Category: Hat and Hair

I Am Part of the Resistance Inside the Trump Administration: I work for the president but like-minded colleagues and I have vowed to thwart parts of his agenda and his worst inclinations.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

King Donald
Embattled Ruler of a Western Land

Queen Melancholia
His Foreign Wife

The Royal Cap
The King’s Advisor

The Royal Wig
Cachier-de-Honte,
Gentleman of the Bedchamber

Pie
Aide-de-Camp

Act XCIV. Scene I.

King Donald
Traitors are all mine eyes can see. Foul
Betrayal from every quarter, every hand.
Who does conspire against our august light,
I, Donald, such a good and noble king?

The Royal Cap
Anonymous? Choad-choked cowards, say I
Come out and fight fair, so we may fall on you
With all our appetites and might, to rend,
Like starvling weiner dogs their snausages!

His Royal Wig
Who could be the hand of the dread deep state?
Who has dipped his pen in poisoned ink?
Does ghostly Pence seek your crown and throne?
Spymaster Pompeo, lich of whispers?

His Royal Cap
Forsooth! Thou do talkest like a big fag!
‘Tis no Pence, No Pompeo, the villain
Is near, a viper in Donald’s very breast.
Melancholia! This house ill suits her!

King Donald
Slander not my dear Melancholia,
You who seek to Make Dondonia Great Again.
Her swamp pussy is yet most tender and sweet,
And her eyes narrow delightfully tight.

His Royal Wig
Foul cap, work of demon haberdashers–
The Royal Melancolia is the best!
She is above all reproach, drag her not
Into the gutter in which you wallow.

His Royal Cap
To refuse my insight and fair counsel,
Leads the King astray from his truest friend.
The rest are gone: The Fair Hope, The Sloven Steve,
Spicey Sean and Preibus, Fucker of Rats…

King Donald
Squabble not my excellent courtiers,
We must unite to ferret out this traitor,
Find who did lay a’pon your king’s brow
This Judas Kiss.

PIE CALLS FROM OFFSTAGE

His Royal Cap
Harken, Hairpiece, something waddles our way!
‘Tis King Donald’s Courtesan of Kitchens,
The Intemperate Pie, who throws rank scraps
To the braying lap-dogs of pen and ink.

ENTER PIE, SINGING

Pie
Blackberry and blueberry
pe-can and quince
Sift the flour, knead the dough
Strawberry–So sweet!
Rhubarb–So tart!
Allspice and cinnamon,
Nutmeg and mace,
Cherry, ap-ple and peach
All go in the oven
To make pies for me, me, me!

King Donald
Ah, Sarah… so loyal and round. My Voice,
My Word made wobbly flesh. My Will, My Power
In a bright dress. Approach my sticky one…
Faithful Pie, always well-fed and so gay!

Pie
I never! Wait, what have you heard? Fake news!
Sure, there was that time in college… Fake news!
She was the RA in my dorm… Fake news!
Jesu did judge us like Father said… Fake news!

The Royal Cap
(to the troubled Wig)
How like a sow she must have snorted and
Rooted for that poor girl’s meaty truffle.
You laugh not at mine jest, dearest brother?
Why doest thy countenance darken so?

His Royal Wig
I have great fear upon me, my headmate.
Secret hand signals. Secret listeners.
Goode King Donald is but a simple beast.
I quail at the duty to keep him safe.

His Royal Cap
My night terrors are diffuse and ill-formed;
Like fingers of fog creeping in a moor.
No fears for our king, but that you and I
Will be unmasked as simple metaphors.

END SCENE

 

That was no white-power hand signal at the Kavanaugh hearing, Zina Bash’s husband says

Donald lay across this desk, tracing the cracks in the Oval Office ceiling with his finger.

“Look at that one,” he said to the hat. “See, it looks like a wheel barrel.”

“A wheel barrel?” asked the hair. “What’s a wheel barrel?”

“Zina,” Donald crooned softly. “Zina.”

“A wheel barrel,” the hat said. “You know, a wheel barrel. It’s got a wheel and you put things in the barrel to carry them around.”

“Did you see the signals she was sending me?” Donald asked. “They were secret signals, just for me.”

“She was just scratching her arm, Donald,” the hat said.

“A barrel with wheels? What the fuck are you talking about?” the hair asked.

“No, it was a signal,” Donald insisted. “She also tucked her hair back over her ear. Classic flirting.”

“A wheel barrel,” the hat said. “Look it up, idiot. Google it. You’ll see.”

“That crack in the ceiling looks nothing like a barrel with wheels,” the hair said excitedly.

“When women touch their hair that means they want The Donald,” Donald said, still tracing cracks in the ceiling. “Or when they blink. And women blink around me, like, all the time, I tell you.”

