I Love Donald Trump’s Hair Because it Doesn’t Lie

I don’t like Donald Trump. If you doubt me read this testimony. And this one.

Okay. So, clearly I haven’t been able to hide my disdain for a man who is the perfect version of himself.

He gives Americans what they want in abundance. The Americans who are white and tired of sharing space and benefits with other Americans who don’t look or sound like them.

To those White Americans who classify themselves as “Americans” — the population that produces the beats that their kids secretly grind to — needs to vacate the premises or shut up.

That’s the only way America has any hope to be Great again.

I disliked Donald Trump before he became Donald Trump.

I viewed him as a social scoundrel who understands the value of wealth versus poverty, which explains his disdain for the poor and poorer.

His eagerness to bulldoze properties and displace the unfortunate ones — left me incensed beyond comprehension.

I wondered why rich people employ bullying tactics when they can easily get what they want without the inhumane tendencies.

Now, the white man with the electric hair and the turnip lips that evacuates destructive jargon at the expense of people who are dispensable — is close to being my president.

As a black woman who worships The First Family and recognizes that the good days are numbered — the prospect of a distinguished tyrant settling in The White House is unfathomable and yet gratifying.


Because it reaffirms my belief that most White Americans are racist bastards who tolerated a President that looked nothing like them — and now they are ready to avenge the lost years.

The other reason is Donald Trump’s hair.

The variations of yellow tinged on the thin but steady growth that obeys the wind with comical fortitude is the kicker.

Trump’s hair outs him in the most generic way. He looks crazier when the wind gets chaotic. And when things are still — he manages to resemble the disheveled version of a character from a Stephen King novel.

Trump’s stressed tresses resonates with the beast within the beast of burden that weighs down on those of us who see through the spectacled glasses.

That hair is here for all of us. It rejects its owner and so do we.

It’s the only part of him that accepts our need to read him his rights and send him packing.

To Sweden.

Until then we are saddled with the man on the moon with the strands that entrap every word he utters with stern deliverance.

Trump’s hair is scared shitless and needs to be rescued.

So, maybe we should. Rescue. It.

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