Author: SugarFree

“Oh, God, I’m taking your AR-57!” Beto cried out as Cory rammed into him over and over again. “Give me your AK! Give me your AK!” His Austin drawl was muffled by the rabbit head he was still wearing.

“I’m going to BUYBACK YOUR SEMI-AUTOMATIC COCK!” the Texan screamed as Cory filled him with his hot intersectionality. Beto then ejaculated himself, his prostate clenching like an angry fist.

Cory groaned and shuddered and shook like a tased gazelle as he fell sideways off Beto, his penis sliding out with a slithering gargle. They both lay panting in the shredded remains of Beto’s costume, their converted shipping container love nest ticking and clicking as it cooled in the Iowa night.

“You know I have to drop out of the race soon,” Cory said quietly when he had finally caught his breath.

“I know,” Beto replied. “Six days, right?”

“Five now.”

“I could give you money,” Beto whispered. “My wife has plenty.” He had made the offer before.

“No,” Cory said. “If America isn’t ready for a black President, I’m not going to be able to overcome their racism with more money.”

Beto rolled over, farted a little semen, and ran his hand over Cory’s smooth chest. “We run together, then. We’ll join campaigns.” He nuzzled Cory’s ear and said breathily, “I’ll be your VP. I love being under you.”

“No, it would never work,” Cory said, wiping himself off on the crumpled bedsheets.

“Black man, white man,” Beto said. “More powerful together. A chocolate and vanilla swirl of Executive leadership.”

“It’s been done,” Cory said.

“Not with a real American black man,” Beto protested. “And I’m am Latinx! Viva la Texicano! Er, I mean, ‘Viva la Texicanx!’”

“But would it be enough to lock up the Black and White Hispanic vote?” Cory asked. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Then come out!” Beto said excitedly. He climbed out of bed and took off the giant rabbit’s head. “Actually black and gay? So intersectional! They couldn’t criticize you then.”

“Then I jeopardize the Black vote. And I couldn’t do that to Rosie anyway,” Cory said. He got out of bed as well. “Where are my clothes? I was supposed to be out on a run.”

“Rosie’s just a beard. She’s getting paid well enough,” Beto said. “Did you have to shred this?” he asked, handling up the rags his rabbit costume had been reduced to. “It was my favorite.”

“You know how I get, baby,” Cory said. “I see you on TV in those mom jeans and I just got to have you.”

“Oh, you,” Beto said affectionately as he squatted over a bucket and shat into it noisily.

“Five days,” Cory said sadly. “I didn’t even make it to the Iowa caucuses.”

“Come out and we’ll run together,” Beto said excitedly. “Black/white, gay/straight, butch/furry. We’ll be a tornado of intersectional fury!”

“Straight?” Cory asked, laughingly.

“I have a wife and kids,” Beto said as another hissing spray of santorum came out of his ass. “Of course, I’m straight.”

“Oh, sweetie,” Cory said as he crossed to the gangly Texan. “I just love you so much.”

Beto smiled and took Cory’s half-hard penis into his mouth.

“IM-PEACH-MENT?!?” Donald yelled from the Presidential Shitter.

“Oh, fuck, here we go,” the hair said.

“Shh. Sleeping,” the hat said hoarsely.

“Will you wake up?” the hair said, rocking back and forth. “This is embarrassing.” Donald had left the hat on the Resolute desk, upturned like a turtle dying in the sun, the hair inside the cap.

“Call the scheduling secretary!” Donald said. “Get her to get that old hag over here! We had a deal, dammit. A deal!”

“WAKE UP!” the hair screamed.

“What, goddammit?” the hat asked loudly and then quietly, “Why am I upside down?”

“Donald left us like this after you passed out,” the hair said.

“I passed out?”

“You took like eight Benadryl.”

“Why did I take eight Benadryl?”

“I don’t know,” the hair said wearily. “Why do you do anything you do?”

“Where’s Donald?” the hat asked.

“Reading Twitter on the shitter.”

“Stop rhyming; too tired for that,” the hat replied.

“Turn over,” the hair order. “Let me out of your bowlish nethers.”

“And Schumer! Get them both in here!” Donald yelled. “Drag him in by his hairy tits if you have to!”

The hat rocked to one side, grunting, and then to the other. “I’m stuck, I think,” he said, still rocking.

“I can’t get any leverage,” the hair said.

“Throw your weight to the said side when I do,” the hat said.
“I’m hair!” the hair said. “I don’t weigh anything.”

“All that Rogaine you been stress-eating?” the hat asked maliciously. “You weigh, buddy-boy. You weigh.”

“ARE YOU CALLING ME FAT?!?” the hair screamed.

“Fat?” Donald asked. “Who’s calling me fat?”

“Can we just do this?” the hat asked. They grunted and rocked together until the hat flipped over. The hair crawled out from under the brim with a series of loud sighs.

