By CPRM
Category: Hat and Hair
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The Hat and The Hair: Episode 73.5
John Bolton’s mustache undulated menacingly.
“I thought I’d find you faggots in here!” he said. John Bolton’s leg kicked the Oval Office door closed behind him. His eyebrows scurried back and forth on his brow.
“Hey, John,” Donald said weakly.
“John’s not here, tubby,” the mustache said. “You’re dealing with me now.” Bolton’s body lurched forward a step. They could see his glazed-over eyes and slack jaw that wasn’t moving.
“What the fuck is going on?” the hair demanded.
“I’ll tell you what’s going on, you dick wig. I’m moving in, I’m taking over, I am going to whip this queer pit into fucking shape!”
“You serve at the pleasure of the President!” the hat spat.
“Anyone making limited strikes in Syria is no President, you junkie scum.” Bolton’s body lurched forward again, his eyebrows vertical over his dead eyes. “We’ve got to bomb them into submission. Blood! Fire! I want the smell of crisp skin wafting over all Mohammedan lands!” the mustache roared.“Donald! Up!” the hat commanded and Donald picked up the hat and squashed it down over the hair.
“Hey! Watch it!” the hair protested.
“Oh, shut up,” the hat replied.
“War! I want war! I hunger for it!” Bolton’s mustache raved. John Bolton’s hand reached into the pocket of his seersucker suit and pulled out an enormous dead rat.
“What the fuck?” Donald and his hair said simultaneously.
Bolton’s hand held the rat up to the mustache and thick grey fibers sank into the flesh. The rat’s hide began to ripple and bubble.
Donald opened a desk drawer and vomited into it loudly and closed it back.
“Oh, God,” the hair moaned when the eyebrows inched down Bolton’s face to feed as well. After a few more seconds, Bolton’s hand opened and the empty skin of the rat fell to the floor.
“War, fucksticks. I want war. War is the only clean thing left,” the mustache said. “And FLOTUS hat. Bring me FLOTUS hat. She won’t survive my mustache ride.” The bloody eyebrows returned to their perch on Bolton’s brow and the mustache-ridden body turned and walked stiffly from the room.
“Holy shit!” the hair exclaimed. “Why the fuck did you hire that guy?”
“Me?” the hat asked. “I didn’t hire him.”
“Don’t look at me,” Donald whimpered. “I thought it was one of you guys.”
Get caught up on all the episodes here
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Thursday Morning Links – The Hat and The Hair: Episode 73
“What the fuck is that?” the hair asked. He had slid down Donald’s face to his chest for his afternoon nap. He found the thunderous gurgle of Donald’s cardiac valves very soothing.
“Huh? Wha?” the hat replied thickly. He was languorously humping FDR’s Yalta pen set on the desk.
There was a bump and a crash outside the Oval Office door, and then a woman’s scream.
“Donald! Wake up!” the hair screamed as pulled himself up to his perch.
“Huh? Wha?” Donald said.
“Donald! Goddammit!” the hat said sharply, snapping to alert, his squatchee twitching with alarm. He awkwardly squirmed his way toward them both.
There was a deep pounding on the Oval Office door.
“What’s happening?” the hat squealed.
“Where is the goddamn Secret Service?” the hair demanded.
“I sent them out to get my second lunch,” Donald said, rolling backward in his napping chair.
“UNHAND ME, WOMAN!” came a loud voice and the door frame splintered under another blow.
The door flew open and John Bolton’s mustache burst into the room.
…TO BE CONTINUED
“Bring it, Commie!” De Blasio’s rat-killing demonstration is a complete disaster
Like a scene from “Tom and Jerry,” workers fruitlessly tried to stomp on the agile rodent when it scurried from a hole in which dry ice had been dropped in an effort to control the furry pests.
One worker even swung a shovel at the plucky rat in a comical whack-a-mole routine.
But no one could lay a hand on the tiny animal, which dodged all the would-be rat-slayers at the Bushwick Houses and scampered to safety at a playground on Humboldt Street.
