Trump’s Morning Routine

The exhausted Washington sun shines on a dreary Washington morning. After awakening in a bed right by the love of his life, Donald professes his gratitude.

“Oh, beautiful mirror,” he says dreamily, “Look at us. You and I? We’re going to do great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great–”

Twenty minutes pass.

“Great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, GREAT things today. Also, has anyone brought me my three egg mcmuffins and eight hashed browns yet? No? I don’t see it. This is an atrocity! Money is time, people.”

After tweeting angrily about his late breakfast, Donald rocks back and forth six times before being able to sit up properly. Without a single speck of shame, he trudges to his bathroom.

“Now, it’s time to brush the pearly whites! And as everyone knows, white is the most superior color.”

He pushes out the toothpaste onto his brush, a liquified version of Paul Ryan, people clapping when the airplane lands, and Tommy Bahama cologne. The toothpaste is glaringly, painfully white. He looks proudly in the mirror.

“Now we’ll do my special routine for my skin. There’s a reason I look so glowingly handsome. To combat wrinkles, I use youthful, innocent serum for my skin.”

What’s in this container of serum you might ask? It’s a simply mixture of tears from all the pageant women Donald made uncomfortable, soft tufts of fur from faultless animals that Donald Junior shot on hunting trips, and beads of sweat from the underpaid, exploited, working class of America. Find it at a local Sephora near you!

He looks at himself in the mirror at his very bald head, shiny and saddening. “Daily wig maker? Where are you? I’m in no mood to be patient,” he whines.

A man in a theme park uniform quickly enters, pushing a large cotton candy machine through the door.

“So sorry, Mr. President,” he shakily begs, “I had to pick up more blonde powder at the store.”

Donald leans his head into the machine; while the man cranks, blonde cotton candy whisps out onto his head.

“It was sweeter last week.”

“I think they changed the formula, sir.”

The final step of Donald’s morning routine is simple yet vital. In order to achieve his stained orange pigmentation, he has to work his way up to the level of anger that turns him that color. This requires one crucial step–getting angry.  

Donald pulls up the Tumblr app on his phone.

“Well screw you, Jerika from Long Island! Your purple hair won’t ever earn you respect anyways. I bet nobody even sits with you during your fifth period lunch. What a LOSER!”

The anger saga is fulfilled by a five minute slideshow of people wearing beanies, SNL writers, and urban outfitters employees ordering iced coffee before their shifts. He shouts, screeches, spits, and squalls until his anger turns him into the infamous, Donald-orange. After that, he begins his day full of hard work. On the golf course.

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