“It looks like a cart,” the hair said framing out the series of cracks with his tendrils. “A little cart.”

“Blinking is winking with both eyes,” Donald whispered.

“Wait… It’s a wheelbarrow,” the hair said scornfully. “Barrow. Not ‘wheel barrel.’”

“Wheelbarrow‽” the hat exclaimed. “That’s not a real thing.”

“Zina…” Donald said. “I hope she gives me a thumbs-up today…”

The hat grumbled and the hair fumed and Donald hummed to himself. In the quiet Oval Office, they could hear the West Lawn being mowed.

“So, like, we’re just not going to talk about Woodward at all?” the hat asked.

Donald Trump Is Not Attending John McCain’s Washington D.C. Funeral

 

“Why can’t I go to the funeral?” Donald whined. He was sitting on the Presidential Shitter and watching Fox and Friends.

“John didn’t want you at the funeral,” the hair said.

“Why not?” Donald said again, the whine settling into his voice like a badly-tuned radio station.

“He didn’t like you,” the hair said patiently. He had explained this already, multiple times over the last few days.

“You beat Hillary and he didn’t,” the hat said, perched on the Presidential Shitter Paper Dispenser. He tore off another square of the luxurious bum wipe and chewed it.

“Hillary,” Donald said scornfully. “I used to be friends with her. She used to be so nice. Bill and I…”

“Oh, God, no…” the hair began.

“Please, Donald, please, just, no,” the hat began.

“Spit roast her,” Donald continued blithely. “She was a hell of a piece of ass. And Bill was just so much fun.”

“Next, on Fox and Friends,” the TV chirped, “Has CNN infected the nation’s strategic reserve of frozen yogurt? Yes! Yes, it has! Steve Ducey reports.”

“Donald, stop. Just stop,” the hat moaned.

“She let me piss in her…” Donald said wistfully. “Most hookers charge you extra for that.”

“DONALD!” the hair screamed in agony.

Donald smiled to himself and watched the commercials run on the TV. “Gold coin?” he asked. “I’m on a gold coin?”

“Yes. There are a bunch of companies selling coins with you on them,” the hair said.

“I want one! I want one! I’m on a coin!” Donald said excitedly, squirming on the Presidential Shitter.

The hat carefully spat a wad of chewed toilet paper at the hair and missed. He pulled off another square and began to chew it grimly.

“How much is it worth?” Donald asked.

“It’s not real money, Donald,” the hat said around his wad of paper.

“Not real money?” Donald asked. “It’s a coin! Coins are money!”

“It’s a commemorative coin,” the hair said tiredly.

“I could use it to buy McDonald’s on the way to the funeral!” Donald said.

“Commemorative coin,” the hat said. “Like a plaque or a memorial.”

“One Donald’s worth of McNuggets, please,” Donald said proudly, miming going through the drive-thru.

“It’s not real money,” the hair tried again.

“I said ‘ONE DONALD’S WORTH OF MCNUGGETS!’” Donald yelled. “These damn speakers never work.”

The hat spat another wad of toilet paper at the hair. It hit Donald in the shoulder and fell to the floor.

“Stop doing that,” the hair said tiredly.

“This toilet paper tastes like shit,” the hat replied.

“Yes, you can get a coin. No, it isn’t real money. No, you aren’t going to the funeral,” the hair said.

“Barry and George are going,” Donald said sullenly.

“Make sure to join us later in the week,” the TV said breathlessly, “For the Fox News Special, John McCain: Funeral for a Traitor.

“Barry and George were invited to speak,” the hair said. He glared at the hat as it tore off another square of toilet paper and began to chew it.

“Barry and George and Bill and George get to do everything,” Donald pouted. “I bet even Jimmy goes.”

“Mike is going, too,” the hair said.

“Mikey? Mikey gets to go?” Donald whined.

“Ghost Goes To Funeral,” the hat intoned spectrally. The half-chewed toiler paper fell out of his bill and dropped to the floor. He began to laugh so hard he followed it down.

“Is Mike Pence really a g-g-g-ghost?” Donald asked the hair in a frightened whisper.

“Yes, Donald,” the hair said seriously. “He really is.”

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“Sign the pardons, Donald,” the hat whispered, sitting sideways so he could bend his bill toward the elderly man’s ear.

“But what if they testify anyway?” the hair said into his other, a speaking tendril dangling down.

The Oval Office was filled with tense faces: Kellyanne, her lips pursed like an angry asshole. Ivanka, trying to knit her paralyzed brow. Bill, wondering who everyone was while everyone wondered who he was. John Bolton’s mustache, dreaming of an ocean of furriner blood while he let his host coast on auto-pilot on Setting 5 (Concerned Interest, Semi-Sincere.) DJ, on alert, knowing someone in this very room knew he was sleeping with his brother’s wife. Eric, staring intensely at the Lego blocks he was trying to fit together. Jared, worried he would never get his Legos back from Eric. Pie, wondering about lunch, even though she had just had third-breakfast.

