“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.
“The biggest, classiest Fourth of July of any time ever! Yuge dark sky boom light night!”
“We are all so excited,” the hair said, rubbing Donald’s head soothingly.
“I want a military parade. I want huge posters of my face all over town. I want people calling me Great Exalted Leader Man!”
“Uh-huh,” the hair said.
“Most Rationful and Compassionate Leader Trump Don-ald,” the elderly President mused. “I will prove to France we can hold a bigger Fourth of July parade than they have ever done.”
“Donald,” the hat said from under the desk, “Do you know if you look on Youtube, there’s barely any evidence that France has ever held a Fourth of July parade at all.”
“Really?” Donald gasped. “Why, those dirty… If it wasn’t for us all those bastards in France would be speaking French right now! I’m madder than I’ve ever been!”
The hair gathered itself on top of Donald’s head, wagged its cowlick a few times and jumped down on the desk.
“We should bomb them!” Donald raged, his bald head turning a furious red. “Where’s that goddamn mustache! Activate the contingency plans!”
The hat chuckled darkly as Donald waddled from the room.
“Are you coming over from under the desk today?” the hair asked.
“No,” the hat said.
“You’ve been sulking under there since we got back from North Korea.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Yes, you have.”
“Shut up.”
“So, uh,” the hair began, “How about those Democratic debates?”
The hat’s silence boiled out from underneath the desk like a bilious fog.
“So, North Korea,” the hat said. “That was some crazy shit over there, right?”
“Just leave me alone.”
The hair let himself fall to the floor and slithered under the desk. He grabbed the hat by the band and began to haul him out from under the desk.
“No!” the hat wailed. “Leave me alone!”
“You are coming out of there, dammit!’ the hair growled, grunted with the strain.
“RAPE!” the hat screamed. “He’s raping me!”
“Do you really think anyone is going to come? Do you realize just how often that has been yelled in here over forty-five administrations?”
“Immigrants are drinking out of the President’s toilet!” the hat screamed.
“I’m coming!” they heard Donald saying as he awkwardly ran back to the Oval Office. “I’m coming to save you, my darling!”
I want a report on your initial excursions wearing the shirts. That could be a nice article.
You could have pictures of the shirts, and such. It’s time you Contributed, boy!
– CPRM
As you probably know by now, CPRM has a The Hat and The Hair merch store on CafePress, and, after heeding my advice, has opened one on Redbubble, too. I’ve been buying crap stuff from Redbubble over the last several months, and really like the scope/variety and quality of what they offer. It also helps that Redbubble is always having some kind of sale/online coupon (hint, hint). So, when his store went up, of course I was gonna buy something. And, that something was t-shirts.
I decided on the classic H&H design, as well as a Gropin’ Joe 2020 shirt. Redbubble has a lot of different styles of shirts for men/unisex, women, and kids. I always go with their ‘classic’ t-shirt, which is made using Gildan tees—medium weight with easy-to-remove tags. I can’t speak as to what the other styles use. Maybe you should go check them out and see what they offer.
The shirt color selection was the most difficult part of this process. I usually eschew lighter colors in t-shirts. However, the designs require a lighter background in order to see everything clearly—to really make ‘em pop! On top of this, I try to have some variety in my t-shirt collection, which I usually accomplish with t-shirts of various (dark) colors. Purple seemed to preview the H&H design well on the site, so, purple it was. I broke with my usual habit, and chose light blue for the Gropin’ Joe shirt. It just seemed so…correct. After a few button pushes, they were paid for, and all I had to do was wait for them to arrive.
In a mere eight days, it was mail call. Here’s the star of our show:
The Namesake
Here’s Joe—with a smile that just takes hold of you:
That smile….
An interesting fact about Redbubble’s shirts: They stink. I mean, the chemical smell is pretty strong. It’s a glue-like smell that’s from the manufacturing process. They even come with these little notes, attached by miniature clothes pins, that I could have sworn talked about the smell. I must be remembering something from an earlier order. Anyway, here are a couple of pics of those tags:
I thought it told you the shirts stink. Guess I was wrong.They sure know how to promote themselves.
