Author: SugarFree

Trump wants to buy Greenland. Only one-third of Americans would be willing to offer more than $12 for the island.

“Everything is for sale,” the hat said. “Everything.”

“Are you talking about Greenland, again?” the hair asked. He was perched on Donald’s head as he slept, turning around and around on the tips of his walking hairs.

“Of course I’m talking about Greenland,” the hat said, eyeing a selection of McNuggets the staff had set out for Donald.

“Why would we even want Greenland?” the hair asked. “It’s not green and the people are only sort of medium attractive. I don’t see the appeal for you whatsoever.”

“It’s the largest island. I just want it. Why do you care?” the hat asked, inching over to the McNugget box. The relentless drone of Donald’s snoring changed and he froze.

“Because it is going to cost a lot of money and a lot of people are already making fun of us about it,” the hair said, continuing to walk on Donald’s pale bald head. The hair scraped off a scab and flicked it to Oval Office floor.

“What are you doing up there?” the hat demand.

“I’m aerating Donald’s scalp,” the hair replied.

“Aerating his scalp?”

“For the proper maintenance of scalp health,” the hair said primly.

“You’re nuts,” the hat said. “An insane hairpiece. The toupee of madness.”

“I am not a toupee!” the hair said vehemently. “You’re the crazy one. You want to buy Greenland.”

“White people need a homeland!” the hat shouted. Donald shifted and farted and briefly opened one eye.

“And Greenland is your solution?” the hair asked, settling himself down on Donald’s head.

“Largest island?” the hat asked. “Did you not hear that part? Defensible, contained… the ocean will be our wall!”

“Greenland is like 90% Inuit!” the hair shouted.

“We’ll evict them once we buy it. Any of the Danes that want to stay can submit DNA results,” the hat replied. He moved closer to the McNuggets box. He was almost touching it.

“Just what America needs, more genocide of native people!” the hair spat.

“Who said genocide? I didn’t say genocide, you strawman motherfucker. Evict. Canada can take them, they seem to love the unemployed!”

The hair squirmed on Donald’s head and turned away in disgust. The hat made his move, climbing on top of the McNugget’s box and thrusting away at it in sweet abandon.

“Yeah, special sauce,” he muttered. “Get that fucking special sauce.”

“We all enjoyed your work in California,” Hillary said, a wheeze in her voice. She slipped a gelatinous arm through Kamala’s and lead her down the long hallway.

“Thank you, Madam President,” Kamala said demurely. She felt Hillary shiver liquidly.

“Willie is not the easiest person to deal with. He expects… a lot of the women we assign to him.”

“Like suckin’ the last bit of meat offa broken rib bone,” Kamala said in her best approximation of AAVE.

“Yew dona hafta do that here, honey,” Hillary said in her own bad version of a Southern accent.

“Oh, thank God,” Kamala replied, but Hillary frowned.

“We do not thank The Patriarch here,” Hillary whispered, stroking the labial folds of her hideous neck.

“Yes, ma’am,” Kamala whispered, eyes downcast.

“The penis is evil,” Hillary said, touching both breasts and then her crotch. “The Demiurge rapes the Earth with it. We are the Earth.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Kamala whispered again.

“Hurry, we must hurry,” Hillary told her. “Grandmother awaits.”

They walked along the dark hallway, Hillary putting more and more of her considerable weight on Kamala. The walls were daubed with glowing runes and scenes of sex between women and creatures with impossible anatomies. Focusing on any scene for too long gave Kamala a piercing headache, so she looked at her feet while they shuffled along. The floor was soft and wet. It seemed to be breathing.

“Where are we?” Kamala asked.

“Far beneath Washington, in the places forgotten to all but us, the weirding women,” Hillary said. “A place of our power.”

They stepped out into a vast hall carved from the muck of Maryland swamps. The walls pulsed and fluoresced weakly, creating a baleful blue-green light that suffused the entire space. “Die Gebärmutter des Wurms!” Hillary said grandly, throwing her bingo wings out wide.

“Wow,” said Kamala, wrinkling her nose at the smell of old blood and mildew.

