Category: Hat and Hair

‘Well, he is a sleeping son of bitch,” the hat bellowed into the speakerphone. His Donald impression was perfect.

“Sleepy,” the hair whispered. “Sleepy son of a bitch.”

“I know what I had him say,” the hat whispered back angrily.

“Sleeping?” Sean asked over the phone.

“Yeah, sleeping” the hat continued in Donald’s voice. “He’s never awake. The sleepingness son of a bitch you’ve ever met. Chuck Todd might as well be in a coma. Never awake. Never.”

“Not even when he’s reporting on live television, Mr. President?” Sean asked incredulously.

“Especially not then,” the hat said. “He’s a sleeptalking super-partisan. Totally NBC creature. They breed them in secret labs. Sleep their whole life.”

The hair shook with silent laughter.

“I’m, uh, I’m going to need some independent confirmation on this, uh, information,” Sean stammered.

“Fuck you, Sean. Report what we tell you or I’ll have your faggot husband raped!” the hat roared.

‘Yes, Mr. President,” Sean said sulkily.

“Happier, Sean. Be happier, fucknuts. I guess you wanted Hillary to be President, didn’t you?”

“No, Mr. President. Never.” Sean said in a voice hollow with shock.

“Yeah, you wanted her tentacles all up in you, right? Finding every little crevice of pleasure, right?” the hat yelled.

The hair was waving his tendrils to get the hat to stop. His Donald impression had slipped badly.

“Bigly. Huge,” the hat said. “The greatest country ever. Super classy, Sean. Super classy.”

Sean sobbed for a few seconds and then calmed down enough to continue. “And this death penalty for drug dealers, Mr. President… any particular way you want this spun?”

“Spun? What’s to spin? Drug dealers get put to death. It’s working in the Philippines and it will work here. It’s not the 80s, Sean. I can’t snort cocaine out a hooker’s vulva any longer and neither should anyone else. I don’t drink, either. Get rid of all the booze. I don’t care. Ban booze, Chinese steel and fat hookers.”

“Should I really mention prostitutes, Mr. President, what with the Stormy…”

“NEVER SAY THAT NAME TO ME!” the hat yelled. “NEVER, SEAN. That, that…”

“Balloon-tit slut canal,” the hair whispered.

“That balloon canal is a liar! I paid her to keep to keep quiet and she didn’t! Obviously, nothing she says can be believed,” the hat said rapidly into the phone.

“Yes, Mr. President,” Sean said quietly.

“You got all that, Sean. Huh?”

“Sleeping son of a bitch, death to drug dealers and no mention of balloon canals. Will do, Mr. President.”

“That’s a good boy,” the hat said and hung up before he and the hair burst into laughter.

“‘That’s a good boy,’” the hair said. “Holy shit, I almost totally lost it.”

“Hold on, watch this,” the hat said. He used the edge of his bill to make another call. A woman said, “Yes, Mr. President?”

“I want you to send Sean Hannity a pound of dog treats. Fancy dog treats. Like the fanciest treats money can buy. I want them delivered today.”

“Any note Mr. President?” the assistant asked. The hat eyed the sleeping bulk of Donald on the couch.

“Have it say ‘Who’s a good boy?’” the hat said and they both convulsed with laughter again.

“I want doubles,” Donald said. “Rocketman has doubles, Vlad has doubles. I want lookalikes so I can get out of here once in a while.”

“What are you talking about?” the hat asked. He was lying on a chair, warming himself in a slice of harsh winter sunlight. “We go down to Florida all the time.”

“I just want to be alone sometimes,” Donald said. “And I want bidets in every bathroom. Every bathroom. For resale value. I’ll never get my money out of this place when we sell it unless I do some classy upgrades.” He picked at the raised edge of Oval Office wallpaper and ripped it. He tried to smooth it back in place.

“This place is a shithole, Donald,” the hat said sleepily. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Donald, can I get out of the trash now? Please?” the hair asked.

“No!” Donald and the hat both snapped.

“You stay in there until you learn!” the hat said and giggled.

“The Irish made fun of me,” Donald whined.

“Of course they made fun of you,” the hat told him. “You were let down. Betrayed by a close aide and confidante.”

“Oh, goddamn you,” the hair said.

“Some might even call it ‘treason,’ Donald.” the hat said, suppressing a malicious laugh.

“I want Donny Doubles,” Donald said.

“Maybe you could talk to McDonald’s about a promotion,” the hair said.

“Quiet, you,’ the hat said.

“No, I want Donny Doubles!’ Donald whined. “I don’t like it here. No one’s nice to me and there are no bidets or Ukrainian piss hookers and Ivanka wears all her clothes all the time. It’s horrible.”

“Donald,” the hat began.

“It’s horrible,” Donald repeated in a small, miserable voice. “I want to go home. I never wanted to be President.”

“Well, you are President and you’re not going anywhere, so suck it up, buttercup,” the hat said.

“You said it would be fun,” Donald pouted.

“It is fun, goddamnit. Aren’t you having fun? I’m having fun,” the hat said.