With the media witnessing the debacle, all the mayor could do was deadpan: “We found the right place.”
The demonstration had been meant to highlight de Blasio’s plan to combat vermin at NYCHA projects by using the dry ice to suffocate them in their holes instead of using dangerous poisons. The mayor insisted the technique — which involves sealing off burrows where rats enter and exit — will kill off the filthy furballs before they can escape.
Biden/De Blasio 2020
The single most metal thing you will read today.
This Medieval Italian Man Replaced His Amputated Hand With a Weapon
“One possibility is that the limb was amputated for medical reasons; perhaps the forelimb was broken due to an accidental fall or some other means, resulting in an unhealable fracture,” they wrote in their paper.
“Still, given the warrior-specific culture of the Longobard people, a loss due to fighting is also possible.”
On closer examination, the ends of the bone showed evidence of biomechanical pressure – reshaping of both bones to form a callus, and a bone spur on the ulna. These are consistent with the sort of pressure that might have been applied by a prosthesis.
Further evidence on the skeleton supports this hypothesis. The man’s teeth showed extreme wear – a huge loss of enamel, and a bone lesion. He’d worn his teeth so far down on the right side of his mouth that he’d likely opened the pulp cavity, causing a bacterial infection.
What’s that got to do with a prosthesis? He was probably using his teeth to tighten the straps that held it in place.
Secret drug raid by feds backfires in Portland: ‘Someone could have been killed’
Shortly after 9 a.m. on a Saturday in December, two men showed up at the office of a Public Storage warehouse in Southeast Portland and asked about renting space.
On-site manager Shawn Riley led them to an empty unit and unlocked it.
The pair followed him in, then suddenly drew large silver handguns. One of the men pressed his pistol against the manager’s forehead.
The two demanded to know who’d stolen their “stuff’’ — a stash of nearly 500 pounds of marijuana in another unit at the business.
Riley hadn’t taken anything, he told them in a shaky voice.
But who had?
Agents with the Drug Enforcement Administration, it turns out. And the agents deliberately made the confiscation look like a burglary, according to court records.
A DARK OMEN OF THE FUTURE; WE ARE THAT FUTURE!
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Monday Afternoon Links – The Hat and The Hair: Episode 72
“Goddamn, I just love bombing motherfuckers!” the hat crowed. “Who can we bomb next, huh? Who? Iran? Some cave complex in Afghanistan? Surely somewhere in Iraq needs the business.” He was upside down in Donald’s lap, full of McDonald’s french fries and hadn’t stopped giggling since Friday night.
The hair struggled to turn the last pages of A Higher Loyalty and only grunted a reply. Donald had fallen asleep watching the satellite reconnaissance footage of the missile strikes. The hat chortled as a white line streaked into a building on the grainy green footage and the screen overloaded white from the glare. The hat cheered the same strike he had already seen a dozen times.
“Well,” the hat said, closing the book, “looks like Comey doesn’t know even the half of it.”
“The tenth of it!” the hat shot back.
“He doesn’t know about the Viagra shipments, the lampreys we sent to Elizabeth, most of the Ukraine piss hooker visits…”
“Ah, piss hookers,” the hat interrupted.
“The Provo cottage,” the hair continued, “The Ivanka dolls, the black egg escorts, Cory taking a dump on Biden’s Trans Am, the time the Deep State operatives kidnapped you, the time you tried to give Priebus an icepick lobotomy, and nothing at all indicating he knows about you and me, or USA hat or that idiot windbreaker…”
“Goddammit, that windbreaker is an idiot,” the hat interrupted again.
“Or,” the hair continued, sighing heavily in irritation, “the nine, um, Chappaquiddicks we had to clean up for Junior and Eric.”
“Man, those wacky kids just love driving off bridges,” the hat said admiringly.
“Comey’s done, he’s toast, he can’t touch us,” the hair said.
