Satire | Newly obtained Charlie Kirk diary entries reveal deep-seated inner turmoil

After Wednesday’s tabling event, in which Turning Point USA founder Charlie Kirk debated Pitt college students as part of his “You’re Being Brainwashed Tour,” The Pitt News found a peculiar-looking book left by the right-wing pundit on the floor of his tent.

The book, titled “Charlie’s Treasures,” turned out to be a secret diary where Kirk recorded his innermost thoughts throughout the duration of his tour. While our organization respects the sanctity of bedazzled journals with a little heart clasp, we feel the student body at least has a right to the information written the day Kirk came to the University of Pittsburgh.

As such, the following is a transcription of Kirk’s diary entries from the morning of Wednesday, Sept. 18.

4 o’clock, 18 September. 

I’ve had terrible sleep as of late. I have this recurring nightmare in which my mother is my father and my father is a Democrat and therefore my mother. My father-mother slaps my stomach with a switch until my belly turns pink, at which point she calls me her Grand Old Piggy. My mother-father demands she continue my naval flagellation until my belly turns as red as I wish for the country to be. 

When I awake my midsection is sore, and my mind harbors a repressed yearning for a child to grow within it. I have lately doubted my confidence in objective womanhood, and I am unsure what I am to do about it. My debate at the University of Pittsburgh is today. I must try to get more sleep.

8 o’clock, 18 September.

Didn’t sleep. Been reading “The Second Sex” for four hours. Truly remarkable and difficult to wrap my head around. I hope this Simone de Beauvoir character does not approach me at my tabling event.

8:15, 18 September.

Took a break to look her up online. Now fairly confident Simone de Beauvoir will not approach me at my tabling event.

9 o’clock, 18 September.

Took a visit to Squirrel Hill this morning to get a bagel and some fresh air. Saw a woman on a walk with her child. I smiled at the young boy, and he immediately burst into tears and ran into oncoming traffic. That was the fourth one this week. STUPID. STUPID. STUPID.

10 o’clock, 18 September.

It has come to my attention that fetus does not mean “little human being” in Latin. My god. I’ve been saying “fetus” for the last 12 years when I’ve really meant “homunculus.” Oh, I’m so embarrassed. I was so confused as to why America is so polarized about these tiny fictional humans. Now I just look like an idiot. 

I should tell Donald about this. I still have a voicemail from him ranting about these stupid homunculi. WHY DIDN’T ANYONE TELL US A FETUS WAS A DEVELOPING BABY IN UTERO? Can’t believe how stupid Trump sounds now.

“Charlie, they are killing the little men — have you heard of this? They are killing the fetuses, the little men, they run around, they do wonderful, really magnificent, things for our country, they do many jobs, these fetuses. They can fit their tiny little bodies into many things, I believe, I heard one fit himself into an air duct to perform espinage [sic] on the Russian cybernet aggressors. Kamala wants to kill and eat these little men, like cats. They turn these fetuses into cat food, they’re calling it ‘Fancy Feastus.’ ‘Fancy Feastus,’ can you believe it? I love the tiny men of this country. I love them. People call me the ‘little fetus savior president.’ I don’t know about that, but that’s what they’re saying.”

As if Donald and I give a shit about some embryo. Pay your taxes, embryo. The homunculi of our country sure do.

11 o’clock, 18 September.

I feel I should apologize to the embryos for my last comment. I feel quite embarrassed and confused today, and it’s not fair of me to project my self-disappointment onto the future taxpayers of America.

I don’t know what a fetus is. I clearly don’t know what a woman is. Did you know there’s a whole genre of literature dedicated to arguing about womanhood and society? Everything is falling apart. My event is in one hour. I once again have my 4 o’clock urge to have a baby inside of me. What the hell is going on? I’m hiding in a Starbucks and they’re playing Chappell Roan, and I think maybe I’m one of the hyper mega bummer boys. I’m wearing fugly jeans.

I’ve grown to hate the message on this piercing red hat, and I think, ironically, I may have reached a turning point.

12 o’clock, 18 September.

MANY PEOPLE OUTSIDE. Some of them look gay, and I’m afraid they’re gonna be mad at me because I think maybe I like them now, and I don’t want them to be disappointed in me. I miss my mom.

People are cheering for me, and I have half a mind to step out of this car and feign a psychotic episode so that I might semi-legally deck one of my supporters in the jaw. They don’t know me. Nobody understands me. I never asked for this. I was 18 when I built this organization. I just wanted to have sex with this girl in my class, but it turns out she was a communist. Wrong red. I can’t live like this anymore. Next month, teenagers will try to make me smile when they can’t afford a ticket to a haunted house.

I’m 30 years old and I’ve already lived my whole life. I’ll be debating college students until I keel over and die with a microphone in my hand. Please, Lord, let it happen today.

End transcript.

Thomas Riley couldn’t hear a word Charlie Kirk said at the “Brainwashed” Tour. Fill them in, or maybe don’t, at tjr83@pitt.edu.