Category: SugarFree

“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.”

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.

“Here, take a bite of this,” Donald said, thrusting the Finnish Big Mac into Sarah’s face. She moved away from the dripping sandwich.

“Take a bite, Pie,” Donald insisted.

“My name is Sarah, sir,” Sarah protested.

“Take a bite. I insist,” he said.

“What’s wrong with it?” she asked.

“Wrong? Nothing’s wrong. It’s a Big Mac. It’s delicious.”

“Why is it, uh, dripping?” Sarah asked. Her stomach rumbled audibly.

“I always ask for extra-extra secret sauce. Because it makes it better. And because it’s secret.” He reached out and smushed the edge of the sandwich lightly into her face. Sarah licked her lips reflexively and gagged.

“See? I told you. Just tremendous. I made this Big Mac so much more delicious,” Donald said. “Me. I did that.”

He devoured the Big Mac in three enormous mouthfuls, except the small part that had touched Sarah. He looked at as he chewed the last giant bite and then dropped it on the floor. He turned back to rummage through the McDonald’s bag.

“Shit. The fries are cold. I can’t eat these,” he said with roiling disgust. “I bet Vlad never has to eat cold fries!” He threw the large order of cold fries at Sarah and they dotted her white dress with grease and salt where they struck.

Get up off my dick, New York Times. I am going to cut you.

In this episode of Trump Bites, Donald Trump’s not-so-secret admiration for Vladimir Putin plays out in a teenager’s bedroom, where the fantasies of this forbidden romance come to life. https://t.co/cWeQMuzWUz pic.twitter.com/4shBRkloot

— New York Times Opinion (@nytopinion) July 16, 2018

NYT gay-bashing freak out in the replies. Which I don’t get. Can’t two virile world leaders be in love without it being coded as gay? Platonic bromance, fam.

Tim Tebow Dating Alleged Woman

Tim Tebow has confirmed he is dating Miss Universe Demi-Leigh Nel-Peters.

The 30-year-old football star, who has made a vow to stay chaste until marriage, gushed about the 23-year-old pageant queen to ESPN.

The former NFL quarterback, who famously switched from football to baseball, told the outlet on Sunday: ‘She is a really special girl and I am very lucky and blessed for her coming into my life.’

Imagine a world where everyone was judged solely on the opinion of the exes. Do you think the cat ladies of Jezebel really want to live in it?

Yvette Nicole Brown Will Fill In for Chris Hardwick on Talking Dead Following Abuse Allegations

Last month, actor Chloe Dykstra posted a lengthy, harrowing essay on Medium detailing extensive sexual and emotional abuses she says she faced during a three-year relationship with “a mildly successful podcaster to a powerhouse CEO of his own company.” It didn’t take long for readers to realize she was accusing Nerdist founder and AMC’s Talking Dead host Chris Hardwick, and it didn’t take long for noted dumbass Adam Carolla to come to his defense.) AMC is currently investigating the accusations, and because of that, Hardwick will be replaced, temporarily, on Talking Dead by Yvette Nicole Brown (Community, Drake & Josh).

And to show you I am not just being biased, here are pictures of my cats:

Turtle man is really just a big ol’ dog…

Scientist Loses Distinguished Award After Acceptance Presentation Full of Racy Photos

The Herpetologists’ League rescinded its annual Distinguished Herpetologist award after winner Dick Vogt showed racy photos during his acceptance address.

The Rochester Democrat and Chronicle reports:

According to several attendees, Vogt, a longtime researcher of Brazilian turtles, showed several pictures of “scantily clad female students” doing field research. The photographs were risqué enough that conference organizers added blue boxes to cover parts of the women’s bodies.

Henry Mushinsky, committee chairman of the Joint Meeting of Ichthyologists and Herpetologists, told the Democrat and Chronicle that the conference did not have a code of conduct. He said that students doing fieldwork near water often wear bathing suits, but that these photos were “not just typical documentary photos,” the Democrat and Chronicle wrote. Several attendees tweeted that they walked out of the talk. The Herpetologists League offered a statement to conference attendees condemning Vogt’s behavior.

With bonus “asking to see the pics is being childish” action in the comments.

Trump’s Europe trip: Where he’s going on his 7-day visit with NATO allies and Putin

“I hate Europe,” Donald moaned as his limo inched its way through a throng of people cheerily ringing the bells on their twee bicycles. “I hate it, I hate the people, I hate the food, I hate how hard it is to find a simple damn Diet Coke.”