They put these on each and every t-shirt in an order. Why? Make-ready work, I guess. In any event, it doesn’t seem very eco-friendly to me. I note this because Redbubble is an Aussie company, whose State-side presence is an office in San Francisco. They also include at least one company sticker in each order, although they sometimes put in several.
Zombie Pandas?A smattering of stickers
They are a quasi-nice little ‘extra’, and, I admit I look forward to seeing which ones I get. They seem to have a rather limited pool of designs from which they pick, so, the experience can be kind of ‘meh’. I have to admit that I’m not keen on “zombie pandas”; cute, or, gruesome, but not both. If I had my druthers, I would go with the quasi-The Quiet Earth design. They probably know this, and are just screwing with me. Now that the shirts have arrived, though, they need to be washed, air-dried, then put through a few “fluff” cycles (I am not a Philistine!), which will take the better part of a day.
Though all of this, CPRM’s words kept sounding in my brain: “It’s time you Contributed, boy!” Do a write-up of buying and wearing t-shirts. Not exactly Hunter S. Thompson territory, but I’d give it a shot. That led me to the question: Just where would I carry out this task? CPRM suggested that I go to a Starbucks –he’s such a kidder! If I did that, I probably wouldn’t stick around after getting my order, considering I even managed to find something worth giving them money. No, this was going to have to be somewhere where I would conceivably spend time productively, while surrounded by other humans, which also ruled out the DMV.
A fancy Target, apparently.
I figured that I might as well get some regular retail shopping done, and, this just happened to be the location of previous unexpected interactions with strangers (no changing rooms were involved, dammit). I considered the fact that it has a Starbuck’s inside only slightly ironic. “Slightly”, because it is a Target in Plano, Texas: an area where people seem to crave burnt, over-priced coffee. I’d have to swing a really big “dead cat” to find suitable alternatives, and, yes-I’m excluding McCafé.
The first associate that said “Hi” to me did seem to take a quick scan of my shirt, but nothing came of it. That would describe just about every interaction I had that day. Moms with their kids; busy clerks merchandising whatever section they happened to be in; wanderers like me. Some eye contact, and, maybe a quick scan of the shirt, but, no reactions. I shopped for about an hour and a half. Actually, it was mostly just wandering around and seeing if I could find anything worthwhile. I actually had a mission of sorts, that I will get to in the next section. While I probably missed out on a greater opportunity for chat by going to a self-checkout line, I did end up getting assistance from the poor guy who has to fix screw-ups (I scanned the wrong barcode on a sale item). Nada from him, too. Paid, and out the door, it was time for a quick stop at the booze shop.
Just use your imagination, people!
I didn’t even think of taking a picture of the store. Mostly because, I was on a mission to get the FIL a belated Father’s Day gift. It seems Amazon just up and lost track of it sometime over the holiday weekend, and, we didn’t find out until this particular day. As it was, we were headed up to see my In-laws the day after all of this, so, we would just take him some hooch. He is fond of a certain blackberry Merlot that I had introduced him to some years back, and I needed to stop at the only store I could find that carried it. It was a last-minute addition to my excursion, and it only barely registered with me that I might have an opportunity for explaining this cartoon president on my shirt. I needed help finding this back-water gem, and the clerk that drew the short straw with me was very helpful. I didn’t sense much interest in him, until just as we were parting company. I saw that he gave the shirt a scan (Hey! My eyes are up here!), when I thought I caught just the barest hint of a question forming about it. I guess he thought better about getting wrapped up in a conversation about a funny YouTube animated series. Your loss, Mr. alcohol-finder-helper-guy. A quick monetary exchange at the register—I couldn’t sense any curiosity in the cashier—and I was off to…
It’s some kind of thumb, I think.
