Category: SugarFree

 

“Meet you all the way! Roseanne, uh yeah, uh yeah,” Donald sang loudly.

“Uh, Donald,” the hair said.

“All I want to do in the middle of the evening is hold you tight! Roseanne! Roseanne! I didn’t know you were looking for more than I could ever be,” Donald belted out.

“Donald,” the hair said again. He reached down and flicked something off of Donald’s lapel. A crumb from his morning McGriddle.

“Just let him sing,” the hat said. “He’s upset. Fucking Valerie Jarrett,” the hat muttered, not looking up from the phone he was typing up. “And since when is she black? She looks Puerto Rican, for fuck’s sake.”

“I didn’t know that a girl like you could make me feel so sad,” Donald said in a hoarse whisper and sank down on the bed heavily.

“Rosanna, Donald,” the hair said. “The song is about Rosanna.”

“Rosanna?” Donald asked. “Who the fuck is Rosanna?”

“The song was written about Rosanna Arquette,” the hair said.

“Who told you that?” the hat asked. He was furiously typing on Donald’s burner phone.

“It was on VH1. Pop-Up Video,” the hair replied.

“Oh, man. I miss Pop-Up Video,” the hat said. “Blorp. Blup.”

“So what are we going to text about Roseanne?” the hair asked.

“No clue. I’ve been beating up on Jeff all morning,” the hat said. He hit send on the phone and then cackled. “Oh, man. I hope that gets the little dwarf crying.”

“Well, we’ve got to say something in support, right?” the hair asked.

“Rosanna Arquette?” Donald asked. “Is she the one that cut her dick off? The ugly tranny one?”

“No, that was Alexis,” the hair said.

“So she was the one married to Courtney Cox?” the hat asked.

“No, that was a guy, David,” the hair said dryly.

“So Monica’s husband got a sex change?!?” the hat asked.

“No, he didn’t. And they are divorced,” the hair said.

“So which one is the song about, asshole?” the hat demanded.

“Probably the one with the big floppy jugs from True Romance,” Donald said.

“That’s Patricia!” the hair snapped.

“Just how many of those fuckers are there?” the hat wondered aloud.

“Rosanna Arquette was in Desperately Seeking Susan,” the hair prompted.

“Nope,” Donald said.

“I got nothing,” the hat said.

“She was Jody in Pulp Fiction? Eric Stolz’s wife? The one with all the shit in her face?”

“Was he deformed in that movie too?” the hat asked.

The hair fell flat on Donald’s head in exasperation.

“Roseanne!” Donald sang out in a cracking falsetto, “You don’t have to put on the red light!”

 

“ARE YOU A SPY?” Donald screamed, throttling the hair.

“Donald,” the hair said.

“ARE YOU?”

“Donald!” the hat yelled. “Let him go!”

“He’s a spy!” Donald hissed.

“No. I’m. Not,” the hair managed to gargle.

“Pah,” Donald harrumphed and tossed the hair onto a potted plant.

“Donald, you have to calm down,” the hat said.

“Spies, spies, spies, all around me. I’m surrounded by spies,” Donald muttered and fell back into his office chair. He slammed a palm down on the Diet Coke button.

“Donald,” the hair rasped, trying to untangle himself from the ficus, “I’ve been with you since 1978. We met in Studio 54. We did coke together in the bathroom. You know me.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” Donald said.

“I wonder if Harvey jacked off into that when Bill was in here?” the hat asked.

“Guh,” the hair moaned and dropped to the floor.

The hat looked around the Oval Office and whistled. “I bet if we got a black light, this whole place would look like a rave.”

“Ew. c’mon, dude,” the hair said. He got up on his tippy-toe tendrils and walked gingerly back to the desk.

The office door slammed open and John Bolton stomped into the room. “Mr. President,” his mustache said gruffly. “Pence, fucked us. He really, really fucked us.”

“Was his wife in the room?” the hat asked brightly.

“Pence mentioned the Libya-model, sir,” the mustache continued.

“Is she hot?” Donald asked. “I like big tits. Does she have big tits?”

“The Libya-model, dammit. I’m talking about the country. The country of Libya,” the mustache growled.

“OK, I get it, she’s from Libya. I don’t care where she’s from, I’ll pee on any of them. I just want to know about her tits.”

“Libya, sir. Pence mentioned Libya to the North Koreans. They took it as a threat.”

“So, she’s North Korean? I don’t know about that,” Donald said. “I like ‘em to be at least a little bit meaty.”

“Colonel Muammar Gaddafi, Mr. President. The US convinced him to give up his weapons program and then backed a revolt a few years later?” the mustache prompted.