“Oh, yeah, this is fucking grand,” the hair said from the trash can.

“Put something over the trash can, like a lid. A clipboard maybe,” the hat said.

“Oh, fuck you,” the hair yelled. There was a loud clatter of empty Diet Coke cans as it tried once more to climb out of the trash can.

“I bet Hope would like a bidet,” Donald said morosely.

“Yup,” the hat said. “She could always be cleaner. They all could, really. And she’s mad at you anyway.”

“You said I had to do, that I had to fire him,” Donald said.

“The Twitter mob was after him; we had to give them a sacrifice,” the hat said.

“He had to go anyway. He beat up his ex-wives,” the hair said.

“Allegedly,” the hat interjected.

“There were photos,” the hair said.

“Alleged photos. Fake photos, probably. They can do anything with Photoshop these days,” the hat said and yawned loudly.

“But Hope is so mad at me,” Donald whined.

“Whatever. They were probably nags. Nags deserve it,” the hat argued. “Nag, nag, nag for like a week then they get popped in the mouth and they act like the guy just punched her for no reason. Just a game they play.”

“What if he was hitting Hope?” the hair asked.

“Hope’s too pretty to hit. I mean did you see those other two? Woof,” the hat said. “Nobody would hit Hope, at least not, you know, in the face.”

“Hope is really pretty,” Donald said dreamily.

“A bit pale, maybe,” the hair said. “She kinda looks like a Sephora vampire in some photos.”

“Shut up, fag. What do you know? Go suck on Elizabeth Warren’s peace pipe,” the hat snapped.

“Fake news,” Donald said. “Fake news, fake news, fake news. It’s all fake. Put that on Twitter.”

“OK, Donald,” the hat said.

“Now,” he said. “It needs to go up now!”

“OK, Donald. Calm down.”

“He’s allegedly calm,” the hair said.

“Queef-eating, fart-fucker!” the hat screamed. “I’ll kill you! I’ll kill all of you!”

“A Japanese bidet,” Donald said and crawled back into his blanket fort.

 

“The State of our Union is STRONG!” Donald said into his bedroom mirror.

“OK,” the hat said, “but make sure to wait for the applause to die down.”

“There isn’t any applause,” Donald whispered loudly.

“There will be,” his hair said.

“Well, I don’t hear any,” Donald replied. He began to scratch under his left armpit and dropped a stack of index cards.

“There will be applause, Donald,” the hat assured him. “So much applause. Bigly applause, not the thin applause of a loser. Winner applause.”

“Winter applause?” Donald asked. “If it’s cold, I’ll need a coat.”

“Winner,” the hat said. “Winner. W-I-N-N-E-R.”

“Pick up your index cards, Donald,” the hair instructed. His perspective shifted as the old man’s bovine body bent at his thick middle and he groped for the fallen cards. The hair struggled not to vomit up his dinner of Rogaine and scrunchies. Donald farted thunderously to add to the dank miasma of the White House bedroom.

“Put the cards back in order, Donald,” the hat said.

“They are numbered up in the corner,” the hair added helpfully.

“The state of our union is strong,” Donald mumbled as he struggled to put the cards in order.

“This is going to be a disaster,” the hair muttered. “I can feel it in my bones. My hair bones.”

“It will be fine. We’ve got all the Senators bribed or blackmailed or frightened into clapping. And the Congress is just a bunch of idiot puppies. They’ll yap on cue.”

“I want my Ukrainian piss hookers!” Donald screamed.

“Yeah, this will go well,” the hair said. “Just great. So great. Tremendous.”

The hat laughed.

“Oh, fuck,” the hair moaned. “Now you’ve got me talking like him.”

“I want a sausage McGriddle,” Donald whined, backing up to sit down heavily on the bed.

“You can have one after you finish practicing the speech,” the hat said.

“But I want one now,” Donald whined. “All day breakfast. All day breakfast.”

“There’s food down in the kitchen,” the hair said.

“No, I want a McGriddle. I don’t want to be poisoned,” Donald said.

“For the last time,” the hair said, “No one is trying to poison you.”

“Mexicans,” Donald said darkly. “Mexicans in the kitchen.”

“There are no Mexicans in the kitchen, Donald,” the hair said.

“There are ALWAYS Mexicans in the kitchen,” the old man said and shuddered. “Sausage McGriddle, Large Diet Coke. And three cheeseburgers. And a six-piece of Buttermilk Crispy Chicken Tenders. Sweet and Sour sauce. And Barbeque.”

“Later, Donald, after you practice the speech,” the hair insisted.

“Buttermilk Crispy Chicken,” Donald whispered. He stood up from the bed and approached the floor length mirror. He began to slowly rub the pocked and pallid flesh of his large stomach.

“Buttermilk is good for my skin.”

His hand descended to the waistband of his stained underwear.

“Buttermilk,” he whispered.

 

 

 

And from CPRM, source of all that is good… HOUSE PAR-TAY!

 

 

And since there was some measure of confusion yesterday…