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Ben Shapiro stepped into his studio and sighed. He looked around to make sure nobody was looking. Quietly, he grabbed his booster seat and pushed it onto the chair in front of the microphone.
"Boost," he whispered.
His producer softly lifted the host and the show soon began.
"Boost," he whispered.
His producer softly lifted the host and the show soon began.
Ben Shapiro looked into the mirror, his eyes moist from hours of crying. His pupils were red. Why, after all this time, didn't his voice change?
"I want to be a real boy," he squeaked. "Facts don't care about your feelings, but mine are hurt."
"I want to be a real boy," he squeaked. "Facts don't care about your feelings, but mine are hurt."
Ben Shapiro closed his eyes before he began his broadcast. As he did every episode he flashed back on the days he spent swinging by his underwear from his locker door, the laughs, the mocking. He would show them. He'd show all of them.
By being racist and mocking poor people.
By being racist and mocking poor people.
"Debate me," Ben Shapiro yelled at the image of Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez on his television. "DEBATE ME," he howled as his vocal chords desperately vibrated to and fro.
But no matter how hard he tried, she would not date him.
But no matter how hard he tried, she would not date him.
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