Why is that man orange.

Listen. I try not to judge. I really do. We live in a world where people dye their dogs pink, where billionaires wear cargo shorts to Senate hearings, and where someone willingly created candy corn and thought, “Yeah, nailed it.” But even in this strange circus of human expression, there is one cosmic riddle that keeps me up at night:

How... HOW... does a full-grown adult human man wake up, look at himself in the mirror with a shade of orange not found in nature, a hairdo that defies logic, gravity, and good taste… and say, “Ah yes, perfection.”

Let’s break this down like it’s a forensic case, because clearly something criminal is happening here.

First, the hue. Not tan. Not bronze. Not even a respectful golden glow. No, this is nuclear pumpkin spice. Tangelo rage. The exact shade of a traffic cone dipped in ranch dressing. It’s the kind of orange that should come with a warning label: “May cause migraines, confusion, and secondhand embarrassment.”

I’m sorry, what kind of skincare routine includes dipping your entire face in Dorito dust and sealing it with shellac? People spend years perfecting their skincare routine. This man just rolled through Home Depot, pointed at a can of “Harvest Vomit #42,” and said, “That’ll do it.”

Let’s not ignore the follicular catastrophe. We’re talking about a comb-over that’s less “covering baldness” and more “attempted topiary gone rogue.” It’s like his hair’s trying to escape but keeps getting scotch-taped back down. I’ve seen better structure in a Jenga tower mid-collapse.

Who looks at a wind-defiant, yellowish-white swirl of dehydrated spaghetti glued to a scalp and thinks, “Yes. This is leadership.” It’s not a haircut, it’s a haunted wig with trust issues. I’ve seen cotton candy with more integrity.

And then, then! this man stares into the mirror, into that artificially bronzed fever dream, and grins. Grins. As if he’s not wearing the skin tone of a sweet potato left too long in the sun and the hairstyle of a villain in a cartoon about tax fraud.

Imagine the kind of internal monologue that happens there:

“Looking sharp, me. Time to go say something wildly offensive and pretend I invented gravity.”

How does one arrive at such confidence? Is it delusion? Is it… witchcraft? Am I missing out on the confidence-boosting powers of spray-tan fumes?

Look. Everyone’s entitled to their aesthetic choices. Want a mullet? You do you. Like bold eyeliner? Go off. But this particular combination, this orange clown paint and a toupee that looks like it lost a bet, this isn’t just a bad style. This is performance art that got lost on the way to a RuPaul’s Drag Race parody and ended up headlining a press conference.

It’s the fashion equivalent of putting a ham in a blender and calling it soup. Just because you can doesn’t mean you should.

So, dear reader, if you ever look in the mirror and think, “I might be doing too much,” just remember... somewhere out there, a man is bronzing himself into citrus oblivion and pretending that his hair is not held together with prayer and lies. And he feels great about it.

Godspeed, humanity.

Stay weird, but like… not that weird. Jesus Christ.