Surely Donald Trump is the pinkest man alive.
Because, in trying to think of equals, I could only come up with Miss Piggy and Krang from the Teenage Mutant Hero Turtles. And they’re both fictional. Whereas of course Trump – the billionaire property mogul, son of a millionaire property mogul – lives a life firmly grounded in reality.
So salmon-hued is this man’s skin, he looks like he spends the entirety of his down time – when not joyriding choppers across Manhattan’s skyline and mentally ‘firing’ its citizens – in a massive gilded sauna. Then, when he’s called upon to rouse a rabble (shout tabloid headlines), I imagine him being mechanically whisked through some sort of car wash-style set-up where he’s exfoliated, drip-dried, moisturised, glazed and liberally dusted with talcum powder to take the retina-searing edge off that gelatinous shine. He’s then left on a vast baking tray for a while to ‘set’, and finally stuffed into a suit and deposited in front of a microphone to shout things about Rosie O’Donnell. The American dream.
The result is that he basically looks like a powder puff with hair. Well, I say hair, it’s more like peroxide smoke. I mean his hair actually looks like a gas. Which, I suppose, would make him closer in appearance to a flambéd marshmallow.
Or in this case, a fuschia-faced fascist with a massive heap of steaming shit on his head.
Cos you know. Satire.