“GM fucked us!’ the hat cried. “We bailed them out and they fucked us! Fucked us hard. Fucked us like a minivan full of Little Leaguers!”

“Oh, calm down,” the hair said. “You’re going to rip a seam.”

“We raise the price of steel for those GM bastards, and this is how they repay us?” the hat wailed. “And right before Christmas?”

“Where’s Donald?” the hair asked.

“CHRISTMAS‽” the hat replied.

“I haven’t seen much of him since we got back from Mississippi,” the hair said.

“He’s been wearing the wig,” the hat said, grief hardening to sadism.

“The wig?” the hair asked. “The wig? He’s been wearing the fucking wig? The wig looks terrible!”

[Enter DONALD, a greasy mop of Bangladeshi orphan hair sits askew on his head]

“Hey, guys,” he said.

“Take that filthy thing off, Donald.” the hair said, his voice thin.

“Filthy?” Donald asked, taken aback. “It’s clean, totally clean. I had them run it through the dishwasher just this morning.”

“I’m your hair. Me. Take that thing off,” the hair said, bristling.

“Now you know how it feels, huh? So maybe back me up the next time he wears that retard USA hat,” MAGA Prime said smugly.

“That’s different. That’s just hats. This is hair. Hair!”

“‘JUST HATS?’” the hat screeched. “You take that back, you take that back right now!”

The hair jumped on the hat and they both rolled off the Resolute desk and onto the floor of the Oval Office.

[DONALD, TO CAMERA]

“We’ll be right back, folks.”

[CAMERA UP]

[DONALD stands in a destroyed Oval Office, the hair and hat jammed down on his head. Shredded wig parts are stuck to his suit.]

“See? Isn’t this much better, Donald?” the hair asked.

“Yeah, it’s great. It’s so great,” the hat says.

“All you two do is fight,” Donald said. He walked behind his desk, unzipped and began urinating into his office trash can. “It’s unseemly. It’s unclassy. I want you two to stop. You should be like brothers.”

The hat mumbled deprecations.

“You should have a close and loving relationship, like me and Ivanka or me and Meliana and that creepy little kid who is always following her around. You know, the one she still breastfeeds.”

“Barron… your son,” the hair mutters.

“I’ve realized that I’ve been campaigning too much,” Donald said, “And traveling too much and I’ve let the homefront get soft.”

“And you’ve put on weight,” the hat said.

“I’m at the perfect weight for a President my age. We can’t all look like Vlad,” Donald said.

“You never even try to go shirtless horseback riding anymore,” the hair said.

“Let’s make a Week After Thanksgiving resolution, guys,” Donald said, sitting down in his office chair. “Let’s resolve to be more like our original characterization, OK?”

“Fine,” the hair said, “But, honestly, I don’t think I’ve changed too much.”

“You always been a low energy hack,” the hat told the hair.

Donald snorted at that. He rummaged through his desk and pulled a cigar from his humidor. He took a deep whiff along the cigar and sighed.

“And you’ve always been a racist, bigoted, fascist psychopath, you fucking junkie,” the hair spat back.

“Why, thank you,” the hat said. He sat up straighter on Donald’s head.

Donald lit the cigar and puffed at it until the tip glowed red.

Donald hit the intercom button on his desk.

“Yes, Mr. President?” the voice asked.

“Send her in.”

The Oval Office door opened and a thin blonde was pushed inside. Thin arms and legs, improbable breasts, a wide moonface covered in thick makeup. She said something a thick, guttural language and forced herself to smile.

“Vlad sent her,” Donald said and sighed contentedly.

“Зняти нижню білизну!” Donald told the girl.

“Only Ukranian I know,” he told the hat and hair.

The girl slid her flimsy panties off her boyish hips and stepped out of them when they hit the floor.

Donald puffed on the cigar for a few moments, leering, drawing hard until the fat tip glowed orange. Donald took it out of his mouth.

“Watch this,” he told the hat and hair while getting up. “Bill taught me this one.”