“WHAT THE HELL DID YOU TWEET?!?” the hair demanded as the ponderous door of the White House toupee vault finally closed, magnetic bolts firing home loudly.

“His phone was just lying around,” the hat said smugly.

“So you just tweet whatever?” the hair asked.

“Obama tapped our phones,” the hat said, “I know it happened. Jeff knows it happened. I just told the truth.”

“The truth? There’s no evidence that Obama ordered a wiretap!” the hair exclaimed.

“Evidence? Who fucking cares about evidence? Look at how they are scrambling. They pulled Clapper out of his iron lung to deny it. Clapper! He lied to Congress and they think he’s still a credible source.”

“What happens when they find out Obama never ordered a wiretap?”

“They can’t prove he didn’t do something! Did you drink some bad shampoo? Did your IQ suddenly drop? I can say anything I want!” the hat screamed.

The hair sighed loudly and in the quiet that followed, Donald’s collection of ties rustled behind them.

“What was that?” the hair asked.

“It’s probably nothing,” the hat replied, “Don’t be so paranoid.”

“I think someone’s out there…” the hair whispered.

“We are in the toupee vault in the White House. This is the most secure location in the entire world.”

The bolts fired themselves back into the wall like a series of rifleshots and the vault door began to open.