaboo”.

Let’s stop pretending this shit is subtle. “Peekaboo”? That’s not a quirky little Trumpism. That’s not some harmless gibberish nickname. That’s a racial slur’s shadow dragged into daylight. That’s a centuries-old dogwhistle dressed up like a joke—and Trump knows exactly what it sounds like, because that’s exactly how he means it.

He said it about New York AG Letitia James. A Black woman with power. A woman who dared to investigate him. A woman who didn’t smile for the camera or flip her bleached-blonde hair over he shoulder or shrink herself into something submissive. And for that, he didn’t call her “crazy” or “low IQ.” No. He reached for something far more disgusting. “Peekaboo.” Over. And over. And over again.

He could’ve called her anything. But he picked that. A word that carries a haunting echo of “jigaboo”—a dehumanizing, anti-Black slur used for generations to strip Black people of their dignity, their humanity, and their right to exist without ridicule. You don’t accidentally stumble into that word. You aim for it.

And he repeated it. Loudly. Publicly. With a grin.

Because for Trump, a Black woman coming for him is not just a threat—it’s an insult. In his diseased fucking worldview, someone like Letitia James should be grateful to lick his boots, not stand in court against him. And the only way he can process that power is to reduce her to a racialized caricature. A punchline. Something less than.

That’s what “Peekaboo” is. It’s a wink to the racists in the back. It’s a nudge to the white nationalists in the crowd. It’s a wink-wink to the fat fucking loser in the pointy white hats. It’s his way of publicly calling her a “Nigger” on the down-low, while the room laughs. Because they call her that too.

This isn’t a man uncomfortable with strong women. This is a man who wants women in chains—especially if they’re not white.

Let’s connect the dots:

• He calls Kamala Harris “a monster” and a “hoe.”
• He calls Elaine Chao “Coco Chow.”
• He calls Letitia James “Peekaboo.”
• He mocks the pronunciation of “Kamala.”
• He turned “Pocahontas” into a racial slur because Elizabeth Warren claimed Indigenous heritage.

He doesn’t just hate women. He hates women who don’t look like him. Women who don’t bend the knee. Women who don’t know their place.

And the worst part? It works. His base eats it up. They don’t hear hate—they hear permission. Permission to degrade. To humiliate. To shout “You lie!” at Black congresswomen, to call them “ungrateful,” “unqualified,” “too angry,” “too loud.” That’s what Trump gave them: a license to hate without consequence.

To call strong women whores and strong, Black women “Niggers”!

So if you’re still laughing at “Peekaboo,”, you’re not laughing at a nickname. You’re laughing at generations of violence repackaged as a punchline. And you’re saying, loud and clear, she deserves it. You’re giving your money, your time, your energy, your votes to a subhuman piece of shit.

You’re calling them whores too. You’re calling them “Niggers” too.

Wear that hat. Wear that hat dyed and stitched in Chinese sweatshops, by women. By women who are treated just as reprehensibly by men there as Trump treats women here!

THE WRAP: IF THIS IS YOUR KING? WHAT THE HELL DOES THAT MAKE YOU?

There’s no mystery here. No gray area. No misunderstood soundbites. Donald Trump’s hatred of women isn’t subtle. It’s not coded. It’s not buried beneath layers of policy. It’s right there—how he talks, how he behaves, how he humiliates, mocks, assaults, and discards the women around him like they’re used snot rags and he’s already emptied his nostrils.

He’s shown you exactly who he is.

• A sexual predator who boasts about grabbing women by the genitals like it’s a sport.
• A man who calls rape accusers “not his type” and laughs about it on stage.
• A man who calls strong women “crazy,” smart women “low IQ,” and powerful women “hoes.”
• A man who turns sexual humiliation into campaign merch and racial slurs into rally material.
• A man who sees women as toilets for his semen and threats to his ego.

And yet—people cheer. They wear the shirts. They chant his name. They tell you it’s “just Trump being Trump.”

So let me be clear: if you still support this nasty motherfucker after all of this, you are not neutral. You are not uninformed. You are not “overlooking his flaws.”

You. Are. Actively. Participating.

You are saying: “I know what he’s done. And I’m fine with it.”
You are saying: “My tax break matters more than a woman’s dignity.”
You are saying: “I’d rather win than be decent.”
You are saying: “I see the blood. I smell it. I fucking like it!”

And maybe you don’t call yourself a misogynist. But if you can stand next to one and cheer—if you can vote for one and grin—then what the hell does that make you?

Hmm?

This isn’t just about Trump anymore. It’s about what kind of rot we’re willing to swallow to feel powerful. What kind of filth we’re willing to baptize ourselves in to feel heard. If you can stomach everything he’s done and still call him a leader, a savior, a hero—then congratulations.

You don’t just tolerate misogyny. You fucking wear it.

Project Blackbird will always fight for the rights and autonomy of every woman, everywhere.

We are not for sale…
#ProjectBlackbird