Thursday, August 27, 2015
The Hat and the Hair: Episode 1
“Why do you put the hat on me, Donald?” asked Donald’s hair.
“Don’t listen to him, Donald,” Donald’s hat whispered. “He’s always hated me. You know he’s always hated me. I am truth, Donald. I love you.”
Donald’s pubic hair rustled in agreement. Or maybe the limo just lurched.
“Would you two fucking shut up for just a minute?” Donald groused. “I need to concentrate!”
He squeezed the tip of his glans, forcing his urethra to gape open. He guided the 100mg Viagra in with forceps and pushed it down the shaft of his penis as far as he could.
“Are you sure that’s how you are supposed to do it?” Donald’s hair asked.
“Pipe down, feathery,” Donald’s hat growled. “The man knows what he is doing.”
“I have to be ready for Iowa. Iowa is YUGE! I need to be YUGE!” Donald told his hair.
He grabbed a handful of the blue pills from a candy dish and shoved them in his mouth. He chewed them into a paste and washed them down with a tumbler of 20-year cognac cut with Bud Light Lime.
Thursday, August 27, 2015
Hillary: The Becoming: Episode 1
“But I need it,” Bernie pleaded.
“It’s not easy, Bernie. It takes a minute,” Hillary said. She reared up from her squat and dropped back down, a low grunt rumbling forth.
“Is it coming?” he asked, looking back over his shoulder. “I need it. You have it. I want it. Give it to me.” He was whining. His weakness made her sick and aroused. She strained again and something inside her snapped like cheap sunglasses.
“OK, Bernie. It’s starting,” she said.
“Oh, thank Atheist God! Thank you, Atheist God! You have bestowed your nonexistent blessings upon us this day!” Bernie started to sway, still on his hands and knees.
“Shut that shit up. I still need to concentrate!” Hillary screamed. She waddled forward in her squat. Her prolapsed vagina slowly inflated into a rigid pseudopenis.
“I’m going to core you, Bernie,” Hillary lisped. “Core you like a crisp Vermont fuckapple.”
Wednesday, September 23, 2015
The Hat and the Hair: Episode 2
“Why did you say those mean things about Carly, Donald?” his hair asked in a whisper. His staff were right outside and Donald’s hair was afraid of being overheard.
“I didn’t say anything about her looks, I was just talking about her looks. You of all my friends should know this!” Donald replied in his own urgent whisper.
“Lay off him, hair,” Donald’s hat said. “He’s doing the best he can.” The hat had plans for America and no stupid hair was going to stand in its way.
“Fuck off, hat.”
“No, you fuck off!” the hat screamed. It was shivering. It hated the hair so much.
“I never said nothing bad about Carly. I love Carly. I love the mutilated ruin of her diseased tits!” Donald screamed at them both. Tears were streaming down his face.
“Calm down, Donald. They’ll hear you,” his hair hissed.
“I don’t care,” Donald sobbed. “Melania doesn’t love me anymore. Dumb bleeding cunt. Why doesn’t she love me?”
“She’s 44, Donald,” the hat said. “It’s time to dump her and get a new model.”
“Don’t listen to him, Donald,” the hair said. “She still has a few more years left in her.”
“You’re sticking it in something born in the 1970s, Donald,” the hat said. “Don’t you want some young tail? At least some 80s quim, juicy and tender?”
Donald smiled dreamily, “Ivanka was born in the 80s…”
Donald’s hair and his hat both sighed heavily.
“You want to take it this time?” the hat asked.
“I fucking hate you so much,” the hair replied.
“Donald,” the hair began. “We’ve talked about this before…”
The hat and the hair both fell silent when the door opened. A technician peered through the fogged glass of the revival chamber.
“Señor Trump?” he asked. “Do you need something? I heard you talking, but the microphones could not pick it up.”
“Go away,” Donald said, clutching his hat to his sweaty chest.
Tuesday, October 3, 2015
Hillary: The Becoming: Episode 2
“What’s bred in the bone comes out in the flesh,” Hillary whispered. The sickly smell of corrupted meat was the only perfume she ever wore and it raced from his nose straight to his penis on a wave of blood. His erection sprang into her hand and she clamped down on it with a hideous grip.
“You’re weak, Joe,” she whispered, raspy and hoarse. “Everyone knows it. Spineless like your father; meek like your mother. You were created by cowardice and a coward you are.” She squeezed the blood from his penis and glanced down to watch it rush back in after she released it. “This is all you’ve ever been good for, a cheap fuck in a train toilet.”