“Weapons program?” Donald asked, mystified. “I don’t know about that, John. I don’t like those hookers that used to be a guy. Sometimes they have a penis. I mean, sometimes they look real convincing and then SURPRISE! A PENIS!”

“Sir,” the mustache said.

“Did you see The Crying Game?” Donald asked. “Half-black chick. Really hot. And then PENIS! Huge. Just a huge penis.”

“Sir, I’m trying to talk about foreign policy,” the mustache said wearily. “The North Koreans are pulling out of the talks on nuclearization.”

“Jong? Jong would never pull out. He told me he was balls-deep in these negotiations!”

“Donald,” the hair said, tugging on his pants leg, “Please take me to go get a shower.”

“Or maybe that was a dream,” Donald said. “But anyway, let’s get back to the issue at hand. Are they at least 36D?”

 

“I told you we couldn’t trust that goddamn fedora!” John Bolton’s mustache bellowed, his follicles twining around each other in rage and disgust.

“I think it’s a trilby,” the hair said.

“What? What did you say to me?”

“Trilby. The Excellent Hat-Like Gentleman is a trilby, not a fedora,” the hair replied.

“I DON’T CARE WHAT KIND OF HAT IT IS!” the mustache roared.

“You would know it was a trilby if you watched the cartoon,” the hair continued.

With a tortured rip of new velcro and a spurt of blood, the mustache left John Bolton’s face and launched itself at the hair. They began to grapple on Donald’s head as Bolton’s body slid bonelessly to the floor.

“Dude,” the hair said, holding the mustache off, “I weigh, like, fifty times as much as you do.”

“Shut up and fight me, youngster! You can’t take me in a fair fight! I possess the conscious will to do harm! You’re just a toupee!”

“How fucking DARE you!” the hair screamed, his voice escalating up to dog whistle octaves.

The hat inch-wormed across the desk and nudged Donald’s arm. “Donald, wake up. Wake up. They are fighting on your head. Do something about it.” Donald grumbled in his sleep and batted the hat away.

“Jong-Un,” Donald said in his dream and stroked the taut, pudgy cheek of the boyish dictator.

“Donard,” the Supreme Leader whispered, stroking the dry yet yielding penis skin of the President’s stiffened badge of office.

“Only you understand me,” Donald said. “Only you understand the sort of pressures I am under.”

“Donard,” Jong-Un said. He gathered up the slack sock of Donald’s testicles and cradled them reverently. “Donard, Donard, only you can understand me.”

“I need you, Jong. I need you inside me. Fill me with peace. Douse me with denuclearization.”

The lights of Singapore spread out around them in all direction, infinite, a night city built just for them. Naval guns thundered in the distance, great gray metal penises spurting fire and seed into the sky. Jong dropped to his knees with a dull thud on the plush hotel carpet and took Donald’s soft tumescence into his mouth.

“Oh, Donald,” Donald moaned. “Oh, Donald!” He reached into the crystal goblet and shoveled another handful of Viagra into his face. Jong’s hands grasped both of Donald’s pallid buttocks and pulled him foward, ever forward, deeper, ever deeper into his mouth.

“Donald is going to!” Donald screamed. “Donald is going to!”

In the Oval Office, hat and mustache and hair failed to see the tears of ecstasy running down his face.

Donald Trump does 1 thing at least 20 times a day

“This is just stupid. Just fake news. CNN fake news. I don’t complain about the Russia witch hunt 20 times a day. That’s just nonsense. No one believes that I would complain about this fake Russia probe 20 times a day. That’s preposterous. Who could even say something about that sort of slanderous nonsense 20 times a day! Ten times a day, maybe! Maybe. Crooked Mueller’s crooked investigation? 20 times a day? Never. That makes less sense than the fraudulent special counsel investigation,” Donald said. He was talking to a particularly erotic water stain on the ceiling of the Oval Office.

“Give me that damn phone!” John Bolton’s mustache growled as it chased the hat around the floor. It scuttled along on thin follicle legs after the hat, who had been strapped to the backs of four of the mustache’s feeder rats that had been set free. “NEVER!” the hat cried. “I write the tweets around here!”

“Stop praising Kim Jung-Un!” the mustache screeched. John Bolton’s body lay slumped over behind the couch, occasionally twitching and issuing streams of urine.

“Did you watch that fucking CNN story?” Donald asked. “I looked terrible. Lying Mueller probably has them put filters on the cameras to make me look worse. I should just fire him. He’s a terrible investigator and a terrible person and the investigation is just terrible. And I looked terrible. I looked 70-damn-years-old on CNN. It’s a witch hunt, the whole thing is a witch hunt and they are trying to make me look like a witch.”

“You should just turn the TV off, Donald,” the hair said. “It’s just making you angry.” He scampered down Donald’s arm and leapt to the desk.