“Sign them, Donald,” the hat said. “Look at how nicely they are all printed out.”

“Why is there an M&M in here?” the hair asked, flicking the earwax-coated candy away.

“I HAVE BEEN BETRAYED!” Donald roared. Almost everyone in the room flinched. Two seconds later, John Bolton’s body did as well.

“When I PAY one of you sons-a-bitches off, you are supposed to STAY PAID OFF!” he raged. “Where’s my lawyer, goddammit? Where is he?”

Through a doggy-door crudely glued into one of the Oval Office entrances, Rudy scuttled in, the sharp tips of his feet digging into the carpet. The crowd of cronies, courtiers, and pupae drew back in revulsion.

“Mr. President?” he asked in stroke victim slur.

“You said this wouldn’t happen!” Donald yelled.

“Now, now, Mr. President,” the bloated head said.

“You said this COULDN’T happen,” Donald spat.

“Now, now, Mr. President,” Rudy said, a little blood running out of the corner of his mouth.

“You ASSURED me! I was ASSURED! I had ASSURANCES!” Donald threw an empty Diet Coke can at the lawyer-thing and it scurried away.

“Out! All of you out! OUT!” Donald screamed, waving his arms. They stampeded for the door, pushing and shoving each other in their terror. Kellyanne was pushed down, lightly trampled and was crying out orgasmically before DJ helped drag her away.

“Sign them, Donald, sign the pardons,” the hat said again, giving the old man’s head a slow massage. “Trust in me, Donald, just in me.”

The hair made a snide choking sound.

“I’m part of you Donald,” the hat said.

“The best part of you,” the hat said, who wasn’t really part of Donald at all.

 

“Omarosa, my sweet dark berry…” Donald whispered.

“She recorded you, Donald,” the hat said in a low Iago hiss.

“Maybe she just wanted to hear my voice again,” Donald said.

“Recorded, Donald, like with a machine,” the hat said. “She tried to Nixon you, bro.”

“But I didn’t fire her, The General fired her, I didn’t have anything to do with it. I don’t know why she’s so mad at me. She was my chocolate Wonder Girl…”

“She looks like a man, Donald, a big black man in lipstick and a wig.”

“You just don’t like strong women,” Donald pouted.

“I just like my women to not have a penis,” the hat said.

The hair snorted from the floor.

“She didn’t have a penis,” Donald insisted. “She didn’t. She was the sweetest pink inside.”

“They’re all pink inside, Donald, and they will all betray you in the end… Ivana, Marla, Stormy, Karen… all whores, Donald.”

“And she said I said the bad word,” Donald whined. He turned to the side in his office chair and pulled his legs in. He was pantless and his scrotum swayed queasily above the hair as it struggled to inch away.

“Mark says he destroyed the tapes, Donald,” the hat said.

“There are no tapes,” Donald said. “There never were any tapes. I would never say the bad word. It’s bad word.”

“Of course not, Donald,” the hat said.

“The bad word isn’t even in my vocabulary,” Donald whispered. “Donald would never call someone a n[beep]r.”

“You don’t have to beep it out, Donald,” the hat said. “It’s just us here. And we’ve looked everywhere for recording devices.”

“I didn’t beep it out,” Donald said, shaking, his balls quivering.

“You said ‘beep’, Donald,” the hat said. “I heard you.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Donald said, getting angry. He stood up suddenly, his shirttails mercifully swinging down to hide his penis. “If I want to say ‘n[beep]r,’ I say ‘n[beep]r.’”

“What the fuck⸮” the hair asked.

“N[beep]R!” Donald yelled. “N[beep]R! N[beep]R! N[beep]R! N[beep]R! N[beep]R! What is happening‽”

The hair spread himself flat on the floor like a threatened starfish.

“Donald, it’s just a word,” the hat said. “Stop self-censoring.”

“I’m not!” Donald screeched. He began running in circles around his desk, yelling “N[beep]R! N[beep]R! N[beep]R!” while his penis flapped against his gunt and grundle forlornly.

“N[beep]R!” the hat said. “Oh, no! It’s me too! What the hell is going on‽” he screamed in horror.

“N[beep]r,” Donald said helplessly and slumped to the floor. “N[beep]r,” he said quietly and began to weep.

The hair bunched into a loose ball and let the air conditioner floor vents roll him gently out of the room.

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“See now that I looks tasty,” Donald murmured to his reflection in the floor-length mirror. Hankering, gross, mystical, nude, he touched himself like Walt Whitman. “I is,” he grunted. “I is,” he grunted, ejaculated. The hat laughed; the hair screamed. Shrill jazz played in a nearby room, saxophone farting like a barge. Donald collapsed.

