TRUMP and MASKS, EXPLAINED
An image worth more than the thousand words to follow.
The fat inhumanly-hued man in the White House—not pictured above—says that he won’t wear a mask because it’s inconsistent with the dignity of this office, symbolized by the Resolute Desk, to greet foreign heads of state while so protected.
Okay, he didn’t actually say that. He couldn’t get that out if he were reading it off a stripper’s ass. But he did gabble and rave his way through something similar.
This is not the truth.
No, really.
The reason he’s given privately is that he thinks a mask would make him look ridiculous. Note that he did not say, “more ridiculous.” Which one might expect given that he spends an hour every morning styling and lacquering his hundred remaining hairs into what looks like the pelt of a roadkill raccoon in the latter stages of decomposition. Before knotting his comically-overlong cheap made-in-Turkey tie and waddling downstairs to wave his hilarious little ratpaws at the cameras.
But even that is not true. Or specifically true. Trump’s aversion to a simple life-saving precaution is based not on general fear of his own absurdity, but an appreciation of the particular perils of his presentation.
As is widely known, Trump doesn’t leave the Residence without slathering himself in bronzer. He does so not just to bring some color to his pasty wattles, but to conceal the ravages of rosacea, the disease that gives his skin that bumpy golfball texture.
Presumably, the bronzer must evaporate or wear off in the course of the day. Thus, as shown in the illustration above, removal of the mask to slam down hamberders and fries in the evening would expose a pie-hole area a visibly darker orange than the surrounding face, leaving the President with a Homer Simpson muzzle.
You’re welcome, America!