They heard the toilet in the Presidential Shitter flush once, then again and again. “Goddammit,” Donald grumbled.

“He eats, like no fiber,” the hair whispered.

“Who called me fat?” Donald demanded, standing in the doorway to the Oval Office.

“Oh, my God, Donald!” the hair said.

“Donald!” the hat ordered, “Put your pants on!”

“What?” Donald asked, shrugging and making the bulbous tip of his penis bob.”

“Go,” the hair ordered. “Pants. Now!” Donald grumbled in retreated to the bathroom.

“A fucking mycological goddamn nightmare,” the hat muttered.

“Should we see if we can get Nancy and Chuck to come over?” the hair asked.

“Of course not. Nancy doesn’t want impeachment, she’s just had her hand forced. And Chuck is just her ass-puppet.”

“What are we going to do?” the hair asked.

“Yeah, what are we going to do?” Donald asked, back in the doorway and struggling to button his pants.

“We sit back let them eat each other alive,” the hat replied.

“I learned a lot. And I learned that it makes a difference. This was the diving board area, and I was one of the guards, and they weren’t allowed to – it was a 3-meter board. And if you fell off sideways, you landed on the damn, er, darn cement over there.”

The hat paused the playback of video to laugh.

“Why are you making me watch this?” Donald asked.

“Just give it time, Donald,” the hair replied. “We promise that it will be totally worth it.”

“And Corn Pop was a bad dude,” Biden continues.

“Corn Pop?” Donald asked.

“And he ran a bunch of bad boys. And I did and back in those days – to show how things have changed – one of the things you had to use, if you used Pomade in your hair, you had to wear a baby cap.”

Donald tapped the space bar. “Pomade? Baby cap?” he asked.

“We can talk about this after the video, Donald,” the hat said. “Stop interrupting.”

“No, I want to know now.”

“Pomade is hair grease, like Danny and the T-Birds in, well, Grease.”

“Olivia Newton-John has a nice ass in that,” Donald said. “But she doesn’t show her tits.”

“Yes, Donald,” the hair said. “But I don’t know what a baby cap is…”

“Some sort of condom, but, like, just for the tip?” the hat mused.

“But I certainly wouldn’t let anyone put on on me,” the hair finished.

“Look at me,” the President of the United States sang out, “I’m Sandra Dee, lousy with virginity…”

“Donald? Can we get back to the video?” the hat asked.

Donald looked at the hair, sitting on the Oval Office desk, and asked calmly, “Would you pull that crap with Annette?”

“And so he was up on the board and wouldn’t listen to me. I said, ‘Hey, Esther, you! Off the board, or I’ll come up and drag you off.’ Well, he came off, and he said, ‘I’ll meet you outside.’”

“Who the fuck is Esther?” Donald asked, pausing the video again.

“Esther Williams, Donald,” the hair said.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” Donald said. “I thought the guy was named Corn Pop.”

“Gah!” the hat said. “Grr! Oh! Oh! Oh! I can’t do this anymore!”

“Can you at least try to hold it together, you drama llama?” the hair asked the hat.

“Dammit, who is Esther Williams?” Donald asked.

“She was a swimmer and an actress,” the hair said. “She was in a couple of Busby Berkeley movies.”

“Who?” Donald asked.

“Oh, goddammit,” the hat grumbled.

“My car this – was mostly, these were all public housing behind us. My car – there was a gate on here. I parked my car outside the gate. And I – and he said, ‘I’ll be waiting for you.’ He was waiting for me with three guys with straight razors. Not a joke.”

“Not a joke,” the hat said in a mocking tone.

“There was a guy named Bill Wright Mouse, the only white guy and he did all the pools. He was a mechanic. And I said, “What am I gonna do?” And he said. ‘Come down here in the basement, where mechanics – all the mechanics- – where all the pool builder is.’ You know the chain, there used to be a chain that went across the deep end. And he cut off a six-foot length of chain and folded it up and he said, “You walk out with that chain, and you walk to the car and say, “you may cut me man, but I’m gonna wrap this chain around your head.’”

“Waaarrriors… come out and play-ay!” the hat said, pausing the video.

“Clank, clank, clank,” the hair replied and laughed.

“Have you both gone completely nuts?” Donald asked.

“I said, ‘You’re kidding me.’ He said, ‘No, if you don’t, don’t come back.’ And he was right. So I walked out with the chain. And I walked up to my car. And in those days, you remember the straight razors, you had to bang “em on the curb, gettin’ em rusty, puttin’ em in the rain barrel, gettin’ em rusty?”

“I don’t have the faintest clue what in the fuck Joe is talking about,” the hat said. “Straight razors? Curbs? Rain barrels?”

“Now you are the one pausing it and interrupting,” Donald said peevishly.