“Yes,” Hillary said, “‘Wow,’ indeed. This is the beating center of our power, not the thrusting penis monuments or the mutilated boob of the Capitol Building. Come, meet Grandmother.”

Hilary took Kamala by the wrist a dragged her toward the huddled group of women in the center of the great wombroom.

“Away, ladies, away,” Hillary said, making shooing gestures with her free hand, the fingers curved into cruel claws. They scattered and cooed like kicked pigeons.

“Grandmother! Grandmother! I have brought her! The new anointed one!” Hillary said excitedly.

Kamala looked at the small figure in the wheelchair before her, tiny and dry, shriveled and shrunken.

“Is she OK?” Kamala asked Hillary quietly.

“Grandmother is eternal!” Hillary insisted.

“This is the one, Grandmother,” Hillary said to the swaddled form. “Bless her, I pray.”

“Yes,” Kalama said after Hillary poked her in the ribs with a sharp fingernail. “Bless me, Grandmother.”

The figure in the chair said nothing. There was the faint squeak of a pulley and its hand raised briefly with the rustling sound of dead leaves and paper.

“She approves, she approves!” Hillary said.

“So brave,” the pigeon women cooed. “Much intersectional.”

“Kiss her!” Hillary said. “Kiss Grandmother.”

Vinegar and the corruption of flesh flooded her nostrils as she got close to the thing. She pursed her lips and got as close as she could.

“We must feast” Hillary cried as a Kamala stood and straighten and swallowed hard against the rising contents of her stomach.

A knife appeared in Hillary’s hand and before Kamala even registered it, the crone had made a long slice along the loose flesh of her own arm. There was no blood.

“Eat,” Hillary said, holding out the writhing piece of her own flesh to Kamala.

“They can have my gun when they pry it from my cold dead fingers,” the hat said, turning from the TV in disgust.

“You don’t have fingers,” the hair replied.

“I have fingers,” Donald mumbled.

“I mean, just look at this,” the hat said, gesturing to the TV awkwardly. “Is there no one thin in Ohio? They all look like tattooed manatees.”

The hair ruffled the newspaper he was reading and faked a hacking cough.

“What?” the hat asked. “Look at the TV.”

“Swing state,” the hair said, cutting his eyes toward the TV.

“I know it’s a swing state,” the hat said hotly.

“I knew a girl from Ohio once,” Donald said. “She gave great head.”

“That’s nice,” the hair said.

“Big mouth,” Donald said. “Could fit the whole thing in there, including the balls. It was amazing.”

“OK, Donald,” the hat said.

“No gag reflex. Just tremendous. Starred in that TV show about cops.”

“Well that narrows it down,” the hat said.

“Is that from a song?” Donald asked the frightened social secretary who stood frozen in the Oval Office. “I knew a girl from Ohio once / She gave great head,” he sang tunelessly. “Neil Young, maybe?”

“Young sang a song about Ohio, but there wasn’t anything about getting head in it that I remember,” the hair said.

“All songs should be about getting head,” the hat said gruffly.

The secretary stared at the hat and the hair on the desk for a little too long.

“Uh, I think we got a live one,” the hat said.

“Then shut up,” the hair whispered.

The hat and the hair sat like a hat and a toupee, motionless and quiet until the secretary stopped looking at them.

“Mr. President?” she finally ventured.

“Who are you?” Donald asked angrily. “What are you doing in here? Don’t have have any goddamn security?”

“You asked to see me, sir. To help coordinate your trip to El Paso.”

Donald picked up his hair and jammed it onto his head roughly. He perched the hat on his shoulder like a devilish parrot and said, “Speak! I have no secrets from my advisors.”

“Advisors?” she asked, looking around the room.

“These two idiots,” he said pointing to the quiescent hat and hair. “They bicker like old women, but they keep me on the straight and narrow.”

The social secretary made an effort to close her gaping mouth.

“Let’s get down to business,” Donald said. “I want to ride in on a pegasus. A white one.”

“A pegasus, sir?”

“Winged horse. From Greek mythology. I guess we hired you on looks alone.”

“Sir?” she asked in a pained voice.

“Wait, did you sign your NDA yet?” Donald asked.

“Yes. I mean, yes, sir.”

