There’s a legal strategy known as the small-penis rule, wherein an author who writes a character based on a real person can potentially evade a libel suit by giving said character a small penis—the logic being that, in order to sue, a plaintiff would have to tacitly admit that the description of his manhood is accurate. This rule technically does not apply to the latest episode of “South Park,” in which the series’ creators, Trey Parker and Matt Stone, make absolutely no effort to anonymize President
, but one wonders if the logic of embarrassment still holds. Trump is portrayed as a deeply insecure leader who literally gets into bed with Satan, his apparent lover. (“I’m not in the mood right now,” the Devil tells him. “Another random bitch commented on my Instagram that you’re on the Epstein list.”) Most notably, the Trump of “South Park” is endowed with a penis so small that Satan says he “can’t even see anything.” If the actual Trump were to retaliate, as he so often does, he’d be playing directly into Parker and Stone’s
.
“South Park,” amazingly, is in its twenty-seventh season. It’s the second-longest-running animated show on U.S. television, behind “
The Simpsons,” and easily the most offensive. Since its première, in 1997, the cartoon—which follows a group of profane elementary schoolers in the town of South Park, Colorado—has managed to piss off nearly every political group, pop-culture fandom, and religious denomination... To the extent that the show has any “beliefs,” it’s that all beliefs are asinine, whether they’re held by the left or the right. Environmental groups criticized the series, in 2006, for portraying Al Gore as a delusional figure obsessed with an imagined monster named ManBearPig. The show was banned in China, in 2019, for mocking Chinese censorship, and the creators famously received death threats after depicting the Prophet Muhammad.
Although “South Park” has declined both in quality and in popularity over the years, it’s still valuable enough that Paramount recently paid $1.5 billion for exclusive streaming rights to the series, and for Parker and Stone to make another fifty episodes. The studio has long been in the process of merging with Skydance Media—a deal that was in a holding pattern for about a year, until Paramount agreed to pay sixteen million dollars to settle a lawsuit that Trump filed against its subsidiary CBS’s “60 Minutes.” A few days before the F.C.C. finally approved the merger, Stephen Colbert, the host of “The Late Show,” on CBS, called the settlement a “big fat bribe”—and then
his show was cancelled, ostensibly for financial reasons. All of these are crucial plot points in the latest “South Park” episode, “Sermon on the ‘Mount,” which is now available on Paramount+.
The town of South Park has its fair share of Trump supporters, albeit increasingly disillusioned ones. (“I voted for him to get rid of all the woke stuff,” one man says, “but now that retarded faggot is just putting money in his own pockets.”) Some parents are especially upset when religion is introduced at the local elementary school—in the form of Jesus Christ himself physically showing up and milling around. When the parents call the President to complain, he says that he’s going to sue the town for five billion dollars, setting up an extended riff on Trump’s status as a serial litigant. (Throughout the episode, he also threatens to sue people who make reference to his unfortunate penis.) But Parker and Stone’s true focus is media cowardice, which becomes clear when a fictionalized “60 Minutes” runs a segment on the showdown between Trump and the town of South Park.
The anchors are visibly anxious. “Oh, shit,” one says, as the news broadcast begins. “The small town of South Park, Colorado, is protesting against the President. The townspeople claim that the President—who, who is a great man, great guy, we know is probably watching—and, uh, we’re just reporting on this town in Colorado that’s being sued by the President.”
His co-anchor cuts in: “To be clear, we don’t agree with them.”
“We think these protesters are total retards,” the first anchor adds.
The demonstration is interrupted by Jesus, who flies onto the scene, Superman-style. He hands everyone bread. “Just eat the bread, and listen,” he says, and so begins his Sermon on the ’Mount: “I didn’t want to come back and be in the school, but I had to, because it was part of a lawsuit and the agreement with Paramount.” He explains that Trump “can do whatever he wants now that someone has backed down,” adding, “Do you really wanna end up like Colbert?” He tells the people that they need to shut up, or else “South Park is over.”