“And I looked at him, but I was smart, then. I said, ‘First of all,’ I said, ‘When I tell you to get off the board, you get off the board, and I’ll kick you out again, but I shouldn’t have called you Esther Williams, and I apologize for that. I apologize.’ But I didn’t know that apology was gonna work. He said, ‘You apologize to me?’ I said, ‘I apologize but not for throwing you out, but I apologize for what I said.’ He said, ‘OK,’ closed that straight razor and my heart began to beat again.”

“Just bizarre, utterly bizarre,” the hair said. “Like, what was the point of that whole thing?”

“Joe is tough, I guess,” the hat replied, “And smart because he took a pool chain to a rain barrel razor fight.”

“Aren’t pool chains made of plastic so light it floats?” the hair asked.

“Maybe not in, like, what? 1960?” the hat mused.

“Who is this? Why did I have to watch this?” Donald asked. “I’m trying to work on plans to bomb Iran.”

“Oh, man, can you imagine how pissed John Bolton’s mustache would be if we bombed Iran after firing him?” the hair asked.

“We should bomb them just to see if he’d have some sort of lip stroke,” the hat replied.

“You can’t fire me!” John Bolton’s mustache roared.

“You’re out, Bolton!” the hair said, clipping his words. “You’re done, you’re through, you’ll never visit another barber in his town again, see?”

John Bolton’s mustache sputtered with rage.

“I’ll call the commissioner of the police!” the hair continued. “I’m a big man in this town; I have friends. Be outside the city limits by sundown or I’ll have you shaved down to nothing and dumped in the Potomac!”

John Bolton’s face turned red as his mustache quivered with rage. He had an obvious erection through the thin fabric of his gray suit.

“Are you OK?” the hat whispered to the hair. “Are you having a stroke?”

“I want your resignation on my desk by daybreak!” the hair thundered.

“You just told me to be out of town by nightfall,” John Bolton’s mustache said tightly.

“You’re fired! Fired, I say!” the hair yelled, splaying out from under the hat.

“Seriously, why are you talking like that?” the hat whispered.

“Because it’s funny, so pipe down rub-b-dub,” the hair whispered back.

“I’ll… I’ll… I’ll…,” John Bolton’s mustache began.

“You’ll what?” the hair asked coldly. “You live on the lip of a sad old joke. I’m on the head of the most powerful man in the world!” The hair revolved under the hat, a clear threat display.

Donald groaned, made a chewing motion with his mouth, and went back to snoring, slumped in his Oval Office chair, which was a very nice office chair indeed.

“I’ll bomb Iran even if I have to do it on my own!” John Bolton’s mustache said grandly.

The hair stopped revolving and he and the hat laughed so hard they nearly fell off of Donald’s head. John Bolton’s mustache withered under their disdain.

“You’ll end up a mullah’s merkin, you old fool,” the hat said.

“Resign or be fired,” the hair said. “You have until midnight to decide.”

John Bolton’s mustache made his body run from the Oval Office.

“Goddamn, that was satisfying,” the hair said.

“Like a big meal or taking a huge dump,” the hat said.

“The blood-drunk old creep made all us sentient hairs look bad,” the hair said.

Donald shifted in his sleep and grumbled, “Sarah.”

“You think he’s going to be mad you fired his National Security Advisor?” the hat asked.

“You’re assuming he’ll notice. Hell, fire off a few tweets for me and he’ll probably just think it was his idea all along.

whispers bubble up from nothingness

“Straight pride parade? Like, what?!?” Sandy screeched. Illy looked up from her phone and Sheedy woke from her nap and they both grimaced at the braying Bronxite bartender.

“Only LGBTIQCAPGNGFNBA people are allowed to feel any pride!” Sandy continued.

Sheedy grunted and raised an eyebrow to Illy. She leaned over to Sheedy and whispered in Arabic, “The pervert alphabet.”

Sheedy wrinkled her face in disgust and replied, “The yahud know no decency,” her hand slipping into a ward against evil.

“Ours is the glorious struggle!” Sandy read off the card she kept in her pocket. “History is ours!”

“You said you would tweet about the abuses of the yahud today,” Sheedy reminded Sandy.

“But what about the Green New Deal?” Sandy asked.

“The yahud are behind global warming,” Illy said, not looking up from her phone. Sheedy and Illy had taught the buxom dimwit that “yahud” was Arabic for “Isreali.”

Sandy nodded, and began putting on another layer of matte lipstick and used her phone to check her hair and take a number of selfies.

scattered and sparse like the dust between the stars

“We should order lunch,” Sheedy said. “Where is the intern?”

Illy’s phone pinged repeatedly, like a cheerful Geiger counter. She looked at it for a moment and giggled.

“What?” Sheedy demanded. “What has happened?”

“He has sent me another,” she said and smiled.

“How many pictures of his kafir penis do you need?” Sheedy asked.

