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The Donald summoned me to his office. He didn't offer a seat so I stood by his desk. His chair was facing a window and I could see New York's skyline. I also saw the top of his skull, and memorized the pattern of his hair. He was on a speakerphone, so I had time to study his scalp. I knew then how I could "wow" him.
"I don't care what it takes, get it done," he barked into the phone.
The voice on the phone said, "It will be done by tomorrow."
"Make it tonight," countered The Donald. "Or you're fired."
The phone went dead. Donald swiveled around. His craggy face looked at me contemptuously.
"You've got ten seconds," he said.
I took a deep breath. "Eleven brush strokes in the morning, all flowing to the left. Followed by flopping your hair forward from the back to the front." I made a swooping motion with my hand.
"That's enough," said The Donald, glaring at me. His eyes were flints.
"Then you spray it with hairspray, most likely Aqua-Net, since it's the best."
"Then you test it by walking by a pedestal fan."
"But I'm not hired yet."
"You're hired," he said. "Now you're fired."
"If you fire me I'm writing a tell-all book. It's going to be a psychological profile of your hair."
"You're re-hired," he said. "Congratulations."
I shook his hand.
That was last year.
Yesterday, his number one-adviser retired but The Donald sent out a press release saying that he was "fired." Donald doesn't like people to leave his employ voluntarily -- he'd rather fire them.
I wanted the position because the office was closest to the bathroom. A bimbo named Bambie Carruthers was also in contention for that position. She used the men's room too, so it was to her advantage to get the job, especially since she had to use it more than anyone else. I followed her into the bathroom one day and saw that she used the urinal just like one of the guys. She was forced to learn to pee quickly in such a high-pressure environment, and while admiring her gutsiness, I couldn't help but notice that she didn't wash her hands when she was done. I knew The Donald was a neat freak, so I installed a hidden camera in the bathroom, and recorded her coming and going 16 times in one day, and not once did she wash her hands. She barely glanced at the mirror on her way out the door! Was she actually a woman? I knew the answer as soon as I used "zoom" on the video: she was definitely a woman.
"You've got ten seconds," said The Donald. Instantly, I brought out a DVD player and hit the "play" button, and in high definition it showed Bambie finishing up at the urinal and nonchalantly walking out the door without a second look at the sink.
The Donald's eyes were wide when I shut off the player. I saw fear.
"Enough," he said. "I can't believe I saw Bambie do that."
"You saw her," I confirmed. "And you might as well have seen her germs, too."
"My God," said The Donald, and began scratching himself everywhere. I got out a bottle of anti-bacterial spray and began spritzing him with it.
"Yessss," he moaned, reveling in the mist, and twisting around in his chair. He was still scratching, and nearly foaming at the mouth. In a hoarse voice he uttered, "That bitch."
I got out another bottle, this one labeled "Holy Water."
"NOOOO," screamed The Donald, when the first drops landed. His hair began to sizzle.
"May the power of Christmas compel you," I chanted.
Bonus checks were mailed routinely after that, and everyone was delighted. I was promoted to top adviser, and Bambie Carruthers was fired. But The Donald didn't fire her in person -- which was a first for him. He did it via bathroom webcam.
"Bambie," he said in his inimitable voice as her hand reached the bathroom door one last time. "At least you flushed. But you're fired."
The Donald is bald now. That was my first advice to him.; so far, so good. The next thing I'm advising him to do is grow a goatee, and to hold a trident in his right hand, and to wear expensive cloven shoes, and to get a small "9 9 9" tattoo upside-down where his hair used to be. I think that will be a good look for him.