Donald Trump poses a real conundrum for comedians. He’s an endless wellspring of material, but what he says and does is inevitably more absurd—and often more compelling—than any satire could be. Parker and Stone realized this early on. They initially dealt with Trump by having one of the show’s recurring characters, a former schoolteacher named Mr. Garrison, act as a surrogate; he ascends to the Presidency by promising to build a wall, and gradually turns orange. But the showrunners quickly found that, as Parker put it, “what was actually happening was way funnier than anything we could come up with.” So they pivoted to the other defining issues of our time: Kanye West’s antisemitism, ChatGPT, the COVID-19 pandemic (in this case, caused by a character’s decision to have sex with a bat in China).
The Paramount drama has prompted “South Park” to go after Trump more directly than ever before, but the gags, which all too often come back to his anatomy, or his penchant for memes, aren’t exactly revelatory. The sharpest joke is a meta one: the last time we saw Satan in bed with someone was in the 1999 film “South Park: Bigger, Longer & Uncut,” which depicted an abusive relationship between Satan and Saddam Hussein. (Hussein was the abuser.) Rather than concoct a new playbook for Trump, Parker and Stone have returned to an old one.
Trump’s existential threat to comedy has another dimension, one that intensified after his reëlection, as figures like Shane Gillis and Tim Dillion gained mainstream appeal: it’s hard to make boundary-pushing statements when there are no longer any boundaries. This problem is especially pressing for Parker and Stone, and they confront it via the angst of South Park’s resident provocateur, Eric Cartman.
The episode opens with Cartman turning on a radio station, where he’s met with the sound of static. “Mom, something’s wrong with my favorite show,” he complains. “National Public Radio, where all the liberals bitch and whine about stuff.” His mother informs him that Trump has cancelled NPR. Cartman is devastated: “That was, like, the funniest shit ever.”
Later, Cartman confides in his friend Butters, who’s more of a snowflake type. “Woke is dead,” Cartman says, sadly. “You can just say ‘retarded’ now, nobody cares. Everyone hates the Jews. Everyone’s fine with using gay slurs.”
“That’s not good,” Butters replies.
“No, it’s terrible!” Cartman says. “ ’Cause now I don’t know . . . what
I’m supposed to do.”
At first, it didn’t seem like “South Park” had an answer to this question; Cartman, unconvinced by Butters’s assurances that “woke” is “still out there, somewhere,” forces him into a suicide pact. The two of them sit inside a car, parked in a garage, with the engine running. The scene is foreboding—until it’s revealed that the car is electric. [
ed. Lol!]
The townspeople, meanwhile, negotiate a settlement with the President, who agrees to a sum of $3.5 million. (“We’ll just have to cut some funding for our schools and hospitals and roads and that should be that,” one woman says.) But there’s one condition: as part of the settlement, the town also has to engage in “pro-Trump messaging”—an apparent reference to
recent reports that Trump has demanded the same from CBS. What follows is genuine shock comedy, and a treatment of Trump that feels original. The town’s first P.S.A. is an A.I.-generated video of Trump—a live-action one, not a cartoon—trudging through a desert. He proceeds to take off his clothes, though he leaves his dress shoes and sock garters on. “When things heat up, who will deliver us from temptation?” a voice-over says. “No matter how hot it gets, he’s not afraid to fight for America.” Trump lies down in the sand, and his micropenis, which has googly eyes and a mouth, slowly becomes erect, before announcing, “I’m Donald J. Trump, and I endorse this message.” The P.S.A. is labelled one of fifty, leaving open the possibility that, in the course of the forty-nine “South Park” episodes still to come, we’ll get forty-nine more.
Is this too much? Probably. Yet there’s an age-old tradition of political vulgarity, of which Trump himself is a practitioner—it’s the crux of his appeal.
[ed. Classic.]