“Did you see that next to the last one right before the Sunday news shows?” the hat asked. “Boom! Headshot! And I texted it upside-down, bro!”
“Yeah, I saw it.”
“Don’t be such a Gloomy Gus. You want an french fry? They’re kind of cold, but you know… still OK.”
“Nah,” the hair said. “I always feel kind of funny when I, um, eat out of you.”
“Fine, whatever,” the hat said sullenly. “More for me.”
Joe! Joe! Joe!Joe Biden Is the Front-runner. Uh-oh.
Joe Biden, who leads the Democratic 2020 presidential field in early polls, has all the markings of a front-runner. He possesses a sterling résumé, access to a donor base, name recognition and eight years of loyal service to a president who’s loved by the party base. There’s just one problem: He’s also a deeply flawed candidate who’s out of step with the mood of his party.
Biden hasn’t announced he’s running for president, of course, but he’s made clear he’s seriously thinking about it. On Sunday, he confirmed it again on MSNBC’s PoliticsNation. The decision, he said back in February, will be based on whether it’s “right for me to do.”
But that’s the wrong question. What Biden should be asking is whether the party wants him, and not just whether he should seize his last chance.
Oh, Joe. Please run. Please. You and Donald going at it in a debate would be a spectacle for the ages. 18 debates. Let’s have at least 18 debates. And one of them has to be townhall-style at Oberlin. And the Hell’s Angels can do security.
Weibo Reverse Ban On QUILTBAG content after protest
One of China’s largest social media sites, Sina Weibo, has reversed a ban on online content “related to homosexuality” after outcry from the country’s internet users.
On Friday, Sina Weibo said that for the next three months it would be removing comics and videos “with pornographic implications, promoting bloody violence, or related to homosexuality”. The internet company said the initiative was in an effort to “create a sunny and harmonious community environment” and comply with the country’s cybersecurity laws.
In response, Weibo users posted photos with their partners, comments, and rainbow emojis, accompanied by the hashtags #iamgay and #iamgaynotapervert.
Weibo is, I guess, Chinese Facebook? Or Chinese Tumblr? Either way, I’m sure the CEO will be accused of helping rig an election in the next few years. It is becoming very fashionable to blame social media for every social ill.
UK Government Proposes Five Basic Principles to Keep Humans Safe From AI
Artificial intelligence should be developed for the common good and benefit of humanity.
OK. Sounds nice, I guess. But who will immediately break this principle? Government.
Artificial intelligence should operate on principles of intelligibility and fairness.
Unlike laws, then? Or tax codes? Or the NHS?
Artificial intelligence should not be used to diminish the data rights or privacy of individuals, families or communities.
I’m not sure how they even managed to get this one out with a straight face. This is the first thing governments will do with AI. Hell, governments trying to invade data privacy and break civilian strong crypto is probably how AI will be developed in the first place.
All citizens have the right to be educated to enable them to flourish mentally, emotionally and economically alongside artificial intelligence.
Uh, OK. I’ll just assume that means pay raises for teachers or something.
The autonomous power to hurt, destroy or deceive human beings should never be vested in artificial intelligence.
Governments want to reserve that power for themselves.
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The Hat and The Hair: Episode 71
“You really need to stop reading that, you know,” the hair said calmly. “It’s just going to get you upset.”
“Fuck that, fuck you, fuck Comey and fuck everything!” the hat screeched.
“Well, at least Chris Cillizza doesn’t like it. He said much of it was such petty and mean.”
“Chris Cillizza? CHRIS FUCKFACE CILLIZZA?!?” The hat shook with rage and he and his advance copy of A Higher Loyalty fell off the desk.
The hair peered over the side. The hat was still shaking and the book had opened as it fell and embraced him like a lover. “Are you OK?”
“Do I look FUCKING OK?!?”
Donald stormed in, bald and red-faced, the USA hat jammed on his head sideways. “Well, hey there fellas!” it said in a thick drawl.
“Can this day get worse?” the hair muttered.