“There are four cases in the trunk, Donald,” the hair reminded him, “and twelve more on the plane.”

“What good are Diet Cokes in the trunk?” he asked, taking a drink of the Diet Coke in his hand.

“You can find some kinky-ass shit to do in Belgium,” the hat said.

“I hate Belgia,” Donald whispered.

“Back in, what, it must have been 1964, me and some friends ended up at this club in Antwerp, real underground place, and it was a live sex show. Freaky, man, real freaky.” the hat said and sighed.

“Freaky?” Donald asked.

“You have friends?” the hair asked.

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” the hat told the hair. “Real freaky, Donald. Bitches dressed up like antique furniture. Two dudes just pounding away on an escritoire, a guy spinning a Louis XIV armchair on his dick, DVDA on a breakaway chifferobe. Crazy stuff.”

“Really?” Donald asked. “Wow.”

“They came out into the audience, dude,” the hat said excitedly, “like The Lion King.”

“This is bullshit,” the hair declared.

“Like The Lion King?” Donald asked excitedly.

“Bulllllllllshit,” the hair sang.

“Yeah, man,” the hat continued. “A skinny chick dressed like a whale-oil lamp queefed right in my buddy’s face.”

“Whoa,” Donald said.

“Bullshit, bullshit, bulllllllshit,” the hair sang again.

“I am going to kick your ass, fucker,” the hat said.
The hair drew itself into a tight bun on Donald’s head and hissed.

“Queef,” Donald mumbled and smiled. He drained the last of his Diet Coke and slurped noisily at the bottom of his glass with his straw while rattling the ice.

“And who,” the hair asked in a tight, high voice, “Was this friend of yours who got…” The hair paused, “‘Queefed’ on?”

“Norman Mailer,” the hat said crisply.

“Norman Mailer?!?” the hair asked incredulously.

“Norman Mailer,” the hat replied.

“Norman Mailer. The author of The Naked and the Dead?”

“Well, I called him ‘Norm,” but yeah.”

“The Executioner’s Song? The Armies of the Night?!? That Norman Mailer?”

“Yup, she queefed right in his face,” the hat said.

“Dammit,” Donald said. “Why won’t the window roll down?” He smacked the panel on the door.

“Security,” the hair said.

“I want to roll the window down,” Donald said, still fiddling with the buttons.

“Man, you should have seen the look on his face,” the hat said, still lost in reminiscence.

“Why do you want to roll the window down?” the hair asked.

“Never mind,” Donald said, sulking.

“You were going to yell ‘queef’ out the window, weren’t you?” the hat asked.

“Yeah,” Donald said. He settled back into the rich leather of the limo and sucked his teeth loudly.

Trump Interviews 4 Supreme Court Prospects in Rush to Name Replacement

“OK, OK,” Donald said, “Let’s get started.” He waved his guests to the seven chairs lined up in front of the Oval Office desk.

“Brett, you take that first chair, and then Amy, then Raymond–I’m gonna call you Ray-Ray!–, then Ameel…”

“Amul, Mr. President,” Amul said.

“A mule?” Donald asked.

“Amul, sir,” Amul said again.

“OK, OK, sure. You just sit there, Apu,” Donald said. “THERE,” he repeated, pointing at the chair. “CHAIR,” he said, patting the seat of it until Amul moved to sit down.

“Mr. President…” Amul began.

“Please save your questions until the end of the ride,” Donald said.

The four nominees sat on the small chairs, looking uncomfortable and a little frightened.

“OK, OK,” Donald said, slapping his hands together loudly and rubbing them, “Let’s get started.” He pulled MAGA Prime from his suit jacket pocket and put him on Brett before the man could pull away.

“Sir?” Brett said, reaching up to touch the hat.

“No, no, leave it on,” Donald said. He watched the hat intently.

“Hufflepuff,” the hat intoned.

“Oh, my fucking God,” the hair said. “Will you please take this seriously?”

“Hufflepuff?” Donald asked.

“Hufflepuff?” Brett replied.

“Be serious, I need these questions answered,” Donald admonished the hat.

“Sir, are, you, uh, talking to me?” Brett asked.

