Trumped

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The Hiring

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."

"Enough!"

"Then you test it by walking by a pedestal fan."

"You're fired."

"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.

The Pitch

"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.

The Aftermath

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.

Dog-like

Image by Getty Images via Daylife

I'm a dog in so many ways -- like eating really fast, and hating to shave. Also, I have sex on the brain constantly. I shed too if you look at my shower drain, and my eyes are always red in photographs.

I wouldn't mind eating canned dog food if there is no horse meat in it, because it seems so unbelievably delicious when my dog chows it down. My penis is bigger than my dog's, so I wouldn't trade that. But his hearing ability I wouldn't mind having. I would like to hear what he hears, especially when I have headphones on. I bet music would sound great. Dogs can only see in black and white. Does that mean they can only hear in mono? That would suck. My poor doggie, I want to hug him for not having stereo.

He started out with brown hair, and gradually took on gray hair, so we share that in common. I've used "Just For Men" hair dye on myself and I have also used it on him, and I can testify that he looks years younger. He has most of his hair, too, so he gets more compliments.

He doesn't know algebra and neither do I. I don't kick when a certain area is scratched, I punch. I have responded to a whistle before, so that makes me "obedient." I tend to shake hands whenever someone hands me a paw. I can stand on two legs for hours on end and he can't, but I think he is better balanced.

I am like him, and unlike him, in so many ways, but he has a better singing voice.

Hair Club (For Men)

Image by JonJon2k8 via Flickr

His phone was on vibrate. It spun around on his desk when it rang, and if it pointed at him when it was done, he answered.

"Hello," he answered (it landed on him).

"Mr. Greckoslovich?"

"No. Sorry, you must have the wrong number."

"Mr. Jones?"

"Yes?"

"That's what I meant to say, sorry. I'm with the Hair Club for Men."

"I have a full head of hair, thank you, and this is my cellphone you called. Bye."

"--wait! Mr. Jones?"

"What?"

"One of our members found one of your hairs on his suit last week, and figured he must have encountered you in an elevator or something, and that's how we identified you."

"From my follicle?"

"Yes. We have a lab that can narrow a person's hair down to his race, gender, sexual preference--even his address. We tracked you down to Elm Street based on the cobalt mine near where you live. You might want to let your doctor know that you have trace amounts of nickel and chromium in your system. The real reason I'm calling is because you're losing your hair, albeit slowly. Therefore, our president would like to make you a special offer of 30% off your first treatment, followed by a 25% discount on your second, followed by a 15%..."

"Whoa, whoa,"

"Yes?"

"Just last week I was complimented on my hair by someone."

"We understand. Over time, though, you'll notice the compliments getting less and less. That's why we're here to help."

"How much does it cost?"

"We base it on the popularity of the person when he receives his hair. Right now, you're popular, so it won't cost you as much as a loser who gets a 1500% boost in popularity. It will cost you more, though, the longer you let it go."

"I understand."

"So, we'll schedule you for an appointment next Thursday at 2:45 pm. Bring a sample from your shower drain and also one from your pillow."

"Will do."

"It was nice talking to you, Mr. Jones -- and remember, long hair is coming back for men, so be sure to tell all your friends."