Sarah waddled in after Donald, a large piece of pie in each hand. Her face was already smeared with sticky-sweet red goo.“Can’t we keep this from being published? Can I sue him? I have fantastic lawyers. The best lawyers. I want to sue him,” Donald said. He was in a filthy bathrobe that flapped open as he paced the Oval Office.
“I don’t think so, Mr. President,” Sarah said thickly, pie crust spraying out.
“A tariff then. A tariff. Tariffs work great. Look at China. Tariffs have them completely cowed. Cowed? Is that the right word? Cowed? It sounds weird as I keep saying it. Cowed. Cowed. Cowed.”
“Uh, I, uh, I don’t think you can put a, uh, tariff on a book published in the US.”
“Why not?” Donald demanded.
“I’ll have to get back to you on that,” Sarah said and took a huge bite of pie.
“Well, I’m asking you right now,” Donald said.
“You’re gonna,” Sarah paused to swallow, “Have to ask the President about that directly.”
“I AM THE PRESIDENT!” Donald roared. The hat and hair snickered. The USA hat guffawed.
“Sir?” Sarah asked. A goo-slathered cherry fell from one of her pieces of pie and hit the Presidential Seal.
“DIBS!” the hat yelled out.
“What about bombing? Can we just bomb the publisher? They won’t even see it coming… or will they?” Donald leaned on his desk casually and the hair yelped under him.
“I don’t think so, sir,” Sarah said miserably.
“We have time. We won’t need all our bombs for Syria, right? Like we can spare two or three, right?”
“You’ll have to ask General Mattis about that,” she said.
“Mattis. That all anybody says.” His voice went up into a falsetto. “‘Don’t tweet military plans; Mattis wouldn’t like it. Don’t taunt Rocket Man; Mattis wouldn’t like it. Don’t put pics of the Defense Center Codebooks on Instagram for Vlad; Mattis wouldn’t like it.’ I’m so fucking sick of that old fart. What is the use of advisors that won’t tell you to do whatever you want?”
“I don’t know, sir” Sarah mumbled around a mouthful of pie.
“What’s with this?” Donald asked, waving his hands. “What’s with the pie?”
“Sir?” she asked again, cocking her head like a dog.
“The pie. The pie. The pie that you are eating!” Donald pointed the piece of pie in each of her hands.
“I get low blood sugar in the afternoons,” Sarah replied.
“Is your blood sugar low now?” Donald asked sardonically.
“I get low blood sugar in the afternoons,” Sarah said robotically.
“The pie. It’s disgusting. It’s like a cheap set-up for a fat girl joke,” Donald said. “Get rid of it.”
“I wear a size 12,” Sarah said, almost in a whisper. “Size 12 is the average dress size for an American woman.”
“I wouldn’t even watch you piss on a motel bed,” Donald said, sneering.
“Sir?”The hat coughed theatrically from the floor.
“Not that Melania thinks there is even a 1% chance I’d ever do that,” Donald said rapidly.
“Size 12 is the average dress size for an American woman,” Sarah said again. Tears were streaming down her face, raccooning her eye make-up, mixing dark rivulets into the red on her face.
“Ah like a girl with a little meat on ‘er bones,” the USA hat said.
Sarah broke and ran from the Oval Office, sobbing, her pie-filled hands bobbing up and down.
“Jesus, Donald,” the hair said.
“Thank fucking God,” the hat said. “It was really starting to stink like fat bitch in here.”
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Wednesday Afternoon Links – The Hat and The Hair: Episode 70
“‘Gas Killing Animal?’” the hair asked. “Will everyone know that’s Assad?”
“Of course they will,” the hat replied. “He’s an Animal that Killed his own people with Gas. I think that’s very clear. Learn to read for context, dipshit.”
“OK, but why put ‘smart’ in quotes? When you put something in quotes you are implying the opposite, i.e. that the weapons are dumb.”
“I.e? I fucking E? You talk like such a fag.”
“Oh, fuck you.”
