Who Spray Tans the President?

Since the 2016 election, a myriad of questions have been posed about DJT by both his supporters and his adversaries. I have not, however, heard anyone lend voice to the non-partisan query that burns inside of me.

Who does the official spraying of the President of the United States?

Whether you’re red or blue, left or right, don’t you kind of want to know?

I’ve personally never had a spray tan, because I am far too inept to handle it myself in a booth (see Ross Gelllar 2003) and far too body-insecure to ever consider having people circle me with paint jugs in-hand, seeing every soft part and errant jiggle.

Our president, however, is braver than I. He’s got the go-ahead-and-spray-my-bits swagger that I am sorely lacking.

But who is wielding that golden wand?

Some think The Donald has a ride-or-die spray girl, a full-body painter who’s been slaying his color since he first hit the scene. Does she visit the White House every week with her airbrush nozzle and blue painter’s tape? Or did he bring her along and move her in like when George W. brought Barney, his beloved Scottish terrier?

Inquiring minds want to know.

Historically, the vetting process for potential presidential staff members has been in-depth and thorough. FBI interviews with friends and family, background checks, laptop swabs; all the stops are pulled.

So did this Bronzemaster General hopeful have to warn her family and friends that the FBI would be interviewing them?

“Good golly, ever since she was a little girl, our Becky dreamed of making it big and being the one to give full-body color to the leader of the free world.”

Now, I do have some logistical questions. What does Mr. President wear for his weekly spray-down? Is he fully-committed to that gorgeous glow and therefore shimmies himself into a thong, just to ensure every nook and crevice ends up with the same luminous hue?

Or perhaps he’s a Topper, a fella who dons jeans and a muscle shirt to get a farmer’s spray-tan. (AKA the reverse-dickey.) After all, he’s not going to be attending any summits with foreign leaders in jorts and a bro-tank, so who would even know?

Whatever is worn during a spray tan, according to my friend, Beth, is left stained and soiled. Beth has a thong, which I can only imagine to be terrifyingly discolored, that she considers her designated spray-tan thong.

Does the Commander-in-Chief also have a designated STT, a mottled orangey-brown banana hammock that dangles on the hook on the back of the POTUS’ bathroom door? Or is he so lavish that he has a staff member buy a new G-string before each and every misting?

I imagine him watching television through those little goggles with his arms and legs spread wide, ignoring his colorist entirely while she circles him and spews color onto his flesh.

But perhaps I’m wrong; maybe she’s something more to him. Maybe she’s someone he confides in while being spurted with bronzer, a trusted confidant whose memoir will document a softer, squishier side of 45, a man who secretly enjoys Ed Sheeran, You’ve Got Mail, and those videos of tiny hamsters eating tiny burritos.

I wonder if I could convince April Ryan to pose my question to the press secretary at the next White House briefing. After all, the American people have the right to know, right?

Pssst — April.

April. Hey.

Ask her.

Pssst.

Come on. Just ask.