“That… that… that’s not true,” he stuttered. He licked at the slack skin of her neck as she forced the blood out his erection again. She wadded his penis up like a FOIA request and bore down. It felt like his scrotum would burst.
“You can’t run,” she said, the puckered asshole of her mouth barely moving.
“P-p-p-lease,” he whined, he whimpered, he said in a wet sob. She was crushing his penis into his body. She caught up his balls in her other hand and caressed them into one large bruise.
“You won’t run,” she said. “I’ll tear it off and fuck you with it. I’ll deglove it and use the skin as a condom when I fuck Bernie. I’ll suck the maggots from the wound and spit them in your mouth. You won’t run.”
She dug her thumbnail into the underside of his penis, feeling the tendons under the skin. Joe moaned in terror and pleasure. “You won’t run. You won’t run. You won’t run.”
When he fainted, she squatted to urinate on him.
Wednesday, October 14, 2015
The Hat and the Hair: Episode 3
“It’s gonna be YUUUGE! YUUUGE! I swear! But it might take a minute!” Donald rasped. His hair smirked at his limp penis.
“It’s fine,” Hillary said. “It happens to all guys. Just hurry up. I can only act like this is a faggoty-ass pancake breakfast for so long before the Benghazi Committee will add it to the agenda.” She toyed with Donald’s MAGA hat, twirling it around her finger.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” the hat moaned.
“I guarantee you won’t be the first thing that’s ever thrown up in this creature’s lap,” Donald’s hair said.
“Am I at least doing a good job, Mommy?” Donald asked. “Am I distracting them like you and Daddy told me too?”
“Yes, Donny. You’re doing a very good job of being a dumbass,” Hillary told him. “And you’re going to be ‘yuge,’ I promise.”
She threw the hat down and parted her vast thicket of pubic hair. Her labia open with the sad grumble of old Velcro and her gnarled clitoris emerged. “Does this help? Are you getting hard, Donny?”
“I’ll get hard for you, Mommy. Donny will get YUUUGE for Mommy!”
“This is disgusting,” his hair said.
“It really is,” said the hat from the floor. “At least I’m half under the bed. All I have to see is her horrible thighs. They’re quivering, dude. Quivering.”
“I really hope he doesn’t go down on her,” the hair said. “It smells like a litter box down there.”
“I’m trying to CONCENTRATE!” Donald yelled at them both.
“I know you are,” Hillary said. “Mommy is very proud of you.” She lifted her legs for him and farted like a startled trumpet.
“OH GOD, YES!” Donald gurgled.
“What in the name of all holy fuck does this old whore eat?” Donald’s hair managed.
“Huma,” the hat chortled. “And whatever rancid cockcheese Michelle leaves all over Barry.”
“Oh, fuck. Don’t make me laugh,” the hair choked out. “It’s so thick up here I swear I can taste it.”
“You don’t have a tongue,” the hat said.
“You think that matters? You get up here and soak in the hot garbage coming out of her horrid nethers for a while.”
“Please be quiet,” Donald whispered.
“What was that?” Hillary asked, looking up from her phone.
“Nothing, Mommy,” Donald said. He began to twirl his flaccid tycoon like a lasso, hoping to rouse it from its frightened slumber.
Thursday, October 22, 2015
Hillary: The Becoming: Episode 3
“You don’t have to do this,” Joe pleaded as Hillary shackled his left leg. “I did what you wanted. You saw the news conference!”
“Too late! Too late!” she crowed. “You lingered like the stink you leave in Amtrak bathrooms!”
She moved in, the hot corruption of her breath crawled over his face.
“Good old Joe,” she whispered. “Everyone loves Joe. Everyone loves Joe’s wife.” She pulled off his tie and slit the neck and arms of his sweat-stained dress shirt.
“Everyone loves Joe’s kids, especially the dead one.” Hillary gathered up the crotch fabric on his dress pants and pulled. She used the razor to cut along the inseam on both sides and then ripped them off his waist. Joe began to sob.
“No one loves Hillary’s beautiful baby, not even that moron we paid to marry her and knock her up. Why is it, Joe? Why does everyone love you so much?” She cut his boxers off and stuffed them in his mouth.
“This is some fucked up shit, yo,” Donald’s hat whispered.
“Shut up you idiot. She might hear you,” his hair replied.
“I don’t know why I have to be here,” Donald said, to no one. Hillary turned on him, slashing the air with the razor.
