Today, America wakes up to sighs of relief that President Donald Trump’s penis is still a mystery. Yes, we can collectively smile in knowing that his scrawny, orange, slightly hairy member is only in our imagination, and not a confirmed reality. His uneven ballsack, which would presumably hit his mid-thigh, despite being the size of unimpressive marbles, will not infect our eyes with its road-kill style of fascination.

Many Americans feared that they would remain forever dry after the 60 Minutes interview with Stormy Daniels. “What if she describes the smell?” we worried as we sat down eating our commemorative Cheetos. America may never survive if we were to discover the odor resembled a combination of narcissism sweat and Ivanka’s new perfume.

There was no way we were going to be shown a picture of the presumed deformed thunder down under. This was network television, after all. We feared, as a country, that we were to be given a detailed description of varicose veins running through a dick that can only get hard when thinking about its own net worth. “A description is almost worse than a picture,” said America. We sat around our televisions and streaming sites, waiting anxiously to hear the words that would turn us off instantly. “I don’t want to become impotent upon hearing the word ‘shriveled,” said America, through mouthfuls of mini corndogs.

It is still possible that Trump has a penis that is, in fact, not an embarrassment to himself, and those who have the misfortune of seeing it. We, as Americans, have to accept that as a possibility. Perhaps he is not compensating for something so small that when he pees sitting down he still has to push it down because gravity simply is not enough. Maybe it’s perfectly serviceable and we, as a country, have to entertain that fact. The good news is that we still do not know. Hopefully, we will never know. We have suffered so much, already. Sometimes ignorance truly is bliss.