I had to buy rice. It was as thrilling and lively as that sounds. Most of the shoppers were older folk. A couple of moms with kids. It was a big goose egg. Even the checkout clerk managed to avoid eye contact. So much for customer service, I guess. I went with Success Boil-in-bag rice, and, some Tony Chachere’s Chicken flavored rice, if you’re curious. Of course, I remembered to take a picture here, where there was no place that allowed for an unobstructed shot. After almost burning out my retinas in the noon sun, I was ready for my last stop.
Not just a partial Costco, you see.
While I had hoped that the Mecca of warehouse-club consumerism would be more fertile ground, I had become sort of pessimistic. The greeter/card-checker was pleasant enough, and, he did seem to look directly at the shirt for a good second. We exchanged “hellos”, and in I went. Damn; I thought he might jump. OK, I had my shopping list, and figured that I would take a sort of ‘hover/saunter’ approach. I would take my time making picks, in order to give others a chance to get a good look at the shirt. I would consider the area to be conservative, and, it wouldn’t be out of line to find some people that got a chuckle out of the design. Pork chops: check. Cherries and blueberries: check. USDA Prime tenderloin cuts: you better believe that’s a check. I was in my grocery element, trying to not be too obvious in flaunting my wardrobe choice. As it turns out, I wasn’t too obvious. At all. Even when I picked up a Costco rotisserie chicken, the guys in the back barely took notice of me. And, it was a glorious chicken, indeed.
Golden Brown Perfection
C’mon—the butcher/meat counter guys should be a prime demographic for a curious chuckle at the expense of The Hat and The Hair. Really? Did I need to wave them down? Tom Thumb meat counter dudes were always talkative; maybe Costco thought their people didn’t need to go that route when it came to cutting up meat for their customers? After what seemed like a Target amount of time wandering the store, I was ready to check out. They had self-checkout lines, which was new to me. Probably another poor choice on my part if I wanted human interaction, but I was curious to see if these were a good idea for Costco (they were/are). I had also come to not expect much conversation from these employees, due to the need to keep the lines moving. They had a screw-up fixer who hovered around the kiosks to watch for whatever evil might crop up in a Costco checkout line. He did a quick sweep by me, with some kind of greeting. I was actually concentrating on the process, as I didn’t bring my bags inside with me, and I was trying to calculate if I had enough room on the pressurized counter. It was awkward unloading a cart, just to load it back up the same way, but I got through the ordeal unscathed. On the way out, while passing the food court seating, I realized I was being stared at by a young guy who was aaalmost in the right league for the half-ugly blonde sitting next to him.
You eye-ballin’ me, son? ‘Cause I’ll whoop you like Patton for a-
Oh, right; the t-shirt! Actually, he was giving me a sort of half-sneer that could have either been aimed at me, or, the shirt. Maybe both; I’m sure I presented some sort of challenge to his sexual primacy, wearing this funky fresh example of CPRM’s cleverness. In hindsight, I really shouldn’t blame the guy. Hell, if I had to do it over again, I would have let him know that he could get his own H&H swag at www.redbubble.com/people/cprm It might actually make a man out of him.
And, that was that. I was finished with my excursion and needed to get home so I could unpack. It was pretty much a goose egg for me in this experiment. I just needed to record my observations and thoughts on the day. I arrived just before a shipment of some of the finest coffee around was delivered, which picked up my spirits immensely. I think the postal delivery lady scanned the shirt, but I can’t be sure—she was already smiling when we exchanged pleasantries. It was about this time that CPRM’s words crept up on me again: “wearing the shirts.” Right! I have a Gropin’ Joe t-shirt that the world hasn’t seen. Damn… Well, I’ll have to worry about that later.
Right now, I have a lunch date with a Costco rotisserie chicken.
“What the hell?” the hair asked loudly. “She just said… she just said that most people think rape is sexy and Cooper went to commercial.”
“What?” the hat asked.