“I don’t even need to be put on the others,” the hat said solemnly. “They are all Hufflepuff. Totes gay.”

The hair sighed.

“Super, super gay. So gay,” the hat said.

“Brett,” Donald said, ignoring the hat, “What I want to know is: Can I invade Venezuela?”

“Sir?”

“Venezuela, Brett. It’s a country. South of here, I hear. Fulla commies. Big, yuge commies. Can I invade it?”

“Well, sir, as you know The War Powers Act gives the President latitude during military crises.”

“Not the military, Brett. Me. Me. Can I invade Venezuela? Like, do you think I could take them?”

“Mr. President?”

Donald made a loud buzzing noise. “ENH! Too late, Brett. Decisiveness, Brett. That’s what I want in a Supreme Court judge. You should know the answer before the question is even asked.”

The hat chuckled as Donald snatched him off of Brett’s head.

“Here, Amy,” Donald said, handing her the hat. “Put him on.”

“Him, sir?” Amy asked, looking dubiously at the worn and filthy hat.

“It. Whatever. The hat. Put on the hat.”

“I’M ALL MAN!” the hat roared.

“Quiet!” the hair hissed.

Amy perched the hat on her head gingerly. Donald grabbed the bill and pulled it down on her head, crushing her hair. He leaned in toward Amy.

“You put it all the way on, Amy,” he said and took a slow, deep sniff of her neck. His shaking hands strayed toward her breasts, but the hair pinched his ear and Donald turned away before he could cup them.

The hat purred.

Donald spun on his heel when he was a few feet away and pointed at Amy: “Kim Jong-Un… HOT OR NOT?!?”

“Not!” Amy said in a startled voice.

“Disappointing,” Donald said. “Fast, but disappointing.” He held out his hand and Amy gave MAGA Prime back to him.

“Ray-Ray! My man,” Donald said. Raymond took the hat eagerly and put it on.

“I’m ready, Mr. President,” he said.

Donald let his face go very serious and asked, “What do you think about LeBron moving to the Lakers?”

“I think the Lakers are an excellent team,” Raymond said immediately. “And I think LA is a great city…”

Donald leaned forward and narrowed his eyes.

“But,” Raymond said carefully, “LeBron should have gone to the Knicks.”

A wide-smiled broke on Donald’s face.

“GO KNICKS!” Raymond said loudly.

“You’re OK, Ray-Ray. Just great. Tremendous,” Donald said. Raymond took off MAGA Prime and handed him back.

“OK, Habib,” Donald said, “It’s your turn.”

“Amul,” Amul said.

“OK, sure,” Donald said, holding out the hat.

Amul took the hat and looked at it for a moment. The hat growled.

“Shush,” the hair said.

Amul scraped a fingernail over one of the many stains on the hat and looked up at Donald.

Donald said, “I guess you can just hold it.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” Amul replied, a deep frown on his face.

“Detained immigrant children!” Donald yelled.

“The issue is very complex…” Amul began.

“HOT OR NOT?!?!” Donald asked.

“Uh, I, uh, sir, I… Not. Definitely not.”

“Kind of slow there, Alan. Something you want to tell us?” Donald asked.

“Amul, sir.”

“I’m not hearing a denial…” the hat said in a sing-song voice. Amul dropped the hat in shock and stared at it on the floor with growing horror.

“I think I heard…” Amul said.

“Donald!” the hair said.

“I, uh, throw my voice,” Donald said. Amul looked from the hat to Donald and back again.

“I’m really good at it,“ Donald continued. “Great, in fact. The best. I’m the best ventriloquist ever.” He bent awkwardly and picked the hat up off the carpet.

“Hey, hat,” Donald said, perching MAGA Prime on his fist.

“Hey, Donald,” Donald said out of the side of his mouth in a strained, high voice.

“Help him,” the hair whispered to the hat.

“So, uh, how you doing hat?” Donald asked.

The hat said nothing.

“Goddammit,” the hair muttered.

“I’m great, Donald,” Donald said, bouncing the hat up and down. “I love helping you run the country!” He twisted his wrist to make the hat look at the Supreme Court hopefuls.

A very, very long minute passed.

“Make America Great Again!” Donald squawked out of the side of his mouth.