“My star,” Donald moaned. “Don’t take my star.”

“We won’t let them,” the hat said, perched on bust of Caesar.

“We won’t let them,” the hair said, rustling on his head like dry grass.

The record in the other room started over again, squealing and bleating and blat, blat, blatting, the lowing of lost cattle.

“What is love?” Donald asked from the floor.

“It’s, uh, a feeling, Donald.” the hair said. “A closeness you have with other people.”

“Love is sixteen milligrams of Dilaudid,” the hat said, his tongue thick with memory.

“A nameless whore,” Donald said, curling into a foetal ball. “A nameless whore you don’t have to pay.”

A trumpet, a trumpet, a trumpet screeching out.

“My star,” Donald moaned. “Don’t take my star.”

An enormous shadow passed by outside, darkening the room briefly. The hair shivered. Birds beat frantic wings against the window sill. The glass shattered and a dry wind poured in.

“Donald!” the hair shouted as the gale whip him around. “Donald, where are we going?”

“The press briefing room,” the hat said.

The record stopped, the wind stopped, and Donald held his breath in the oppressive silence.

“What is hell?” Donald whispered.

“Hell is the impossibility of reason,” the hat intoned.

“That’s from Platoon, asshole,” the hair said.

“Fine,” the hat snapped, “Then you tell the man what hell is.”

“Hell is a golf resort in New Jersey,” the hair said dolefully.

An animal keening rolled out over the resort, filing the greens and sand traps, the clubhouse and the 19th hole. There was nothing but holes now.

 

“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.”

“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.

Michael Cohen Secretly Taped Trump Discussing Payment to Playboy Model

 

“Secret listeners!’ Donald wailed as he pulled the drawers from his desk one by one and emptied them onto the floor. Pie was cowering behind the couch while fumbling to open a package of Ding-Dongs.

“Donald! Calm down!” the hair said again.

Donald seized the iPod sitting on his desk and dashed it to pieces against the wall.

“Hey!” the hat screeched. “That was mine! All my Mariah Carey albums were on there!”

“Bugs! Taps! Microphones!” Donald screamed as he kicked apart the piles of junk dumped out of his desk; yo-yos, Matchbox cars, butt plugs, bioluminescent Jesus statues, empty Diet Coke cans and bottles, a melted Fleshlight, cans of Play-Doh, Air Force One barf bags, Legos, pieces of a pirate costume, packets of ketchup and bottle of steak sauce, a box set of the second season of Dallas and a running tape recorder went flying in all directions.

“No one is recording you, Donald,” the hat said, eyeing the tape recorder as it went past him.

“I never say anything that can be recorded,” Donald wheezed. He tried to pull down the heavy drapes of his office window and failed, swinging from the briefly and landing hard against bulletproof glass and wire mesh.

“Donald! Are you OK?” the hair asked. He moved across the littered desk to peer over at Donald on the floor.

Pie popped up from behind the couch, her teeth black with snack cake, “Sir?” she asked, spraying crumbs and filling.

“Oh my fucking GERD!” the hat yelled. “Have some fucking dignity, you fat sow!”

Pie ducked down and peered from around the side of the couch. She threw a piece of Ding-Dong toward where Donald lay and bolted from the room.

“The tape is out, Donald,” the hair said. “There’s nothing we can do about that now.”

“It’s not me on the tape,” Donald whined.

The hat gave a disgusted snort.

“It’s not Michael Cohen on the tape,” Donald wheedled.

The hair sighed heavily.

“I haven’t even met her?” Donald warbled in a pained falsetto.

“Don’t eat that!” the hair snapped as he saw Donald’s hand reaching for the clump of wadded cake Pie had thrown.

“OK,” Donald said, sulking.

“Sit up, Donald,” the hat said.

Donald rolled onto his side and sat up among the scattered trash on the floor.

“You’re bleeding, Donald,” the hair said. Donald’s hands rubbed his head, smearing the blood from tiny wounds where he had pulled the hair off his head in a rage.

“Go into the bathroom, Donald,” the hair ordered.

“Where?” Donald asked, his voice like a lost child.

“The Presidential Shitter. Go in there and get cleaned up,” the hair said gently. Like the last mastodon in a tar pit, Donald struggled and stood and started to walk away.

“Donald,” the hat said. “Work on it. What I told you to say. Work on it in the Shitter. In the mirror. Say it until you can say it, you know?”

Donald nodded absently and lumbered away.

The light came on in the Presidential Shitter as he closed the door behind him. He filled in the Presidential Sink and splashed a little cool Presidential Water on his face. He took a few deep breaths and then faced himself in the Presidential Mirror.

“I… I…,” he began and then swallowed forcefully. “I did not have sexual relations with that woman.”

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“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.