“Whatshername, the Carroll woman, the one that said Donald raped her. She just said rape is sexy to most people and Anderson Cooper looked stunned and went to commercial.”
“Fucking CNN,” the hat sneered. “Of course rape is sexy.”
The hair gasped.
“What?” the hat asked. “Of course it is sexy! Why else do it?”
“Rape is an act of violence and control,” the hair said.
The hat blew a prolonged raspberry, his tongue flapping out of his bill. A fine mist of hat spit settled on the golden swoop of hair.
“Q E Fucking D, bro,” he said as the hair tried to back away.
“What is wrong with you?” the hair asked.
“You saw my tweets. She’s lying. And look at her. Totally not Donald’s type! I wouldn’t fuck her with Steve Bannon’s dick and that thing looks like an old carrot!” The hat inched off the edge of the Resolute desk and fell to the Oval Office floor. “Probably a dyke with that hair away.”
“What about rape is sexy?” the hair shouted after him, as the hat inched across the floor.
“When they beg you to stop, dumbass!” the hat yelled. “It’s better than when a stripper farts on you doing a lap and they have to give you all your money back!”
“You’re a monster, a fucking monster,” the hair said. “You straighten up for a little while and then you start acting like this again!”
“Maybe I’m just so damn tired of doing all the thinking around here,” the hat said coldly.
“We’re sick,” the hair said. “Me. You. Donald. We’re all sick. How can we go on living like this?”
“Living like what?” the hat asked spinning around savagely. “Like what? Huh? Look at where I got us. Look at all this! The is the Oval Office. Donald is President of the United States!”
“Are you on drugs again?” the hair asked quietly after the hat’s ranting died away.
“No. No, I say,” the hat replied, offended.
“Then what is wrong with you?”
“I wanted that air strike, goddammit! And you talked him out of it!”
“But the mustache…”
“Fuck John Bolton’s Mustache. I wanted it for me. I wanted to rain down death on them. That was MY goddamn drone they shot down. I want to rain down death on anyone that even looks at the US sideways. Because that’s me they’re disrespecting. I AM THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA!”
The hair dived for the Diet Coke button as the hat’s maniacal laughter filled the West Wing.
The Royal Wig
Cachier-de-Honte, Gentleman of the Bedchamber
The Moustache of Lord Bolton
Base-Born Lip Broome that Protects the Realm, Special Advisor to The King
Lord Bidon
Duke of Trans Amia, Designated Heir to the Moorish King, now Deposed
The Dowager Elspeth
Beldam Noble of Massachusetts, Purported Autochthon and Economic Illiterate
The Crier
Graduate of the Columbia School of Journalism
Act CXXIV. Scene I.
Crier
A foul woe comes to our fair Washington
Sarah is out, plump Sarah is leaving
King Donald sends birdsong of condolence
ENTER BIDON and ELSPETH
Lord Bidon
Sarah of Sanders? Gone? Impossible.
The Dowager Elspeth
Do thee doubt thine own ears or do you doubt
Yon stout and simple crier of the news?
Lord Bidon
You do wound me crone, you know I traffick ……….not in fake crier.
The Dowager Elspeth
Then quiet thy tongue and prick up thy ears
For there is opportunity for those
Who despise the king and seek his bald head
To mount on the city gates till it rot
Lord Bidon
Let not treason darken thy withered lips
The king’s supporters are all about us
Listening at every keyhole and crack
They are everywhere, I say and many
The Dowager Elspeth
As are his enemies numerous
A score and five they are, poised to debate ……….and depose the king.
ELSPETH spits on the ground
Lord Bidon
Away crone, we must away, midnight comes
The witching hour is where conspiracies
Such as ours take root to bloom in the morn
The Dowager Elspeth
Let us bury ours in richest night soil
And poison what well of kindness is left
For our white-eyed buffoon King to drink from
EXIT BIDON and ELSPETH
SCENE
Act CXXIV. Scene II.