“Because I want you here. I want you to witness what happens to those who betray me!” she screamed.
She pounced on Joe and sliced off his right nipple with a single motion of the blade. He screamed through his underwear. She picked up the nipple off the floor and ate it.
“Um. Meaty. I wonder what other parts of you are good?” She squatted in front of him and smelled his genitals intently, like a dog getting the last whiff of old piss from a hydrant.
“God, Joe. Your balls smell so good. Like honey and old Bibles.” She made a small, careful cut along the seam of his scrotum and licked. “But your blood, Joe. Not so good. Are you dying, Joe? That would be a real fucking shame, right, Donald?”
“Yes, Mommy. Whatever you say,” Donald said. He farted wetly and a long string of anal beads clattered on the warehouse floor.
“Pick those up!” Hillary screamed, her pendulous breasts wobbling with rage.
“You know what, Joe?” she asked, turning back to him. “You did do what I asked, I guess. Maybe a little late, maybe not when I told you too, but you did OK. I think you deserve a reward.” Joe’s eyes went wide with terror. He began struggling to free himself, straining at the shackles.
“Yeah, Joe. You know what’s coming, don’t you? You’re going to get the ass, Joe.” She turned and bent over. Joe screamed again, a pathetic sound. Underneath Joe’s screams, Donald could hear the eager gnashing as she backed toward the bound man.
“I wish he had left me in the car,” the hat said.
“He never leaves me in the car,” the hair moaned.
“Who said that?!?” Hillary screeched. In the rafters of the warehouse, a bird died and fell to the floor.
Monday, October 26, 2015
The Hat and the Hair: Episode 4
“Yeah, baby. Flip it. Flip that pancake, bitch. One side is all toasty, the other all gooey. Aw, yeah… gooey.”
“Will you shut up? He’s trying to concentrate,” Donald’s hair told Donald’s hat.
“Maybe he should concentrate on that huge boner he got from shaking hands outside,” the hat said, giggling uncontrollably.
“I don’t know why you think it’s so funny. It happens every time.”
“Press the flesh,” the hat managed, gasping for air with his little hat lungs. “I’m going to have him wrap a gooey pancake around that hard-on and fuck one of these MILFs.”
“I hate Iowa,” Donald’s hair said. “The whole state smells like Walmart wiped its ass with it. But I think New Hampshire might be worse. Clean air, wholesome people, trees. I fucking loathe trees. Oh, shit… here comes that asshole, Matt.”
“You know, rumor has it that he’s been fucking Natalie for years,” the hat whispered.
“You’re shitting me,” the hair replied.
“No, seriously. One of her kids even looks just like him. Oh, man. I’d love to bust her taco. I’d put my spicy sauce in her, fill her up like jizz barge.”
“You don’t even have a penis.”
“Neither do you, faggot.”
“I’m not a fag, you’re the fag. Adjustable strap faggot.”
“I hope he drops you in a toilet again,” the hat hissed.
“I hope you’re donated to the National Presidential Museum of Huge Faggotry. I hope a janitor jacks off into you and there’s blood in it,” the hair spat back.
“That’s it, motherfucker. This is happening right fucking now!”
Donald’s hat and hair began to fight on top of his head, grunting and cursing. Donald’s hand clamped down on them, but Matt’s eyes were wild with fright.
“Stupid wind,” Donald said. “When America is great again, I’m going to get rid of wind. Except for kites. Kite wind is OK. I love kites. You and Natalie ever fly kites together? Does her pussy taste like fajitas?”
“You’re worse than Biden,” Matt said. “At least he only tries to touch my dick.”
Monday, November 9, 2015
The Hat and the Hair: Episode 5
Donald’s agonized wail echoed through the vast confines of his underground lair.
“Dammit, Benji! It was my time. MY TIME! I WAS GONNA BE YUUUGE!” he screamed. Ben’s face was frozen in mid-grimace on the enormous televisual monitorscope.
“Oh, fuck… here we go,” his hair muttered.
“Goddammit! Get him to turn me around or put me on or something. I can’t see anything!” the hat said from the couch.
“You don’t have eyes, asshole.”
“Would you shut up about my anatomy? It’s becoming very hurtful.”
“Why are they paying attention to Benji? I was on Saturday Night Live! The whole country loves me!” Donald sobbed. He blew snot into his hand and went back to his mournful masturbation.
“Straighten up, Donald!” his hair said. “You have to be better than this, stronger than this.”