“Good. Grand. Gramendous. I said, ‘I guess we hired you on looks alone.’ That’s me suggesting you aren’t very bright. Unlike me. I’m a genius.”

“Yes, sir,” she said.

“Tell me that I’m a genius,” Donald ordered.

“Y-you’re genius, sir,” she said.

“Kind of skinny, but you’ll do,” he said. “Watch this.”

Donald slammed his hand down on the Diet Coke button and one rose from a slot in the desk. The disembodied voice of Shania Twain sang, “MAN, I feel like a woman!” Donald giggled and knocked the unopen can of soda on to the floor.

“MAN, I feel like a woman!” sang Shania again and a Diet Coke rose.

“MAN, I feel like a woman!” sang Shania again and a Diet Coke rose.

“MAN, I feel like a woman!” sang Shania again and a Diet Coke rose.

“I can have all I want!” Donald crowed.

The social secretary nodded as she back out of the room.

“Hey,” Donald asked her. “Anyone ever tell you you got a yuge mouth?”

Marianne Williamson had a big night in the Democratic debate. Here are 7 things to know about her.

“Marianne, my Marianne, how I swoon,” Donald dreamily.

“She’s a loon,” the hat said, “A California raisin.”

“Don’t say that,” the hair snapped.

“Say what, snowflake?” the hat asked.

“The California r-word!”

“California retard?” the hat asked, mystified.

“You know what I’m talking about,” the hair replied. “They were all black in the commercials. Singing Motown? One had a saxophone?”

The hat snorted in disgust.

“Marianne,” Donald said again. He let out a gasp of breath to fog the icy can of his Diet Coke and drew a heart with an arrow through it through the condensation with a trembling finger.

“She’s not your type at all, Donald,” the hair said. “She’s all astrology charts and moonbeams. She called you a dark psychic force of collectivized hatred.”

“I like the moon,” Donald said. “I’m going to go there someday. I’ll feed Space Force troops their first Interplanetary Thanksgiving.”

“OK, Donald,” the hat said, scrolling through Donald’s phone and retweeting and replying with vicious taps of his bill.

“Maybe I’ll dress up like a turkey!” Donald exclaimed.

“I don’t want to go into space, Donald,” the hair said.

“You’ll probably be dead by then,” the hat said distractedly.

“What do you mean by that?” the hair asked.

“Just what I said,” said the hat. “Dead. You. Time. No Space Force for you.”

“Oh, go, I don’t know, fuck a chair or whatever,” the hair said weakly.

“There’s not a stick of furniture in this whole damn building I haven’t had,” the hat said coldly.

“I wonder if Marianne will look pretty in space,” Donald asked no one.

“The desk you work at, the bed you sleep in, the credenza where you store your fancy-damn towels,” the hat continued. “I’ve fucked them all!”

“You’re a monster!” the hair cried.

“And you love me for it! Worship me for it!” the hat screamed.

“Would McDonald’s make for a nice first date?” Donald asked.

“Like the whole desk, too,” the hat said.

“Ugh,” the hair grunted and raised himself up off the desktop with his ambulatory tendrils.

“But, like, not just any McDonald’s, like my favorite McDonald’s.”

“You love it,” the hat said to the hair.

“But how do I choose my favorite McDonald’s? It’s like having to choose between my children.”

“It’s a real Sophie’s Choice, Donald,” the hat said.

“Ivanka, obviously,” the hair said, stepping carefully to the edge of the desk, jumped to Donald’s shoulder and then to his head.

“Oh, yeah, that too,” the hat said with a leer.

“FUCK!” the hair yelled.

“Who’s Sophie?” Donald asked. “Is she prettier than Marianne?”

Julián Castro Earns Acclaim For Including Trans Community In Impassioned Call For Reproductive Justice

“OK, Julián, we’re going to go back to prepping for the next debate,” his press coordinator said into the microphone as the embedded campaign reporter for Vox limped off the stage, pressing a bandage to his face.

“I’m ready,” said the small and shiny man. He was alone on a mock debate stage, standing behind a podium, intense lights glaring down at him, an audio track of a boisterous audience playing on the speakers above and around him.

