Newsflash! A varmint has taken up permanent residence on Donald Trump’s head. It has been squatting, rent free, on the head of one of the world’s richest individuals — and annoying me shitless.
My irritation has many sources. For starters, how is the creature held in place? Why doesn’t a light breeze waft it out to sea? If there’s hairspray involved then he’s a fire hazard and should be ordered to stay away from naked flames. Is there some underpinning involved, as in an underwire brassiere? And I wonder whether there’s some shadowy subsidiary — Salon Trump perhaps — with an army of coiffure stylists, ready to re-position each errant wisp that his tub-thumping dislodges.
If it is a varmint — a rival school of thought suggests it may be a critter — is it, in an X-Files sort of way, the source of Trump’s power and success? Or is his anti-cyclone shaped rooftop rug nothing to do with Mulder, or Scully. Is Trump simply one of those unlucky thousands of American men who have real hair that just happens to look like a toupee?
Whatever. What scares me is that a man with a varmint/critter on his head and enough money to out-buffet Buffet, aspires to have his finger on the nuclear button by becoming the next president of the United States. It’s a personal thing. Since the varmint settled itself down atop Trump’s dome, I’ve re-arranged my list of things guaranteed to keep me awake at night. I have elevated, ‘Trump’s Toupee’ to my number one slot. Pushing global warming, negative equity and sub-prime lending into 2nd, 3rd and 4th places respectively.
Some experts say that the hairstyle-challenged property magnate’s net worth touches on ten billion dollars! When reminded of such fabulous estimates, Trump once said, ‘I’m really rich’. Is this staggering degree of financial self-awareness an indicator of the commercial insight that earned him all his money in the first place? Or is this the varmint/critter talking! Has this creature gradually turned Donald’s thoughts to mush — perhaps through some malign form of telepathy.
After all, Mr Trump once said, ‘I try to learn from the past, but I plan for the future by focusing exclusively on the present. That’s were the fun is.’ Try picking the sense out of that after downing a quart of Jose Cuervo Gold.
Whether or not the varmint’s mission on earth is to reduce Trump’s brain to a bowl of Jello, I have a controversial toupee—based theory: I think Donald is actually flat broke. I think he couldn’t afford to rent a fire-damaged basement apartment on Skid Row. There. I’ve said it. Where’s my evidence? Well, nobody with ten billion dollars could possibly choose to culture a hairstyle of such comic immensity. Q.E.D
I have just had a worrying thought. Isn’t all of this covered under the 28th amendment —the individual’s right to arrange his hair as he or she sees fit? Even if it does end up looking like a Wookie’s butt. If so, I should back down. I have no desire to be the first person in American history to be sued by a toupee, or indeed, a varmint, or a critter.
Author: Wallace Runnymede