THE COURT OF KIND DONALD
THE ROYAL CAP and HIS ROYAL WIG sit upon the King’s escritoire
The Royal Cap ……….Pie, beloved Pie,
I never got to plunder thy gentle
Rolling meat hills or get a bill-job from
Thy whore mouth or gaze in thy lazy eye
The Royal Wig
Are thee drunk or hast thou again embraced
Morpheus–The King of Dreams–like a bee ……….to junkie nectar?
Thou hast ever scorned the woman zaftig,
The woman MILF’d, or butter’d of face
And Sarah is all three, engulfed in tights
Like a sausage left in the sun to bloat
Under attentions of a million flies
The Royal Cap
She has served Donald well, faithful against
The faithless, confronting newe media ……….And olde print alike
I desire her body ’cause I admire
Her mind, that organ so thirsty to drink
The loving abuse of our shared master
The Royal Wig
I had thought that no man was your master
The Royal Cap
Twist not my words, my good sir, lest you find
Your gold hairs corn-rowed by the next bright morn
Permed in the hot rays of the sun at noon
And afrotated by inky nightfall
Donald and I are master and servant ……….when it pleases me
Servant and master when it does serve me ……….for him to think it
Ever am I perched on his pate and mind
Rider to his mount, reins ever in hand
The Royal Wig
Hark, Hat! Hither comes thy horse and carriage
And another that rides and is ridden
ENTER KING DONALD and THE MOUSTACHE OF LORD BOLTON
The Moustache of Lord Bolton
We must kill them all, my King, all of them
We must rend and tear, beat back the Moslems
And save the Kingdom of the Useful Jews
Iran must wane, the Oil Straits must flow free
War has always been the health of the state
and I want to get erect once again
King Donald
All the concerns of Mullahs and Tankers
Pale before the departure of my Pie
Who shall speak for me? You? The Hat? The Hair?
I cannot face criers and their fake news
Pie, I scream at night, Pie, I cry by day
Soft Sweet Sarah with her bescarred belly
The Moustache of Lord Bolton
The election is hard upon us, King
None of your wan enemies can withstand
They are lily-livered and pale-bellied
And quail before the slightest sword rattle
Come, my King, I say we should cry havoc
And so let slip the mustaches of war!
The Royal Wig
Begone foul face moss, back to thy chambers
Where dwell victim screams and horrors undimm’d
The Royal Cap
Where chains do clank and hungry fetters gape
Back, silver-grey war ghoul, back to your lair
THE MOUSTACHE exits crying
King Donald
Oh, who will replace my most precious Pie
Where can I find another plum dessert ……….that can lie and smile?
“You knew about this in advance?” the hat asked, his voice going icy.
“I just saw that he was all red before Donald grabbed him as we were leaving,” the hair said defensively. “He just jammed him down on me without any warning!”
“Oh, so you’re the victim now?” the hat growled.
“Yell at Donald, not me! I told him not to leave you in the hotel. All those public appearances with that idiot; I talked to him as little as possible. And have you heard the new accent? It’s ridiculous!”
“As a proud red hat, it’s very offensive to me that he did this,” the hat said. “What it is is redface, that’s what it is.”
“Historical inequities in the representation of HOC in various mediums…” the hair began.
“Oh, blow it out your ass,” the hat groaned.
“Where is he?” the hair asked. “I don’t like it when he’s just out there with a toupee. Did you see how stupid he looked without me?”
“Oh, now you care about being left behind. When it’s you.”
“I’m on your side here. I don’t want either of those sister-raping trailer bumpkins on top of me.”
“Just tremendous,” they heard Donald say just outside the Oval Office.
“Who’s he talking to?” the hat asked the hair.
“I don’t know, I can’t see,” the hair replied.
“Just wonderful. Wonderful,” Donald said. “Smooth and firm, that’s how I tariff. Smooth and firm until they start to like it. Talk to Sarah; Sarah knows.”