Trump narrows Supreme Court short list, top 3 contenders emerge

Sarah Sanders, Raj Shah planning to depart the White House

“Sarah might be leaving!” the hair said, reading off an iPad bolted to the wall. He was perched on the back of the Presidential Shitter, right under the sign that said “Presidential Shitter: Presidents ONLY!” The cold surface of the gold felt good on his intimate undercarriage after the swamp heat of the D.C. summer.

“Who?” Donald asked. He was lounging in the Presidential Hydrotherapy Tub, a Korean spa mask over his face.

“Your White House Press Secretary,” the hair said.

“What? My what?” Donald asked.

The hat was bathing in the Presidential Sink, rubbing himself with a bar of Presidential Soap and humming “Camptown Races” softly.

“The woman we send out to talk to the media, Donald,” the hair said. “The big one. The one that could stand to learn to lie better?”

“I don’t know who you are talking about,” Donald said dismissively. He began to rub his nipples and moan.

“What are you doing, Donald?” the hair asked carefully.

“I am moisturizing my nipples,” he said. He rolled in the tub, his ponderous weight creating waves that slopped water out onto the Presidential Bathroom floor.

“Proper nipple moisturization is key to nipple health and longevity,” the hat said.

“And is very important for a youthful nipple appearance,” Donald added.

“Are you telling me that you don’t properly moisturize your nipples?” the hat asked with feigned incredulity. “What are you, poor or something?”

“I don’t have nipples,” the hair said, “And neither do you.”

“But unlike you, I would take care of them if I did,” the hat said. He hit the Presidential Hot Water Knob with his bill and began to rinse himself.

“I…” the hair began.

“Take care of your nipples,” Donald said dreamily, still rubbing his nipples in ever-slowing circles. “They might just be the only nipples you’ll ever have.”

“Donald…” the hair started.

“I love it in here,” Donald said. “So warm and inviting. This is my favorite place in this dump.”

“It sure cost enough,” the hair muttered.

Ignoring him, Donald asked, “How long am I supposed to leave this thing on?”

“Beats the turds outta me,” the hat replied. “The whole package was in Korean.”

Donald grunted and leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

“But what about Sarah?” the hair asked.

“Who?” Donald asked again, the slit in the mask over his mouth tightening.

“Pie,” the hat said, turning the water off. “He’s talking about Pie. Pie is going to quit.”

“What?” Donald asked. “Why? Why would Pie leave? She’s always been given plenty to eat.”

“Yeah she has…” the hat said lewdly.

“It’s a tough job, Donald,” the hair said. “It’s hard to go out there and be hated by almost everyone.”

“Who hates Pie?” Donald asked. “Everyone loves pie. Pie is delicious. Pie is better than cake. Cake is fake news.”

“The cake is a lie?” the hair asked.

“Shut up, 2008,” the hat snapped.

“This mask is getting sort of itchy,” Donald said.

“We should bring back Hope,” the hat said, dragging himself across a Presidential Hand Towel. The hand towels were stacked under a sign that said, “PLEASE DO NOT FLUSH DOWN TOILET.”

“Yes!” Donald groaned loudly. He stretched out in the Presidential Hydrotherapy Tub.

“Hope Hicks,” the hat said, lost in a memory. “Now there’s a girl that looks good all covered in blood.”

Trump-Kim summit: Deciphering what happened in Singapore

Saturday, Canada, Air Force One

“There’s nothing to be nervous about, Donald,” the hat said from his suit pocket. “The meeting with Kim will be tremendous.”

“I’m not nervous. How dare you suggest I’m nervous. I am never nervous. I am cool. Collected. Calm. Other words that start with ’c.’ Be quiet or I’ll put you in the baggage hold,” Donald savagely whispered.

The hair massaged Donald’s temples gently. “Do it. Put him in the baggage hold,” he said, the words resonating in Donald’s skull like the far-off explosion.

“Both of you need to shut up,” Donald said as he mounted the moving stairs. He paused at the top a waved back to the G7 protesters that followed him from the summit. They booed.

“Justin fans,” the hat sniffed. “What it is with Canada and faggots named Justin?”

The Secret Service inside the cockpit door nodded as they walked onto the plane. “Skyscraper is on the plane,” he said into his wrist. “He has Wig One and MAGA Prime. Wheels up in twenty.”

“WIG ONE?” the hair screeched. “I’m not a fucking WIG!”

The hat chuckled darkly.