“Don’t touch that TV. Don’t touch it. I have to keep an eye on the lies Mueller is having CNN tell about me. It’s all lies. Mueller probably put Stormy up to it. Mueller probably paid her that $130,000 dollars. Why would I pay her any money? I’m not a John. I don’t have to pay for pussy. I bet Mueller has to pay for it. Virgin Mueller the Whoremaster and his stupid crooked probe,” Donald said.

“At least let me turn it to Fox News,” the hair pleaded. The hat squealed and laughed as John Bolton’s mustache jumped to catch him, missed, and went tumbling under the settee.

“Where’s the FBI?” Donald yelled at the stain. “I want to see Mueller’s tax returns. I bet there are all sorts of pay-offs. Someone is paying him off. That’s the only reason he would be doing this. Hush money! I’d pay Stormy to tell everyone! I nailed a PORN STAR! How many guys can say they’ve done that? Not small-dick Bob Mueller and his false crusade that is his witch hunting all over me!”

“Mr. President?” the intercom crackled. “It’s almost time for the Jerusalem address.”

Donald slapped the Diet Coke button and yelled, “What Jerusalem address?”

“Other button, Donald,” the hair said. He grunted with effort and pressed the intercom button down.

“What Jerusalem address?” Donald yelled again.

“The one for the embassy being opened?” the intercom said.

“I’m not in Jerusalem, you ditzy broad!”

“The telecom address, sir. You sent Ms. Trump and Mr. Kushner as dignitaries?”

“Melania’s not in Jerusalem!” Donald said into the intercom. “I saw her skulking about in the Residence this morning. She laughed at my penis. Mueller made her! Mueller made her laugh at my penis!”

The hat ran his rats up the leg of the couch. He paused on the arm to laugh at the mustache struggling to follow. “I’ve never felt so free!” the hat cried out.

“Ivanka, Mr. President,” the intercom said.

“My God, isn’t she hot? I wish I could find a woman that hot. Right? Isn’t she hot?” Donald asked.

“Yes, Mr. President. She’s a very attractive woman,” the intercom said.

“Back off, bitch! She’s mine!” Donald snarled into the microphone.

The hat, astride his rats, ran the length of the back of the couch and leaped onto Donald’s desk.

Donald pounded the Diet Coke button a few more times. “What do you want?” he asked the hat.

“Show me how to turn on the camera! I want to take a selfie!” the hat said, suffused with manic glee.

“NO!” the hair yelled.

“I won’t tweet it out,” the hat told him.

John Bolton’s mustache shook on the couch, flecks of foam dripping from his mandibles.

“AH-HA! The camera!” the hat crowed in triumph.

“I need better TV lawyers,” Donald fumed. “Like L. A. Law TV lawyers. That’s with get Mueller running scared. Someone with Arnie Becker on his side would have to put up with such a witchy-witch hunt.”

There was a bright flash in the gloom of the office.

“Mr. President,” the intercom pleaded.

“Victor Sifuentes,” Donald mused. “No way Mueller could say I was racist with Victor Sifuentes on my side.”

“That was just a TV show, Donald,” the hair said.

“Oh, wait,” the hat said. “That’s not right. Wait. No! Unsend! Unsend!”

“This is just a TV show, numbnuts,” Donald said.

 

 

The air in the Kennedy Fuck Tunnels had been stale and muggy and Rudy pulled out his compact to check his make-up for the fifth time. It felt like his mascara was running but his mascara wasn’t running. He hated being smuggled into the White House like a common whore, like a shameful secret.

“He says he still loves me,” Rudy whispered into the tiny mirror. “I believe him. I have to believe him.” He used a red-lacquered nail to start the ancient cage elevator. It rumbled and shook as it dragged him up into the light.

“Good evening, sir,” Rudy said breathily to the Secret Service agent that open the elevator door for him. He offered a hand to the agent but the large man in the sunglasses and earpiece stared at it until Rudy dropped it to his side.

“No manners,” Rudy muttered to himself. “No manners whatsoever.” He touched his hair self-consciously as he followed the agent to the Oval Office.

“Knock first,” the agent said when they reached the door. He had a sneer on his face as he stood to the side.

Rudy straightened his blouse where it had slipped off the hump forming on his back and took a deep breath to steady himself. “He loves me, he loves me, he loves me, he loves me,” he whispered as he knocked. The door buzzed and unlocked with the dull thud of a bolt drawing back. He stepped through as the door opened.

“Friend Rudy,” Donald said, loud and heartily and completely fake even to his hopeful ears. The door shut itself behind him.

The smell hit him first, piss and jizz and the warm animal reek of unwashed bodies. Rudy put a hand up to cover his nose and mouth.

