I Work at Disney World’s Hall of Presidents, and You People Need to Stop Eyefucking Animatronic Franklin Pierce

I work as an Imagineer at The Hall of Presidents in Walt Disney World Resort. It’s a fine attraction that features our state-of-the-art Audio-Animatronics and realistic robots that embody the 45 men who have held America’s highest office. Shows have been running smoothly for decades… with one prominent exception. Guests go absolutely ballistic for #14. I have never seen so many grown women and men so hot and bothered.

Put crassly: You people need to stop eyefucking Franklin Pierce.

You think I haven’t noticed the daily onslaught of you horndogs lining up on Liberty Square just to catch a glimpse of Handsome Frank? Every show, I watch you all squirm in your seats, itching to unravel his old-timey bowtie with your teeth. And when his name is read aloud, and the animatronic offers the audience a curt-but-dignified nod, I hear your aroused squeals of delight.

Stop—I repeat, STOP—mentally undressing our Franklin Pierce animatronic. It’s time to, with a quivering finger, close the tab on your Pierce x Reader x Lincoln [Self-Insert] [Enemies To Lovers] [Threesome] fanfic. This might be the Magic Kingdom, but I’m here to dispel the fantasy: There are no rippling abdominals under that magnificent tailored waistcoat. The President Pierce over whom you salivate is not a virile man of flesh and blood but merely a silicone facsimile molded over a cold, titanium skeleton.

I’ll tell you this much, America: Your insatiable lust is not the reaction to The Hall of Presidents that Walt envisioned.

If I need to add to the reasons to wring out your panties and move on, perhaps the ultimate turn-off for you should be Pierce’s not-so-sexy habit of, well, advocating fiercely to keep slavery legal. I’m sure some of you must be aware of this, and yet you separate the art from the artist. Perhaps you’re not used to setting your Tinder to filter out people whose interests include states’ rights. Make no mistake, this is no woke modern man. If some god/ lightning bolt/ barrel of radioactive waste brought him to life, no doubt Old Frank would pass away once again from seeing a smiling multicultural couple waiting in line for Tiana’s Bayou Adventure.

Of course, our animatronic is not complicit. He did not ask to be wrought in the form of a Confederate apologist. (To you sickos, the idea that he’s probably tortured about sharing the fetching face of that truly evil man makes him all the more alluring.) Trust me, I get it. He has a jawline sharp enough to slice off a chunk of Mexico in the Gadsden Purchase, and firm pecs, crafted with a suspiciously careful hand by a sculptor who must have been ovulating that week. With the theater’s soft lighting and soaring orchestral accompaniment, you can swear he’s looking directly into your soul.

But, sorry folks, that doesn’t mean he’s going to pierce you with his frank.

Because he’s mine.

Mine and mine alone. I take care of Frankie, okay? I brush the shiny onyx curls out of his slate-gray glass eyes. I bend down and whisper sweet nothings into his rubber ears. And unlike all the visitors unable to ever lay a finger on the president, I can give him plenty of Secret Service after closing. I mean, come on, a workplace romance with someone who will never be fired? Ours is a forbidden relationship of stolen glances and the sensual oiling of squeaky limbs. Jane might be his First Lady, but I’m the First Gentleman he’s ever tried, and he’s not looking back (in part because his neck isn’t articulated). So back off, you jackals—Franklin Pierce is spoken for.

Go wild with Robot Chester Arthur, though. That guy’s a total slut.