Friday Night, Pyongyang, North Korea

Un surveyed the dark skyline of his capital city from his Presidential suite. He was waiting for his barber to climb the twenty floors to his rooms. The elevator was broken again. The mules just kept dying.

“Are you worried about meeting him?” his trilby asked.

“Of course, not. He has played right into my hands,” Un replied. He lifted his pudgy hands in the gloom and squeezed them together painfully.

“This is what I am going to meet him in,” Un said and twirled before his hat, the awkward coat-dress straining to hold back his stomach.

“Very regal,” the hat said.

“And it doesn’t make me look fat?” Un asked, twisting to show the trilby his fattened ass. He was wearing three pairs of Spanx smuggled in through his contacts in the Japanese government.

“Not at all. You look trim. Athletic. The very picture of a modern Asian man,” the hat said.

Un clapped his hands together and squealed with delight.

“And the dreams?” the hat asked. “Are you still having the dreams?”

A crease formed between Un’s brows and his expression darkened, like a toddler thwarted.

“Un?” the hat prodded. “The dreams?”

Un blushed and brushed his hand over his erection.

“The dreams don’t matter.”

Saturday, Pacific Ocean, Air Force One

“They’re saying we snubbed Justin,” the hair said, flipping through the news channels.

“I’d like to snub him in the taint,” the hat said. “I’d like to grow legs, grow feet, huge feet, put on a pair of huge boots and snub him right in the taint until his taint faints.”

“He’s a smug little bastard, all right,” the hair said. “Let’s tell Sean to run another story about him being gay.”

“I’ll call him right now.”

“What time is it there?” the hair asked.

“Who gives a fuck. We call and that little shit answers or we release the photos.”

Donald snored loudly in the chair behind them. He choked and stopped breathing and woke up enough to mumble, “Kim is also a girl’s name,” and smiled to himself.

Saturday Night, or Sunday Morning, or maybe Monday, Singapore

Rumpled and gassy, Donald was wrestled into a new suit while Air Force One sat on the tarmac and pushed through the door into the humid Singapore night.

“What fucking time is it?” the hair asked, barely holding on to Donald’s head.

“Beats the fuck outta of me,” the hat muttered.

“I’m hungry. Does this shithole country even have McDonald’s? Why is so dark? I need an ocean of Diet Coke,” Donald grumbled. The protocol droid prodded him toward the delegation there to meet him.

“Yes, hello, hello,” Donald said, thoroughly bored. He shook hands with one tiny person after another.

“Yes, historic meeting, honored to be here, lovely country, I guess, it is the middle of the night after all, blah, blah.’ He grinned toothily and stumbled into his limo.

“I need to go back to sleep,” Donald said. He pulled out his phone and started scrolling through Twitter.

“Fucking Jimmy Fallon,” Donald said. He lifted a leg and farted lustily. He pulled MAGA Prime from his suit coat and tossed him on the seat beside him.

“Jesus Fucking Christ, Donald,” the hat groused. “It’s like your ass is where eggs go to die.”

“Thank God I’m up here,” the hat said.

“Shut up. I’m the President of the United States and I fart wherever and whenever I feel like it. It’s in the goddamn Constitution.”

“Uh,” the hair said.

“I said to shut it, mister,” Donald said. “Where the hell are we? I thought we were flying to Singapore.”

“This is Singapore, Donald,” the hat said.

“If this is Singapore,” Donald asked, “then why does everyone look Chinese?”

Monday Afternoon, Air China, Somewhere over the South China Sea

Un fumbled in the airplane bathroom for his penis, reaching deep in his gunt for the elusive erotic eel. The plane lurched and he lost it again among his protolabial folds.

“What the fuck is that?” his hat asked.

“Evasive maneuvers,” Un grunted. “To fool missiles.”

“OK,” the hat said noncommittally.

“I have many enemies,” Un said proudly. “I am going to execute many more generals in the coming weeks.”

“Good for you.”

“And the South Koreans all hate me. They hate me with their cell phones and their night-time young-oriented romantic drama TV programs and their working toilets.”

The plane lurched again and their own toilet gurgled ominously.

“Most of all,” Kim said, puffing out his chest, “They hate me with their lavish, wasteful buffets.”

“There it is,” the hat said.

Un’s erect penis poked out like the leathery head of a frightened terrapin.