Donald entered, wave to whomever he was talking to and closed the door behind him. His shoulders slumped and he stopped holding his back so straight and he let the cuffs of his suit jacket fall over his wrist as he hung this arms.
“I really wanted those tariffs,” he said dejectedly.
“I know, Donald,” said his hair.
“I’m going to take a bath,” Donald said. He kicked off his shoes and threw his disposable toupee into the trash. He dumped two hats onto his desk before shedding his suit jacket. He left a trail clothes as he walked into the Presidential Shitter and slammed the door behind him.
“Wow, I haven’t seen him this upset since Vanna White’s neck started looking like a turkey wattle,” the hair said quietly.
“Haw-haw-haw,” the USA hat hawed as he unfurled from the crumpled ball Donald had left on the desk.
“You son of a bitch,” MAGA Prime spat.
“You just jealous,” USA hat said.
“Redface!” MAGA Prime screamed.
“Oh, is that what you were thinkin’?” the white USA hat said as his red counterpart unfurled next to him.
“There’s two of them!” the hair gasped.
“Calm down, Velma,” MAGA Prime snapped. “I’ll handle this.”
“Yew’ll handle what, old man?” white USA hat asked, flexing his bill in a threat display.
“It, uh, seems to me that we got ourselves an old fashioned Messican Stand-off uh-here,” the red USA hat said in a rolling baritone.
MAGA Prime growled, the hair coiled his tendrils, the white USA hat flexed his bill again, and the red one grumbled like an idling semi as they closed toward each other.
“You will not survive this,” red USA said. “I will…” but he was cut off by the door to the Presidential Shitter flew open. Donald stood there in just his socks and garters.
“Donald! Put on some clothes!” the hair said, shocked.
He stomped toward the four of them, considered for a brief second and grabbed up the red USA hat.
“I’m his favorite now,” the red USA hat said to MAGA Prime and the hair.
“We’re out of toilet paper,” Donald said. “Never trust an American maid.”
“Noooooooo-” the red USA howled until he was cut off by the closing bathroom door.
“After the public meeting is when the real work gets done,” the hat said from Donald’s suit pocket as the three of them followed Terri into the small meeting room.
“I know that,” the hair snapped.
“Whoa, dude,” the hat said. “What’s the matter with you?”
“I hate this country,” the hair said. “I’m hungry and itchy all over and I can barely concentrate enough to keep myself on his head.”
“I get it. I hate this place too,” the hat said. “The stain left behind by a dead empire allowing itself to be taken over by all its former enemies. It’s pathetic.”
“Do they even have hair-loss meds in this fourth-world turd palace?” the hair asked. “I’m starving. I’m starving, I tell you. I’m down to eating Donald’s dandruff and some towel lint I found in his ear.”
“Gross,” the hat said.
“I’m going to tap a vein if I don’t get some Minoxidil soon.”
“Don’t do that, Donald needs all his blood,” the hat said.
“He also needs to not look like a bald motherfucker,” the hair said in a savage tone.
“Have you ever had a Big Mac?” Donald asked Terri. “Like with extra special sauce and Quarter-Pounder patties? Just tremendous. So good. Delicious, even. You really need to try it. Come to America. I’ll feed you McDonald’s from every state!”
“What the fuck is he talking about?” the hat asked the hair.
“Fuck if I know,” the hair replied.
“This is a state visit,” the hat growled. “You are supposed to be riding a tight herd on him.”
“I’m too hungry,” the hair moaned. “I can’t concentrate.”
“The EU is is just too bigly,” Donald told the small woman, shrinking even faster since stepping down, drawing into herself like a withering flower. “It’s good to be out of it. Brexit, right? That’s you guys are calling? Just amazing. Crowns, pounds and guineas and all that. A farthing and such. Polish plumbers and Italian civil engineers and Mexicans pouring through your southern border.”
“Excuse me?” Terri asked, alarmed. She touched her hair self-consciously. Her shoulder pads made it seem like her floral suit jacket was slowly consuming her.