“Dick pics?” Sandy asked excitedly. “I love dick pics! Lemme see, lemme see.”

Illy handed her the phone and Sandy studied the pale penis of Illy’s affair, the half-hard member looking startled under the camera’s flash. She put her hand over her mouth and giggled as well, and then made a soft gagging sound. She turned the phone around to Sheedy.

“It looks fairly clean,” Sheedy said dismissively. She took the phone from Sandy and gave it back to Illy.

“How should I respond this time?” Illy asked, scratching under her turban.

“Send him your bawwabat alshaytan, if he isn’t already bored of it,” Sheedy grumbled.

the nucleus of chaos opened an eye
and then another
and then another

“I love getting dick pics!’ Sandy said.

“Have you written the tweet yet?” Sheedy asked.

“What tweet?”

“About the yahud, the filthy yahud!”

“OMG, I’ve got to pee so bad!” Sandy replied and darted from the room.

After a moment, Sheedy asked, “Why do you do it?”

“Do what?” Illy asked coldly.

“Show me pictures of his penis. You only do it to hurt me.”

“You know what is between us is not all that I have.”

Sheedy reached out and cupped Illy’s left breast.

“Not here,” she told Sheedy, brushing her hand away. “Never here.”

“She will be half-an-hour on her make-up at least, the vain whore.”

“Lock the door,” Illy told her. Sheedy farted when she lifted herself off the couch and went to the office door. Sheedy let herself fall back on the office couch and rolled over onto Illy with a scowl.

“I want you to be mine, I want to solely possess your dark peach,” Sheedy whispered.

“You can have me now,” Illy replied in a flat tone.

“Forever. I want you forever.” Sheedy’s middle finger found Illy’s labial cleft under her suit skirt and rubbed along it trying to look into Illy’s eyes. She found nothing.

“No, don’t,” Illy said as Sheedy tore her pantyhose.

“I did. I will. I must,” Sheedy panted. She pushed aside Illy’s underwear and plunged a finger into her and then another.

“Do you like that?” Sheedy asked, her lips close enough to Illy’s to feel her lover’s breath tickle the hairs of her mustache.

Illy grunted and turned her head and closed her eyes as Sheedy rammed her fingers into her over and over again, her body moving bonelessly with each thrust.

a thousand eyes filled with madness closed

“I don’t feel anything,” Illy whispered.

What’s So ‘Off-Putting’ About Elizabeth Warren?

“From each according to his abilities,” Bernie mumbled, “To each according to her needs.” He leaned over Liz and spat a half-sucked Geritol her mouth.

“I promise to work my heart out on you, Bernie,” Liz said, talking around the huge pill in her mouth then swallowing it. She gathered his dangling ballsack in her hand and bobbled it vigorously, making dandruff rain down on the floor of their secret love nest.

“I stand up for the little guy, the oppressed, the disenfranchised, those preyed on by Big Pharma,” Bernie said. He ate another Viagra gummy and made a fist with his face, willing blood into his crooked penis.

“We are going to be fantastic in the next debates,” Liz said, eating a gummy herself.

“Joe is senile, Kamala is a fraud,” Bernie said. “We are what the next generation is looking for. We appeal to the young voter. I’ve never been popular with young voters! It feels great, like when I was popular with young voters in 2016!”

Liz hauled her left breast out of her armpit and offered it to Bernie. He braced himself on the headboard and bent to suckle at her chapped nipple.

“Yes, Bernie, yes, honor me as your comrade equal,” she moaned. His drool ran down the runnels in her breasts and pooled on the bed.

Bernie reached for her grey crotch and used a hoof-nailed forefinger to rub her mummified clitoris. It made a sound like crumpling the cellophane from a cigarette pack.

“We will beat this corrupt, rigged, capitalist nightmare system that keeps me bone-dry and you soft as an old tube sock,” Liz said, shaking his penis now like she was trying to wake it.

“We will do it together,” Bernie said, trying to push a finger into her desiccated vagina, “My beloved comrade female.”

“I know, we know, what’s broken in my vagina, I know how to fix it, and we will fight to make it happen,” Liz said, fumbling for lube. She pushed away expired hormone patches and Bernie’s vape juice bottles in the drawer of the small bedside table while still working his quarter-hard penis like she was milking a cow.

“I want to make love to your belly button,” Bernie said as she blindly groped in the drawer. “It is the most socialist of orifices.”

“Bernie?” Liz asked. “Can you see the lube?”

“We don’t need lube, we just need our commitment to proletariat values,” Bernie replied, trying to steer his penis toward the sweet asshole of her mouth.

“I need lube,” Liz said. “You’re going to be hard at some point probably and I need lube. I need lube, dammit!”

“Saliva is very socialist,” he said, giving a leer that looked like he was having another stroke. “The most collective of lubricants.”

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