“Come in, come in,” Donald said. He was in a bathrobe untied at the waist and nothing else. Rudy couldn’t help but look at the greasy white hair of his pubic mound and the angry red stub of a penis sticking out of it. He tore his eyes away to look at the President’s face: the narrowed eyes, the thin lips, the broken blood vessels in his cheek and nose.

“Mr. President,” Rudy said. He tried not to let his eyes widen in shock as the President’s hair reared up as if blowing in a nonexistent breeze and settled itself back down, kneading the President’s head like a cat trying to get comfortable.

“What’s this about pleading the 5th?” Donald asked. “I can’t plead the 5th. Mobsters plead the 5th. Gangsters plead the 5th. Guys who sleep with porn stars plead the 5th. I can’t plead the 5th.”

“Mr. President,” Rudy began, “I misspoke. I’ll clean it up. I’ll make it all better.”

Donald held up his right hand. A Make America Great hat was sitting on his fist.

“He says this is really uncomfortable,” Donald said.

“Who, Mr. President?”

“What?” Donald said like a deafened concertgoer.

“Who says it’s uncomfortable, Mr. President?” Rudy asked. The heat in the Oval Office was turned up jungle hot. Rudy could feel the gusset of his support panties getting wet.

“The hat. The hat says sitting on my fist is really uncomfortable. He says it’s like getting fisted,” Donald said.

“Yes, Mr. President,” Rudy said. He hugged himself under his stuffed bra.

“Say hello to my hat,” Donald said thrusting the fisted hat forwards. “He is my most trusted adviser.”

Rudy backed away from the filthy hat involuntarily and Donald took a step forward.

“Uh, hello Mr. Hat,” Rudy said. “I’m Rudy Giuliani. Nice to meet you.”

“He wants to know why you are dressed up like a cheap tranny hooker,” Donald said. He reached out with his free hand and caressed Rudy’s breasts.

“You told me to come in disguise, Mr. President,” Rudy stammered. “And you’ve always liked this dress.”

Donald turned the hat’s front toward his face and they both laughed.

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MBKu9OJ8Ltk

 

Trump doctor Harold Bornstein says bodyguard, lawyer ‘raided’ his office, took medical files

 

“Whatever happened to doctor/patient confi-fucking-denti-goddamn-ality?!?” Donald roared. “Bornstein fucked me. He jew-fucked me!”

“Goddamn Jew doctors,” the hat commiserated. “I knew he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. We should have taken him to the park and fostered him.”

“And, and, and look,” Donald stuttered, poking the newspaper story repeatedly. “He says I dictated my health letter to him. He says I told him to say my health was ‘astonishingly excellent.’ That doesn’t even sound like me, right? Right, fellas? Like I would tell him to say I would be the healthiest President ever. I’d never say that. It is 100% absolutely true, but I never tell him to say that. Just because I am the healthiest President ever, that doesn’t mean I would boast about it. I’ve never boasted about anything in my entire life. It’s just not me, right?”

“No, Donald. That’s not you at all,” the hair said in a monotone.

Donald switched from the newspaper to the Diet Coke button and began jabbing it repeatedly.

“Where is it?” Donald asked. “I sent for one twenty minutes ago!”

“You already drank it, Donald,” the hair said.

“Well, I want another!” He continued to push the big red button.

“What’s the matter with you?” the hat asked the hair.

“Just, well, you know,” the hair replied listlessly.

“The Bornstein stuff isn’t your fault, you know.”

“Yes, it is. If it wasn’t for me, we would have had to destroy his files.”

Donald screamed and began to slam his fist into the Diet Coke button.

“The records, sure,” the hat said, “But not the letter. I wrote that.”

“But the doctor would have kept quiet if we hadn’t raided his files.” The hair moaned dramatically.

“He told The Jew Nork Times about the Propecia. What if he had released the files about the amounts Donald was getting? Or told them about those gallon jugs of Rogaine we were getting shipped in from Canada before Obamacare?”

“Fucking Obamacare. I need that stuff. Asshole Chicago fuck fucked things up for everyone,” the hair groused.

“The doctor stuff will blow over,” the hat said.

“What if Mueller subpoenas him? What if they get him under oath?” the hat worried.

“What if, what if, what if…” the hat said. “We’ll deal with it when it happens.”

“No human could be using Propecia and Rogaine in those amounts!” the hair said. “What if they figure out about me? What if this cuts off my food supply?”

“WHERE’S MY DIET COKE?!?” Donald yelled.

“Donald will take care of it,” the hat said.

“I NEED MY DIET COKE!”

The hat sighed contentedly. “He’s got everything under control.”

 

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

“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.

---

“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.”