ANALYSIS/OPINION:

ANALYSIS/OPINION:

If you think “The Art of the Deal” was a yuuuuuuuuuuge success — and it was — just wait until Donald Trump comes out with his latest masterpiece, “The Art of the Schlong.”

In “The Art of the Deal,” the real estate mogul tutors budding young mogul wannabes on how to make deals so that they, too, can build giant glass skyscrapers emblazoned with their names in gold.

“The Art of the Schlong” is a political treatise, like “The Art of War,” only more devastating and infinitely more entertaining. It is more psychologically sinister than Machiavelli’s “The Prince.” It is like Dale Carnegie’s “How to Win Friends and Influence People,” only the opposite. Except for the influence part.

The treatise is a tactical primer for anybody thinking of getting into politics, especially as a Republican these days. Tough world out there right now.

It is a schlong or get-schlonged world, so you’d better learn how to schlong.

One of the early chapters is titled “Why Jeb! Doesn’t Deserve an Exclamation Point.”

It is about the vaunted scion of a political dynasty with an immaculate pedigree who waltzed onto the political stage with trunks full of money other people gave him. The political scion was going to be the next Republican presidential nominee and would kneel to reward illegal aliens for acts of love and all would be right in the world again. And he would launch World War III, in all probability.

He went out and got himself some German-looking glasses, shed all the tubbiness he had gained and basked in the glow of front-runner.

America was less enthusiastic but, you know, whatever. Mr. Trump, instinctively understanding Americans’ low enthusiasm for the candidate they had been served, sized up the scion and instantly declared him “low energy.”

It is true that these dangerous diets can wreck a person’s energy level and slow the thinking. But Mr. Trump’s evaluation was clearly about so much more than the diet. It was how voters felt about the man. And, most important, it was a carnal assessment about the man’s ability — inability, really — to perform.

It was savage and devastating.

Another chapter is titled “Ain’t Brain Surgery: Saving Children’s Lives Won’t Spare You.”

It tells the story of a pediatric brain surgeon who performed miraculous feats to save children’s lives. He emerged from the worst poverty and social circumstances to become one of the kindest, sweetest, most decent men alive. And, basically, how he really didn’t belong in politics.

Just as the brain surgeon was gathering a real head of steam, Mr. Trump declared him “pathological” for all his past talk about his inability to control his temper as an angry teenager.

Game, set, match. Brain surgeon gone.

As genius as “The Art of the Schlong” is from page one, it doesn’t quite reach its complete and blinding brilliance until Mr. Trump gets into the general election campaign against the Joan of Arc character, who — spoiler alert! — winds up getting horribly schlonged after suffering a stunning and humiliating public schlonging eight years earlier.

But because Mr. Trump operates at a level of psychological sophistication so far above this modern world of dummy politicians, none of the politicos gets that Mr. Trump wasn’t even talking about the man who beat Joan at the polls.

He was actually talking about how Joan had been so horribly schlonged by her very own betrothed husband, who was a politician before her and has been her only meal ticket for her entire career.

It was during the primary in South Carolina in 2008 when Joan’s husband — gifted politician — became unhinged and started invoking racial undertones in a campaign against America’s real First Black President. Everyone marveled that he would have so openly sabotaged his own wife’s presidential campaign.

But, truth is, it wasn’t the first time he had publicly schlonged her in such a humiliating way.

You see, Joan’s husband has always been like a bull elephant in musth, with reproductive hormones leaking from his temples, charging at females of every size, shape and age. Females who know the couple tell their daughters to stay away.

And, so, now, thanks to Mr. Trump’s treatise, Joan of Arc will never again be pictured in the mind’s eye of the American voter except as the bride of the most unrestrained public schlonger of our time.

• Charles Hurt can be reached at [email protected] and on Twitter via @charleshurt.

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