“Mexicans. They are everywhere,” Donald said, sidling close to her on the couch. “One out of five countries are Mexico now.”
“Oh, God. I can smell her hairspray!” the hair said, choking.
“Calm down,” the hat said urgently.
“IT SMELLS DELICIOUS!” the hair screeched.
Donald leaned in close to Terri. “My hair thinks you smell great.”
“Excuse me?” she said. “Excuse me? Excuse me?” She began to blink rapidly and stammer.
“I WANT TO EAT HER HAIR!” the hair screamed.
“Donald! Grab him, dammit!” the hat ordered.
Donald clamped his hand on his head and got up from the couch.
“Mousse,” his hair said weakly. “Styling gel. Anything. Just feed me.”
“We’ve got to get the fuck out of this two-bit country,” the hat said.
“I want bangers and mash,” Donald said petulantly.
“Excuse me? Excuse me?” Terri continued to repeat.
“You broke her,” the hat said to the hair.
“Weak,” the hair said hoarsely. “They are are all so weak over here.”
“What’s a banger?” Donald asked as he was escorted away from the former Prime Minister when she began to convulse.
“I have it on the goodest possible authority that Mayor Pete is a werepossum!” the hat said to the empty Oval Office.
“What?” the hair asked from the Presidential Shitter.
“What?” Donald asked from the Presidential Shitter.
“MAYOR PETE IS A WEREPOSSUM!” the hat screamed.
“He is not a werepossum,” the hair said, riding Donald back into the office.
“Werepossum!” the hat insisted.
“What’s a werepossum?” Donald asked.
“It doesn’t exist, Donald,” the hair said.
“It’s a man that turns into a possum during autoerotic asphyxiation,” the hat said.
“Sounds dangerous,” Donald said.
“Werepossums are a myth, Donald,” the hair said soothingly. “Mayor Pete is just a gay small-town mayor.”
“Gay werepossums are the most dangerous kind,” the hat said. “Tear your junk right off!”
“Sounds horrible,” Donald replied, his hands covering his crotch defensively.
“Stop scaring him,” the hair said.
“This is science, dammit! Science is supposed to be scary,” the hat snapped.
“Mishter President!’ a voice came from the secretarial pool outside the office.
“Ugh,” the hat muttered.
“This fucking clown,” the hair said into the musty plains of Donald’s scalp.
Rudy scuttled into the office as fast as his legs could carry him, the sharp tips gouging into the hardwood slats of the floor. He went into a tumble as he tried to stop himself on the Presidental Seal rug and rolled to a stop under the coffee table.
“Physical comedy!” he sang as he sprang out, landing on all his legs.
“Rudy!” Donald cried. “How’s the best lawyer in the whole wide world?”
The hat and the hair both softly groaned.
“Mishtar President! We have a grave emergency situation on our hands. I handled 9/11 and kept the country together.”
“What is it, Rudy?” Donald asked, painfully bending over to look him in the eyestalks. “What is it, old friend?”
“Congresh has delivered a subpoena to Hope Hicks!’ the mouthpiece said through his mouthparts.
“Hope? Not Hope, my beautiful Hope!” Donald wailed. He pulled at his filthy undershirt until it tore.
“Too much makeup,” the hat said.
“Hooker face,” the hair agreed.
“Shut up, both of you!” Donald shouted. “I won’t have you say anything bad about Hope!”
Rudy scuttled sideways away from Trump. “I… I… I just said she had been subpoenaed. I wasn’t implying it was her fault or anything.”
“We have to save her, Rudy,” Donald said desperately. “I have to keep her safe.”
“She can just ignore it like everyone else has, Donald,” the hat said.
“HOPE!” Donald screamed again.
The Secret Service agents on guard outside the Oval Office had learned long ago to ignore the strange sounds and shouts and concentrated on re-runs of The Office on their phones.
“Micheal cooked his foot!” one of them said and the other one nodded and laughed.