“We’re going back to the question of abortions for transmen,” she said. His press coordinator was a beautiful Latinx transbinary womxe in a wheelchair named Mariana that he met on a recent campaign stop. He could barely hear the chug chug chug of the breast pumps suckling her testicles.

“You said,” she said, “That you supported free abortions for transwomen. Do you understand the issue with this statement?”

“Yes, I corrected myself on Twitter. Transwomen cannot get pregnant. Yet. Not until single-payer health coverage pays for womb transplants.”

“And what are transplants?” Mariana asked archly.

“Vegetables or fungi assigned at birth as animals,” Julián replied.

“Very good. Now tell me what you should have said in the first debate.”

“I support free abortions for transmen,” Julián said.

“Just transmen? Some non-binary individuals have uteruses. Do you not support free abortions for them?”

“Of course, I do!” Julián said, indignant.

“So?”

“I support free abortions for people with functional uteruses.”

“Functional? That’s awfully ableist.” Mariana rolled her wheelchair back and for emphasis.

“I support free abortions for anyone with a uterus?” Julián asked.

“Very good. Now, on to sexualities. How are these transmen and non-binary people who have uteruses getting pregnant?”

“Sex with men?” Julián speculated.

“Men? Transmen are men and they can’t get anyone pregnant,” Mariana snapped. She reached under her peasant dress and switched out one of the bottles on her testicle pump and packed the full bottle into a cooler.

“People with func– people with penises?”

“Yes.”

“Then I support free abortions for gay people with uteruses and non-binary people with uteruses who have sex with people who have penises.”

“Who said that the men with uteruses are gay? A transman and a transwoman could be in a completely heterosexual relationship.”

Julián looked up in the air and did some mental calculations.

“So a transman with a working…”

“Ableist!” Mariana snapped.

“Just let me work this out,” Julián said. “A transman with a working uterus and a transwoman with a working penis and testicles in a relationship are heterosexuals and I want to ensure the government pays for his abortion.”

“And some transmen and non-binary people have sex with cismen,” Mariana said.

“Gay cismen?”

“Not necessarily. A cisman that has sex with a non-binary person is a pansexual.”

“A person with a penis and a person with a penis having sex isn’t a gay relationship?” Julián asked, his smooth face wrinkling with the strain.

“Or a non-binary person with a uterus. That is also a pansexual relationship.”

“So a person with a uterus and a person with a penis can be in a heterosexual, homosexual, or pansexual relationship?” Tears began to roll down Julián’s cheeks.”

“Yes,” Mariana said impatiently. “A transman has a male uterus and a transwoman has a female penis. I don’t see what’s so hard for you to grasp. And don’t forget the bisexuals. That’s a big base for you to go after.”

“What about a non-binary person with a uterus and a non-binary person with a penis in a relationship? Are they gay or straight?” Julián asked.

“Neither and both. Again, they are pansexuals. One has a theyterus and the other has a themenis.”

“OK, I think I got it,” Julián said.

“About time,” Mariana groused. She stood up from her wheelchair, stretched and sat back down.

“I support free abortions for any trans or non-binary person with a uterus who has sex with any trans or non-binary person with a penis, regardless of sexual orientation,” Julián said and issued smile #3.

“What about rape?” Mariana asked. “Are you just going to forget about rape?”

Julián sighed heavily.

“I support free abortions for any trans or non-binary person with a uterus who has sex with or is raped by with any cis or trans or non-binary person with a penis, regardless of sexual orientation,” Julián triumphantly.

“Now in Spanish!” Mariana barked.

“Apoyo los abortos gratuitos para cualquier persona trans o no binaria con un útero que tenga relaciones sexuales o sea violada por cualquier persona cis o trans o no binaria con un pene, independientemente de la orientación sexual,” Julián said, rolling his R’s around his mouth like a rich toffee.

Mariana clapped thinly.

“OK,” she said, “Now that we have those three votes all locked up, let’s take a break and then practice your answers on Medicare for All Undocumented Dead Pets.”

Julián nodded and crossed to the chair on the stage and sat it in heavily. His head and hands and feet hinged open and the rats inside working the levers came pouring out.

