Trumpove frizure, bunkeri i osmijeh od umjetnog tenisa (t=p)

Trump, taj hodajući twit koji se usudio postati predsjednikom, ponaša se kao da je Bijela kuća zapravo njegovo golf igralište, a crveni gumb za nuklearni napad tipka za naručiti cheeseburger. Kad god otvori usta, dijele se dvije reakcije: ili se prestrašite da će početi treći svjetski rat, ili se nasmijete kao da gledate epizodu “Večere za bedake” u režiji teorija zavjere.

Jednom je izjavio da će izgraditi zid prema Meksiku i da će ga Meksiko platiti. To je kao da si naručiš kavu u kafiću i kažeš konobaru: “E, susjed za drugim stolom će to platiti. On još ne zna, ali osjeća.” A što je najgore, čovjek je to rekao s licem kao da zaista vjeruje da je to logično. Kao da mu je logika paket iz Kine – naručena, ali nikad stigla.

Njegove konferencije za medije su kao mješavina stand-upa, postapokaliptične distopije i lošeg snimka s YouTubea koji automatski uključuje titlove na rusko-kineskom. Kad je pričao o “rješenju za koronu” ubrizgavanjem dezinficijensa, pola svijeta se prestrašilo, druga polovica googlala “koliko Domestos ubija IQ”, a Domestos skočio na burzi kao da je kupio Apple.

A frizura. Ah, frizura! To nije kosa, to je arhitektonsko čudo, frizerski Stonehenge. Vjetar u Washingtonu već godinama ima zabranu približavanja njegovom tjemenu jer je jedini ozbiljan protivnik Trumpove vanjske politike. Taj tsunami žutih vlasi čvrsto se drži glave kao da ga je osobno pričvrstio MacGyver s pištoljem za vruće ljepilo.

Kad ga pitaš za mišljenje o bilo čemu, dobit ćeš odgovor koji zvuči kao da je ChatGPT-u ušla muha u matičnu ploču. “Imam najbolje riječi. Nitko ne zna o riječima više od mene.” Čovjek govori o riječima kao da su mu kućni ljubimci. A kad spomene “fake news”, to mu je kao da vještica viče “vatra!” u Salemskom procesu. Svaka istina koju ne voli automatski postaje laž, a svaka laž koju izrekne – “najveća istina u povijesti, veća čak i od Isusove ribe i kruha”.

Njegov ego ima zasebni poštanski broj, osobnog frizera i Twitter nalog (barem je imao dok ga nisu blokirali, što mu je vjerojatno najtraumatičniji trenutak u životu – odmah nakon spoznaje da Ivanka ne smije biti prva dama). I da, čovjek je toliko narcis da kad se pogleda u ogledalo, ogledalo vrišti “enough is enough” i samo se zacrni.

Zaključno, Trump nije političar. On je promašena konceptualna umjetnost, šala svemira, reklama za to što se događa kad reality TV pređe u realnost. Ako je politika ozbiljan posao, Trump je došao obučen kao klaun na sprovod, s megafonom i vlastitim orkestrom koji svira “The Final Countdown”.

A mi? Mi se i dalje čudimo što cirkus nije otišao iz grada, kad mu je šator Bijela kuća, slonovi su republikanci, a on klaun koji si je sam dao zlatnu zvijezdu na čelo i rekao: “Ja sam najbolji učenik u razredu. I to kaže moj imaginarni prijatelj Abraham Lincoln.”

TRUMP’S HAIR, BUNKERS, AND A SMILE MADE OF FAKE TENNIS 

Donald Trump is like that stain on a white shirt you can’t wash out—not even with bleach, a nail file, and a priest with holy water. The man is a blend of reality TV, a political glitch in the universe, and a hairstyle so tragic even a ceramic dog wouldn’t wear it.

Trump, the walking tweet who somehow became president, acted like the White House was just another hole on his golf course and the red nuclear button a quick way to order a cheeseburger. Every time he opened his mouth, two reactions followed: either global panic over World War III, or laughter like you’re watching a blooper reel of failed conspiracy theorists.

He once claimed he’d build a wall along the Mexican border and that Mexico would pay for it. That’s like ordering coffee at a bar and telling the waiter, “Yeah, the guy at the other table will pay. He doesn’t know it yet, but he feels it in his soul.” And the worst part? He said it with a face that truly believed it was logical. Like logic was an online order he placed but never received.

His press conferences are a mix of stand-up comedy, post-apocalyptic sci-fi, and badly subtitled YouTube videos in Russian-Chinese. When he suggested injecting disinfectant as a COVID cure, half the world panicked, the other half googled “how much Domestos kills brain cells,” and Domestos stock soared like it had just bought Apple.

And the hair. Oh, the hair! That’s not a hairstyle, that’s architectural defiance—frisbee-Stonehenge. Wind in Washington has been banned from coming near his scalp because it’s the only force capable of disrupting his foreign policy. That golden cotton-candy tsunami clings to his head like MacGyver himself duct-taped it there with a hot glue gun.

Ask him his opinion on anything and you’ll get a response that sounds like ChatGPT caught a fly in its motherboard. “I have the best words. Nobody knows words like I do.” The man speaks of words like they’re his pets. And when he shouts “fake news,” it’s like a witch yelling “fire!” at the Salem trials. Any truth he dislikes becomes a lie, and every lie he spews becomes “the greatest truth in history—bigger than Jesus’ fish and loaves.”

His ego has its own ZIP code, its own stylist, and its own Twitter account (well, had one—until he got banned, which was likely the most traumatic event of his life… right after learning Ivanka couldn’t be First Lady). The man is so narcissistic, when he looks in the mirror, it screams, “Enough is enough!” and just shuts itself off.

In conclusion, Trump is not a politician. He’s conceptual art. The universe’s prank. A live-action ad for what happens when reality TV is mistaken for actual reality. If politics is serious business, Trump showed up dressed as a clown at a funeral—with a megaphone and a band playing “The Final Countdown.”

And us? We’re still wondering why the circus hasn’t left town—when its tent is the White House, its elephants are Republicans, and its clown gave himself a gold star and said, “I’m the best student in class. Just ask my imaginary friend Abraham Lincoln.”

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