“Mueller is totally discredited,” Donald mumbled under the sheet. “Conflicted and confused, convoluted collusion collision; cucked, cocked, cockled and contused.”

The hat typed as quickly as he could on Donald’s phone, desperate to keep up. The vent torn in the floor of the Oval Office under Donald’s desk belched another cloud of gas.

“Is this going to hurt him?” the hair asked worriedly.

“He’ll be fine,” the hat said distantly. “Fucking autocorrect. ‘Ducked?’ That’s not what I typed, you bitch phone.”

“Fake,” Donald said, sitting up suddenly, his hoarse breathing puffing the sheet out before his face. “Fake and dirty. Fake dirty dossier. Crooked Hillary DNC FISA court witch hunt!” He fell back into his office chair heavily and groaned.

“Good, Donald,” the hat crooned. “This is good stuff.”

“No, it isn’t,” the hair said. “It’s just rambling crazy nonsense.”

“I’m not saying I don’t have to edit it,” the hat replied. “Tweak it a bit. You know, polish it here and there. Hold on.” He typed quickly and then the hair heard the whooshing noise of a message being sent.

“See?” the hat said, holding the phone so the hair could read the screen. “This session made for a perfect tweet.”

“THE WALL!” Donald screamed. “THE WALL!”

“Quick, put on some Pink Floyd!” the hair said.

“Catch Lottery! Chained Release!” Donald yelped. “ICE! ICE! ICE!”

“No, you idiot,” the hat said. “He’s talking about the border wall.”

“This is so…” the hair began, “Confusing,” he finally said with distaste.

“But. You know what isn’t confusing?” the hat said, looking over the phone at an index card on the table in front of him.

“No, what?” the hair asked, devoid of any enthusiasm.

“The deals down at Uncle Papa’s Hat and Wig store, Washington D.C.’s classiest Hat and Wig shop for these past 50 years.”

“Uncle Papa’s?” the hair said with flat affect. “It does sound classy.”

“I buy all my hats and wigs there, you know,” the hat said.

“Really?” the hair said.

“Yes,” the hat said, annoyed. “Conveniently located in beautiful Historic Anacostia, Uncle Papa’s Hat and Wig Store will have everything you need.”

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“I want a wig,” Donald said under the sheet.

“Men don’t wear wigs, Donald,” the hat told him. “Men wear toupées.” He typed some more on the phone and then sent another tweet.

“Toupée? Sounds French,” Donald said dubiously.

“It is French,” the hair.

“French? I don’t like the French,” Donald said. He adjusted the sheet. “When can I take this off?”

“Just a few more tweets, Donald,” the hat said.

“It’s hot under here. And it smells funny.”

“They have found toupées in ancient Egyptians tombs,” the hair said proudly.

“Yes, dudes have been bald for, like, ever,” the hat said. Moving like an inchworm, he slowly pulled himself closer to Donald.

“The French,” Donald sneered.

“Oh, hush, Donald,” the hair said. “You really like the French President and his wife. Remember? You had them over for dinner.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Donald said.

“His wife was real skinny? You told her she had nice legs? You planted a tree together out in the yard?” the hair prompted.

“Mademoiselle Macaroni!” Donald said. He pulled the sheet off and let it slither to the floor. “Oh, yeah, I liked her.”

“Mah-chron,” the hat said absently.

“I really liked the Macaronis. Nice people. Real Classy. And it was so nice that he traveled around with his mother.”

“That was his wife, Donald,” the hair said gently.

“Impossible,” Donald muttered. He pulled the sheet off the floor, flapped it twice to get the crumbs off of it and let it settle back down over his head.

“Macaroni and cheese,” he crooned softly.