Trump triples down on his controversial tweets about ‘The Squad.’ Here’s what we know.

“Which one of you did it?” the hair asked as Donald and his hat wandered into the Oval Office.

“Did it? Did what?” the hat asked, giggling.

“The tweets, dammit,” the hair said. “The tweets about the Congresstwats.”

“Congresstwats? That’s, like, all of them. And the guys. You are going to have to narrow that down,” the hat said. Donald was giggling along with him.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” the hair said coldly.

“Ah, yes, The Intersectionality Caucus… so brave, so brown,” the hat said.

Donald sat down in his desk chair and sighed contentedly. “Nine sausage, egg and cheese McMuffins. A personal record,” he said, smacking his lips.

“You fucked it all up,” the hair said, stabbing an accusing tendril at the hat. “We had Pelosi and those dipshits at each other’s throats. They’ll rally together behind this.”

“The base was looking hungry,” the hat said and yawned somehow. “I threw them a little red meat. Only so many spic kids in detainment at the border to keep them all tingly in their underneathers.”

“Deterrent!” Donald yelped. “Go home and clean up your own shitholes! I’m thirsty!”

“Hit the Diet Coke button, Donald,” the hat said. “Go on, I rigged up something special for you.

Donald stabbed the big red button. A section of his desk opened and an ice-cold Diet Coke rose on a small platform. Small diamonds of condensation began to form immediately.

“Sparkly!” Donald squealed.

“Look up,” the hat told them. “I had them put little lights in the ceiling to get that effect.”

“You had them?” the hair asked.

“Presidential email. I got bored one time you asswipes left me behind,” the hat replied.

“It’s almost too beautiful to drink,” Donald said in a breathless whisper.

A thousand skinflutes played a thousand melodies to keep Him dreaming, and the dream slipped the veil between worlds and coalesced into words.

“We should, like, totally impeach him,” Sandy said, not looking up from her phone. “Those tweets are totally racccccccccccist.” Illy and Sheedy and Anna shuddered at the vocal fry Sandy managed on the last word.

“The impeachment process will be a difficult one,” Illy said quietly. “And I do not wish to come to this restaurant again. There’s is nothing a believer can eat. Pig is in everything.”

“And the chef is Jew,” Sheedy said, glowering at the kitchen.

Anna put down the rib bone she was gnawing on and said, “This is a very famous barbeque place. It was on an episode of House of Cards. Best ribs in the district.”

“There is no god but God,” Sheedy muttered and moved even further away from Anna’s plate.

“<Pig eater,>” Illy said under her breath in Arabic and touched her headdress reflexively.

“I love pork!” Sandy said. “I’m a Porko Rican!” She took another picture of her uneaten food and giggled.

“<What is donkey brain even talking about?>” Sheedy asked Illy.

“<I think they put pork in the water glasses,>” Illy said. “<Don’t drink it.>”

Dancers weave around Him, also part of the Dream and the Dreaming. His voice rings out.

“SELFIE!” Sandy screamed and pulled them all toward her. “Smile everybody!”

“<Her pendulous udders are touching me,>” Sheedy hissed as Sandy snapped dozens of pictures with her phone. The restaurant began to empty, angry customers grumbling.

“#SquadGoals!” Sandy screeched. “#Impeach45, #GirlPower, #BrownGirlMagic, #Resist. We, like, need our own Pride month!”

“#FreePalestine,” Sheedy said.

“Oh, poo, I already sent it,” Sandy told her.

“Then send it again,” Illy said coldly. “You are worse than my brother’s penis.” Sheedy barked out a few mean laughs until she saw that Illy wasn’t smiling.

“Squad, squad, squad,” Sandy sang. “We are The Squad!”

Blinded priests begin to sing to Him, and the Dream shifts.

“Unhand me, I say. Unhand me, woman!” a Southern voice came from the hallway.

“What the hell is going on out there?” the hair asked.

“The Queen of South Carolina is here to see you, Donald,” the hat said dryly.

“I demand to see the President!” the voice came again.

“Lindsey, my friend,” Donald called. “Let him in boys.”

