Last month at the resthome, the one (broadly built) kitchen manager from Ghana bumped into me and pointed out some brown stain on the right shoulder of my scrubs, and then since he knows that I hate Trump, he was like, "Did your friend Donald do that?".
"Donald?", I was like, before I caught what he was saying.
Then when I did, I was like, "Ohhh," and I laughed.
Then, I said that he didn't, but if he did make a shirt dirty, he would say that it's perfect.
"Perfect!", I was like, "Perfect!".
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