“Look,” the hat said, pushing the hair away, “I’m the one tweeting here, so you fuck off.”
“Wait, wait,” Donald interrupted from the couch.
“Yes, Donald? You have something to add?” the hat asked.
“Like, what’s it called when you fart in bed, you know, when someone else in the bed and you fart?”
“That’s a Hot Carl,” the hat said.
“No, it’s not. That’s a Dutch Oven,” the hair replied.
“Then what’s a Hot Carl?” the hat asked.
“That’s pooping on a girl’s chest,” Donald replied.
“No, that’s a Cleveland Steamer,” the hair said.
“Then what’s a Hot Carl?” the hat asked again.
“That’s putting Saran Wrap over a girl’s face and then pooping on it,” the hair replied.
“Is that right?” Donald asked, confused.
“Holy fuck, just look it up on Urban Dictionary,” the hair said.
“Hold on, one second,” the hat said, furiously typing on Donald’s phone.
“Who writes on this Urban Dictionary? Just black people?” Donald asked.
“No, anybody can write in. It’s just a slang dictionary,” the hair replied.
The hat cackled loudly and there was the noise of another tweet being sent.
“What did you do?” the hair asked.
“Fuck ‘em,” the hat said. “Just let them try and figure that one out.”
“So what is it when you fart in bed?” Donald asked. “Do black people know? Did they put it in their dictionary?”
“That’s a Dutch Oven,” the hair insisted.
“Do black people fart in bed a lot?” Donald wondered.
“Everyone farts in bed,” the hat said. “It’s a universal constant, like the speed of light in a vacuum or Ethan Hawke’s terrible hair.”
“The Urban Dictionary is for everyone, Donald,” the hair said.
“Who is Ethan Hawke?” Donald asked.
“He’s so rich he looks homeless!” the hat said.
“He’s a very dated cultural reference,” the hair said. The hat growled in response.
“So you fart in bed and that’s a Dutch Oven,” Donald said. “What is it when you hold your Meliana under the covers and fart?”
“That’s also a Dutch Oven,” the hair said.
“Or, if you are in England, a Cotswold Bumbershoot,” the hat said. He sent another tweet.
“What is it when you hold your Melania under the covers and fart but instead a lot of poop comes out?” Donald asked.
“Are you feeling, OK, Donald?” the hair asked gently.
“Like, a lot of poop,” Donald continued.
The hat paused briefly and said, “Donald, that’s called a New Jersey Casserole.”
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The Hat and The Hair – Animation (Episode 1 – “Mirror”)
CPRM has done it….and you will laugh. What is “it” you ask? We at Glibs proudly present CPRM’s animated version of SugarFree’s The Hat and The Hair.
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The Hat and The Hair: Episode 69
“BOLTON! BOLTON! BOLTON!” the hat chanted. “We’re bringing the glory years of George the 2nd back, baby!”
The hair lay motionless on the desk in the Oval Office, not a single strand reacting. The hat had been raving at it for a solid hour.
“We’ve got to be tough, dammit,” the hat continued. “Real politics. The nattering nabobs of negativity have to be torn out by the root!”
“There was nothing wrong with McMasters,” the hair said in a hoarse whisper.
“There was everything wrong with McMasters,” Donald grumbled from the filthy couch. “He was the National Security ADVISER. ADVISER. What’s the use of being ADVISED by someone who never agrees with you? Nothing, I tell you. No use. Useless.”
“Donald…” the hair began.
“And he was bald,” Donald said diversely. “Can’t trust a bald guy. A bald guy’s got no hair, fer Chrissakes!”
“Donald…” the hair tried again.
“Oh, shut up, you whiny slut,” the hat told him.
“How can you trust someone with no hair?” Donald asked. “They are naked when God is looking down on them. Disrespectful, if you ask me.”
“But did it have to be Bolton? The bow ties, the eyebrows, that fucking mustache?” the hair asked plaintively.