Lindsey came into the Oval Office, straightening his suit and smoothing his hair. “I have never been treated so shabbily.”

“Lie,” the hat said, making the hair laugh.

“I don’t enjoy rasslin’s with your Secret Service boys, Donald,” Lindsey said, finally composed.

“Lie,” the hat said again.

“Oh, thop it,” the hair lisped.

“Ah am here-a to offer my service to you, Mistah President,” Lindsay said, his accent thickening like cold oatmeal.

“Service?” Donald asked.

“Protection, Don-hald. Ah will protect yew from the depredations of this Ferriner Squad of upstart women.”

“Upstart,” the hat echoed.

“One might even say ‘uppity,’” the hair commented.

“Ah shall use my delicious white body to protect yew, Donny,” Lindsey said, dropping into a defensive crouch. “Yew just point me at’em, an’ Ah’ll pull my trigger right at them!”

“He has to understand what he’s saying, right?” the hat asked the hair.

“Who fucking knows?” the hair replied.

“Use me, Don! Use me against those dark commie gashes! Use my white body! My white body is yours!”

“A resholushun,” Nancy said. “That ish the anshwer!”

“A resolution, a condemnation of his shameful concoction of racist tropitudation!” Chuck chortled.

“Impeach!” Sandy said from her storage crate. “I was a bartender! I have an economics degree from BOSTON University!” Nancy kicked her crate.

“I’ll never go back to Puerto Rico! It’s a shithole!” the freshman congresswoman screamed. “Dead bodies are everywhere! There was a hurricane! The governor says mean things! #hashtag!”

“Call him a Jew,” Illy hissed. “There’s nothing worse.”

Chuck let out an embarrassed cough, making his droopy moob-meat quiver.

“A resolution?” the hat said. “They passed a resolution?”

“My how we have been lightly wrist-slapped,” the hair said.

Donald wondered what they were laughing about as he struggled to put on a new roll of toilet paper in the grand confines of his lavish Presidential Shitter.

“These are the best sports stars we have?” the hat asked too loudly. “A bunch of dykes and some Wimbledon jailbait?”

“What?” the hair asked. “Coco is adorable.”

“No,” the hat said. “No, no, no, no. Read me. Read what is on me, on my body. ‘Make America Great Again.’ There’s nothing great about a bunch of Title IX clitflickers kicking a Eurofag ball around.”

“Oh, c’mon.”

“It’s boring. It’s a boring sport. That’s a goddamn scientific fact.” The hat crawled to the Diet Coke button on the desk and humped it for emphasis.

“It’s the most popular sport in the wor…”

“BOOORRRRING! And ugly girls. So ugly. What’s her name, Rapenow? Woof. She looks like a Subaru hood ornament!”

“Alex Morgan is gorgeous,” the hair said. “She’s America’s ex-girlfriend, the one you never really ever get over. And she’s married to a guy. A straight guy.”

“Bait and fucking switch. It’s like a roller derby team, one or two hot Suicide Girls and the rest look like tattooed hams.”

“You’re just cruel.”

“You just can’t handle my brutal truths.”

“What I can’t handle is when you get like this,” the hair said. “It hurts me. It just hurts me.”

“You moan like a merkin.”

“Code Red!” Donald screamed as he ran into the Oval Office.

“And Ariel is black?” the hat asked. “What the fuck is that shit? We can’t get a fucking hot redhead?”

“Code Red! Code Red!” Donald said again, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“What is it, Donald?” the hair asked.

“The courts! They said I can’t block people on Twitter!”

“I can’t block people on Twitter?” the hat asked, outraged. “Fucking commie judges.”

“The First Amendment…” the hair said.

“Stop being the voice of reason!” the hat raged. “It’s such a thin basis for a character!”

“You’re a talking hat! Totally unrealistic!!”

“The sentient hair says I’m not realistic!” the hat screamed. “Not realistic! Ha!”

“Advise me, dammit,” Donald demanded.

“Get off Twitter,” the hair snapped. “It’s full of retards and journalists, which are just a fancy type of retard.”

“I am not a retard!” the hat screamed.

The closest White House secretary to the Oval Office crept forward and pulled the door closed as quietly as she could.