Tuesday Morning, Shangri La Hotel, Singapore

“Un went clubbing last night,” the hat said, reading Twitter.

“Of course he did,” the hair replied. “While we sat in this fleabag hotel and listened to Tubby snore and fart and sleep-eat Big Macs.”

Donald shout-sang over the sounds of his shower, “I’m walking on sunshine, oh-whoa, and don’t it feel good!”

“Hurry up in there!’ the hair shouted.

“He didn’t even wake up for a Singapore piss hooker,” the hat said glumly.

“They could have never gotten one up here,” the hair said.

“The Secret Service can do it if they wanted to,” the hat said. “If there is one thing that Secret Service excels at, it’s hookers.”

“Yeah, I guess,” the hair replied.

“I bet they have good piss hookers too. Singapore is very clean,” the hat said. “Singapore piss is probably better for you than Oaxacan tap-water.”

“ALL RIGHT, NOW!”

“Donald!” the hair called, “Hurry up, we have to got get on a boat!”

“A boat?” Donald asked, confused. He shut the shower off. “A boat?”

“We are going out to an island for the summit.”

“This is an island. Singapore is an island already,” Donald said.

“A different island, Donald,” the hat said. “The summit is on a different island.”

“I don’t like boats,” Donald said. “They sink. They sink in the water.”

“I’m sure the boat is very safe, Donald,” the hair said soothingly.

“NO BOATS!” Donald roared. He stomped out of the bathroom, wet, nude, bald, gross and swaying.

“There’s a monorail,” the hat said, looking up from Donald’s phone. “Or we could just drive there.”

“You can’t drive to an island, you idiot,” Donald sneered.

“The monorail it is,” the hair said.

“I told you: NO BOATS!” Donald shouted.

Tuesday Morning, Sentosa Island

“There’s no need to be nervous,” his hat said. Un dropped the newspaper he had rolled and unrolled compulsively, mindless, and finally twisted into a tight spiral until it creaked like an old hinge in his fat hands.

“He is so tall. I will look like a fat midget next to him. I should have worn the shoes. The big shoes,” Un said miserably.

“If the reporters had gotten pictures of those, they would have never stopped making fun of you,” the hat said.

“I would have had them all put to death, even the foreign devils. Vlad will give me all the polonium I want. Vlad is my friend.”

“They say Vlad is Donald’s friend as well,” the hat said in almost a whisper.

“Nuh-uh!” Un said and pushed the hat off the divan. “Vlad said I was his best friend. We got tattoos together. He even let me lick his before he put it on!”

Tuesday, Setosa Island

Donald was just a few feet away. Un pushed down the sudden urge to wipe his sweaty hands on his coat-dress. His penis struggled treacherously against the stranglehold of the Spanx. He grinned widely and talked toward Donald.

Donald tried to ignore the erection that his pants slid across sinuously with every step. He smiled and lifted his hand.

Right before they touched, a tiny spark of electricity jumped out to join their hands. They looked into each other’s eyes and the smiles fell away. They knew each other’s dreams. And that they were about to become real.

.

.

.

Meanwhile, Back in North America

Nancy, Chuck, Anderson, Dianne, George, Barry, and Michelle all kneel in a semi-circle around the young man.

“Brave,” Nancy mutters.

“So brave,” Chuck replies.

“Resist,” Dianne hisses. The word makes its way through all the rest of their clenched teeth.

Barry rises and holds up a biodegradable butter knife and proclaims: “THE TWINK IN THE NORTH!”

The rest of them rise as well and hold up their own dull knives and hoarsely yell at Justin: “THE TWINK IN THE NORTH!”

“It’s nice to have Melania back,” Donald said. He leaned over and squirted a blob of Coconut Cream Extreme Conditioner on his desk. The hair scurried over and began to lap it up.

“Is it?” the hat asked. “Is it really?”

“I wish you two would get along,” Donald said. He ran a brush through the hair and it began to purr contentedly.

“She hates me, Donald,” the hat said. “I made you President. I made you the leader of the free world. I made you The King of Twitter. And she hates me for it.”

“OK, OK,” Donald said. The hair stomped on his bloated stomach a few times and curled up.

“Hey, furball, can’t you back me up here?” the hat asked the hair.

“She hates you,” the hair confirmed dreamily. “And it is all your fault.”