“Yes,” the hat hissed, “It had to be Bolton. We want the world to take us seriously, don’t we? And there’s only so many hours in the day I can tweet, right?”
Donald pulled his knees toward his chest and farted like an angry bugle.
“Besides, with Hope gone,” the hat said, ”We have to up the hotness quotient around here and Bolton is one sexy motherfucker.”
The hair, with no nose or sinus passages, managed to snort loudly.
“Laugh all you want, you keratinous cretin, you cowlick cunt, but a lot of women really go for the Bloodthirsty Wilford Brimley. There’s not a woman alive that wouldn’t want to peel those eyebrows off and rub them on their nipples!”
“I always wanted a mustache,” Donald said wistfully.
“We’ll get you one, Donald,” the hat told him. “And he won’t be a yellow-pinko Commie peacenik bastard like your hair.”
“You motherfucker!” the hair yelled and raised into the threat display of a Funnel-web spider.
“Bring it! Bring it!” the hat screeched.
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Thursday Afternoon Links – The Hat and The Hair: Episode 68
“Joe Biden? I’ll fucking fight Joe Biden!” Donald screamed into his phone.
“Oh, Christ,” his hair said.
“Lighten up,” his hat said.
“You set it up, Sean,” Donald said. “You set it up. I want it on prime time, Sean. I will beat that gropey old fuck to death! To death!”
There was a muted whoosh as the hat sent a message out on Twitter.
“Uh,” the hair said.
“Shut up,” the hat said, “I’m being intimidating. Biden will be so intimidated he won’t even show up for the fight.”
“FOR-FEIT!” Donald said into the phone. “Biden’ll forfeit, Sean. He won’t even show up for the fight.”
“Can you hear what Sean is saying?” the hat asked.
“Barely,” the hair replied. “It’s not a very good connection.”
“I need to know what he’s going to say about the fight on his show,” the hat said.
“OK, then shut up and let me listen,” the hair snapped.
“No, no, no. Sean, no. No, Sean. Listen to me. LISTEN. TO. ME. The fight is going to happen no matter what,” Donald said, “I’m just giving you guys the opportunity to air it. In prime time. Yes, prime time. 8pm, Sean. Right after Wheel of Fortune.”
“Sean doesn’t think he can get the network to pay for it,” the hair whispered.
“They’d be idiots not to,” the hat whispered back.
“He saying that if Donald wins the network would be accused of rigging the fight,” the hair whispered.
“Of course we’re going to rig the fight,” the hat said indignantly. “I’m not letting our Donald go out there and get beat up by goofy-ass Joe Biden!”
“Yes, Sean,” Donald said. “Yes. You have to pay for the ring and the venue. I can’t pay for it. It can’t be done. It just can’t. What? I don’t know. Get CNN to go in on it with you. Cost-sharing or whatever. Peddle your ass like you did for rent money in college; I don’t fucking care.”
The hat and the hair shook with laughter.
“And I want sexy ring girls. Sexy. Not those wrung-out hags you call news girls. I want 10s or higher out there shaking their ass. White girls too. I ain’t having it look like a ghetto strip club,” Donald said. He reached up and adjusted the hat and the hair and the hair hung on grimly.
“Bow-chicka-wow-wow,” the hat sang quietly.
“Are you over Hope leaving already?” the hair asked maliciously.
“There’s always going to be gash coming in and going out of this place. I might as well get used to it,” the hat replied.
“Would you two be quiet?” Donald asked angrily.
“Sorry, Donald,” the hair said.
“Fuck off, Donald,” the hat said.
“Just finalize the plans. We can have it in New York City before the Park Slope dykes finally ruin it. Make it happen. I want Biden in that ring. I want McCabe working his corner. I wanna see Hillary drinking out of his spit bucket.” Donald slammed the phone down and pressed his Diet Coke button impatiently.
“I think that went well, Donald,” the hat said.
“Cheeseburgers,” Donald replied. “I need lots of cheeseburgers. I need to bulk up for the fight.”
