Monday
Look, I know you’re scared. We’re all scared. But imagine how it is for me. I’m the butt of every damn joke in the world. And I’ll I have ever wanted is sympathy.
The fact is, we’re incompatible. I belong somewhere else, such as on the tail of a child’s rocking horse, or perhaps growing brittle on Andy Warhol’s corpse. Only, he just doesn’t see that.
“I have the best hair there is,” he’ll sometimes say to himself, softly, into the mirror. “Better even than the supermodels. Mexicans only want to come here because they want hair like mine.”
Everybody knows that’s not true. Even his wife doesn’t know what I’m doing up here. That’s partly why she always looks so confused. I’m confused, too. I don’t even know what colour I am. Does anyone?
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Tuesday
Obviously, I’ve thought of escaping. Sometimes, at night, I think of creeping away, climbing out of the window, and uncoiling myself down to the ground. I’m long enough. Even when we’re in the penthouse. But he’d find me. He’d batter me back into place, and perhaps lick his hand to force me down. I just don’t have the nerve.
Today was Super Tuesday. He did well, and I guess he was always going to. Because I’m weird-looking, sure, but not as weird-looking as Ted Cruz’s face. And afterwards, at a press conference, I found myself next to the defeated former candidate Chris Christie.
“Get me out of here!” I hissed at him. “I beg you, take me away!”
But he just stared at me, blankly, with eyes full of terror. Devoid of all hope. As trapped as me.
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Wednesday There are other primaries to come. The one I’m dreading is Illinois. Chicago. The Windy City. I’m not good in the wind. I go off, like a flare.
This afternoon, we had a meeting. A strategist came in, to suggest he tone me down a bit.
“But women love my hair,” said Trump. “They run their hands through it, and can’t let go.”
This is true. Literally. I’m sticky. Like candyfloss. Or the tongue of a giant frog.
“Still,” said the strategist. “We’re nearing the stage of the victory rallies. And you know what they have at victory rallies.”
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“Balloons,” said Trump, going pale.
Balloons are our greatest fear. It’s the static.
Thursday
Now the entire Republican establishment is lining up against him. Today it was Mitt Romney, who used a speech in Utah to call him a fraud and con-artist.
Trump isn’t bothered. He’s been reminding people that, when Romney ran for President, he was revealed to have once driven for 12 hours with a sick dog on the roof.
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“What a loser!” he shouted, down the phone at CNN. “You’re going to listen to a guy who keeps a small, frightened, furry animal strapped up top and doesn’t even care?”
It’s amazing he gets away with this stuff.
Friday
Some brief respite today, because for once I’m not the bit of Donald Trump that everybody is talking about.
It won’t last. Things are only going to get worse. Come the proper Presidential campaign, there will be helicopters. We’re not good with helicopters. The overall effect is not unlike a really violent snake charmer. And if he wins? Presidential hair just gets bigger and bigger. I’m going to need a scaffold.
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No, it won’t do. I need out. Maybe I could change teams. Some days, I wish I was stuck on the head of Hillary Clinton. Then nobody would say a word.
*according to Hugo Rifkind