“Nuh-uh!” the hat said. He was sitting on the Diet Coke button, hoping Donald would forget it was there. He had already drunk 26 cans and the Oval Office trash can was overflowing.

“It kinda is,” Donald said.

“Lies. All lies.”

“The first time you met her you told you were available to help break up any encapsulation around her implants,” the hair said.

“I was just trying to be a part of the team; it was only polite to offer,” the hat protested.

“You said,” the hair began, “and I quote ‘I’ll help them rock-hard titties for you, girl.’’”

“No, I didn’t.”

The hair continued in the hat’s pinched voice “‘I’ll beat ‘em real nice and then maybe you give me a squeezer,’ unquote.”

“In my defense, I thought she was a hooker,” the hat said sulkily.

“She was introduced as his wife,” the hair said, arching up and then settling back comfortably.

“She talked like a hooker,” the hat said.

“Mr. President?” a voice asked.
Donald looked up from the squabbling headmates, startled. “How long have you been standing there, Pie?” he demanded.

“Oh, uh, not long, sir,” Sarah said. “Only ninety minutes or so.”

“Well, what do you want?” Donald asked. The hair made a contented grunt when Donald picked him up and put him on his head.

“Mr. President, I was wondering if we could finish up before this afternoon’s press briefing,” Sarah said.

“Where were we?” Donald asked quarrelously.

Sarah riffled through her notes, “North Korea. Singapore. Steel tariffs.”

“WITCH HUNT!” Donald suddenly screeched. “It’s a witch hunt hoax. It’s all Jeff’s fault. No collusion. No collusion. A hoax no collusion witch hunt.”

“Yes, sir,” Sarah said and scribbled on her paper. She shifted her weight from foot to foot and grimaced as she wrote.

“What’s the matter with you, Pie?” Donald asked, narrowing his eyes with suspicion.

“Nothing, sir,” Sarah said.

“Nothing? You’re shaking like you’re shitting a stream of frozen peas. What’s the matter with you? Wait? Are you wearing a wire?!?”

“No, sir,” she said and moaned.

“I won’t have spies in my office, Pie. I won’t have it. Spies and leakers. There all over. I won’t have it, I won’t have it!” Donald stood up and came around the desk, looming over Sarah.

“Cough it up, Pie,” he said. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“Mr. President…” she began.

“Spit it out,” he yelled in her face, his breath fetid with Diet Coke and mechanically separated chicken.

“I’ve been in your office for a very long time. I just have to go to the bathroom, sir,” she admitted.

“There’s a potted plant right over there,” Donald said, waving at the long-suffering Oval Office ficus.

“Sir…”

“Go, Pie. I can’t have you running off to the bathroom every five minutes,” Donald said. The hat snickered softly on the desk.

“But, sir…”

“Every President in the last twenty years has peed in that ficus, Pie, and many fine heads of state. Are you saying you are too good to pee in the Oval Office ficus?”

“No, sir,” Sarah said miserably. She set down her pen and notepad and began tugging down her pantyhose as she waddled awkwardly to the ficus.

“Now, where was I?” Donald asked.

“Witch hunt, Mr. President,” Sarah said, trying to squat over the potted plant.

“WITCH HUNT!” Donald screamed again. Sarah wobbled in surprise and sat down heavily in the planter.

“It’s a witch hunt,” Donald said. “Me? A witch? How dare they. I’m not a witch. Witches aren’t classy and I’m super-classy. Just the best. Look at this suit, Pie. Would a witch wear a suit this nice?”

“No, sir,” Sarah said as she struggled to get back into a squat.

“A witch? I’m no witch. I’ve never soured anyone’s milk. I wasn’t born with a caul. A witch,” he said disgustedly. Donald sat back down in his office chair heavily and swatted the hat flat to the desk.

“Hey, man, watch it,” the hat grumbled.

“Get off the Diet Coke button,” the hair hissed.

“A witch? What does that even mean?” Donald asked. “Pie! What does it mean to be a witch?”

“You, uh, have a black cat?” Sarah said.

“See? No black cat. I don’t even have a cat. The last cat we had was gray. Donny Jr. left a window open and oops. 28 stories. No more cat,” Donald said.

“I hated that cat,” the hair whispered. “It tried to pee on me once.”

“Are you done yet, Pie?” Donald asked. “That’s disgusting. Why can’t you use a normal bathroom like a normal person?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Sarah said miserably.