Flock of Haircuts - The Orange Messiah

Almost a month has passsed since Donald Trump ousted the Democrats from the White House. His coalition of despicables, disguntled blue collar workers, devout evangelicals, Dixiecrats, neo-nazis, Hispanic fundamentalists, fat and bald men and their wives also won control of the House and Senate. His MAGA followers adored the seventy-eight year old, but while 99% of men globally comb their hair from right to left. I don't comb my hair at all. I occasionally rake my fingers through my mop. Not the President to be. Throughout the day Donald Trump sculps his sweep-over to cover thin spots post scalp reduction. Normally under control windy days are dangerous for his coif.

During the campaign Trump's hair seemed shorter. For all the devotion to the MAGA cause, no one mimicks his hair style.

Recently I listened to the Flock of Seagulls I RAN on Youtube. Seeeing Mike Score, the lead singer, I suddenly underssood the orignins of Trump's hair. I was surprised I hadn't realized it earlier, but this photo of Flock Of Seagulls at their peak says it all.

BY the way Friedrich Engels co-writer of DAS KAPITAL wrote, "Money is the only cure for baldness to a beautiful woman."

Here's an excerpt from LOSING RELIGION about my feelings on baldness.

The diocesan shrink had an office on the second floor. A chubby man in a black robe met me at the door.

“I’m Brother Bob. Please sit down.” He pointed to a pair of leather chairs and shut the door.

I sat and said nothing.

His head was covered by a thick mat of hair, whose color didn’t match his sideburns.

“We both know why you’re here.” Bob sat next to me. “I’ve read your file. I see this problem all the time, but it concerns the Cardinal when a gifted boy loses his faith. You were an altar boy and attended a few retreats for boys with a calling.”

I looked at the huge crucifix hanging on the wall and then out the window. The room was warm and the chair was too comfortable for a meeting about a young man’s soul.

“Do you believe the Bible?”

I remained silent. Any words could be used against me.

“Are you going to tell me why you don’t believe in God?” He leaned forward and his swollen hands rested on my knees.

“I have nothing to say.” I pushed his hands off my lap.

“The truth will set you.” His right hand righted his toupee on his head.

“Why should I tell the truth to a man who lies to himself about being bald.”

“Bald?” he gasped.

“Yes, and you’re wearing a rug.” I stood up and ripped the toupee off his skull.

“You’re damned.”

“You only believe in Jesus and pray that He will cure your baldness.” I threw the wig in his face and exited from the office.

I walked back to the Olds defiant in my lack of belief, until spotting my mother in the car. She was praying for my soul and my father stared into the snow distance, but I rejected the Holy Trinity, heaven, purgatory, hell, The Holy Eucharist, the infallibility of the Pope, the Blessed Virgin, and all the teaching of the Holy Roman Church.

At leasat Trump doesn't wear a rug, but it is a wonder.