Trump-Putin Summit Is Over. The Head-Scratching? Not So Much

“And I have single-handedly revived the posterboard, marker, wooden stick, papier-mâché head and protest permit industries. Obama didn’t do that. George Bush didn’t do that. Crooked Hillary didn’t do that. Me. I did that. ME. That’s all, good night,” Donald concluded.

He walked away from the bright noon sun in the White House Rose Garden, leaving dozens of screaming reporters sweating in the swamp heat of July in Washington.

“Give them one last smirk,” the hat urged from his coat pocket.

“Too much,” the hair said.

“It’s never too much,” the hat snapped. “We are the reason they all have jobs. Without us, journalism would collapse and they would have to go back to sucking dick under a wharf to make ends meet.”

The assembled reporters started booing behind them as they walked away. Donald shook the hands of a few shell-shocked White House staff members. They all had the thousand-yard stare by now, and most spent the day numbly mumbling to themselves. Their hands were dead and limp in Donald’s hand but he pumped them up and down vigorously anyway and smiled.

“They all love you, Donald,” the hat said. “They all love you so much.”

The Secret Service agent that opened the door for Donald glared at the back of his huge head as the trio walked into the cool darkness. His hand moved to his weapon reflexively. He just adjusted his jacket instead and swallowed bile.

“Just tremendous,” Donald said to no one as he walked down the deserted hallway to the Oval Office. “Fabulous time in Finland. Great country, just great.”

“Put me on, Donald,” the hat whispered from his suit pocket.

“It’s rude to wear a hat indoors, Donald,” the hair said.

Donald walked past the secretaries outside the Oval Office and waved to them. They might have been different women since the last time he walked by. He privately called them all “Carol” and daydreamed about most of them having some variety of erotic incontinence.

“Diet Coke, Carol,” he told the last of them, the oldest one, totally hideous and sexless, a wizened crone, maybe even as old as 32, and she nodded and said, “Yes, sir,” with the strained voice her bruised vocal cords could still make.

“Big Diet Coke. 20 ounces,” he said, spreading his hands vertically to indicate the size of the bottle.

“Yes, sir,” the woman who wasn’t named “Carol” repeated.

“Yuge Diet Coke. Maybe a one-liter. Do we have any of the one-liter bottles left?”

“I’ll check for you, sir.”

“And a 20-piece McNugget. Barbeque sauce. No, Honey. Honey,” Donald said. “Or Honey and Barbeque sauce.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want a pie,” the hat said.

“Apple or cherry?” Donald asked.

“Sir?” not-Carol asked.

“Apple or cherry, Carol? I need an answer,” Donald said.

“Uh, sir, I’m not Carol…” not-Carol said.

“One of each,” the hat said, laughing.

“Four apple pies and two cherries,” Donald said. “Add that to the order.”

“Yes, sir.”

Donald started into the Oval Office and then turned back, “And don’t forget that Diet Coke.”

“No, sir. I won’t, sir. And, sir, the National Security Advisor is waiting for you in your office.”

“Dammit, Carol, you should have told me that first thing!”

“Yes, sir.”

“And make it four cherry pies. Vlad could eat three cherry pies all by himself, I bet. Wait, no, I don’t bet, I don’t bet. I KNOW he could eat three cherry pies all by himself.”

“So, three cherry pies, sir,” not-Carol asked.

“Four. FOUR PIES. So, eight pies. Four. Four each,” Donald said angrily, holding up seven fingers, then six, then all ten. He turned and grimly stalked into the Oval Office.

“Johnny!” he called, the hair squirming on his head.

“ROOSIANS!” John Bolton’s mustache bellowed. “You let us get cornholed by the gotdamn ROOSIANS!”

Donald shut the door to the Oval Office and paused, a huge and knowing grin on his face, for the studio audience to finish laughing.