“I don’t want to be strong no more. I want my Mommy,” Donald said. His whine sickened his hair and disgusted his hat.
“Hillary’s off caramelizing Bernie’s apple, you pathetic fuck,” the hat screamed. Donald only cried harder.
“You are not helping,” the hair told the hat.
“They love Benji now. Benji’s gonna be YUUUGE! I could be a doctor. Give me a fucking knife!”
“Uh, yeah, we’re not going to do that,” the hair said.
“NURSE! SCALPEL! SHAVE THE PATIENT! I’M GOING IN THROUGH THE BALLS!” Donald screamed.
“Can’t you shit some Thorazine into his brain?” the hat asked.
“We’re just going to have to ride this out,” the hair said. “Hopefully he’ll be fine by the morning.”
“I got ideas about pyramids, too!” Donald mumbled. “I think that there are three nipples on the Earth and milk will flow if we suck hard enough. Enough milk for everybody. EVERYBODY.”
“Jesus titty-fucking Christ,” the hat said.
“I wanna poop on a pyramid! BUY ME A PYRAMID!” Donald wailed.
Tuesday, December 8, 2015
The Hat and the Hair: Episode 6
“I am just saying what everyone is thinking,” Donald moaned. “Why are people so mean to me?”
“I don’t know, Donald,” Donald’s hat said. “They are probably just jealous of your genius and your money and your gorgeousness.”
“And your hair,” Donald’s hair said. The hat snorted in disgust.
“Everyone hates Mexicans, right? I mean, they are filthy and rapey and smell like old corn. Everyone knows this. I just want to keep them out of the country. I just want to keep the country pure.”
“Of course, Donald,” his hat said.
“And Muslims. Everybody hates Muslims, right? Everyone knows they all want to kill us. Every single one of them. Why can’t I keep them out? Why can’t I be the big brave dog that barks at them to keep them out of our yard?”
“You will be, Donald,” the hat said. “Only you are smart enough to know that they all want to kill us. Letting them walk around is just like putting a gun to your head and pulling the trigger.”
“Jesus,” the hair mumbled.
“Shut the fuck up, twat. I’m running the show now. Listening to you let that mumbling retard doctor rise in the polls,” the hat hissed.
“Nobody knows how hard it’s been on me,” Donald whispered. “What a struggle it has been.”
“Wouldn’t it be nice to just burn all your troubles away?” the hat asked.
“Burn?” Donald asked.
“Fire is clean,” the hat said. “Fire is pure. Fire tempers out the weakness in even steel. We have to make America strong again. Make it great again.”
“Do you even know what you are starting?” asked the hair.
“I said shut up. I have the morons on my side now, those too weak to see that they will be next. They will do what I say,” the hat said, its brim gleaming in the far-off light of the sunrise.
“Burn,” Donald whispered. “Burn. Burn. Burn. They’ll all burn.”
Wednesday, December 2, 2015
“This doesn’t make me a faggot!’ Ted screamed as Marco rammed his penis into him again and again.
“Yes, it does,” Marco moaned. “You’re my faggot, Ted. I’m making you my faggot. I’m going to fuck you inside-out.”
He pulled his penis out and spit into Ted’s gaping anus. He made The Silent Duck with his right hand and pulled Ted’s asshole on like a tight glove.
“Oh, Gawd, Marco! Oh Gawd! I feel like I’m taking every shit I ever took in reverse! Oh Gawd! Oh Gawd! Oh Gawd! I want to fuck Jesus!” Ted let out an animal howl as Marco sank into him up to his tanned elbow.
“I can feel what you had for lunch, you spicy little bitch,” Marco crooned. He pulled out his arm and smacked Ted in the face, leaving a black smear of shit and blood.
“Lick it clean, you fat fuck. Or I stick down your throat and tear out your heart,” Marco said.
At the first run of Ted’s tongue down his forearm, Marco’s cock vomited chunky semen on Ted’s tits. But Ted began to cry.
“What is it, mi corazon? Did I hurt you?” Marco asked. Ted’s entire body began to shake. Marco peppered his face with kisses.
“Please, please tell me what is wrong,” Marco begged, tears in his voice.
“I’m just so afraid, Marco,” Ted blubbered, snot streaming from his nose.
“Ted. Calm down, Ted. There aren’t any transgendered people here,” Marco whispered, running his hands through Ted’s greasy, thinning hair.
“Their penis-pocket dresses are rustling. I can hear them with my special ears,” Ted whispered. He curled his doughy dadbod into a tight fetal shape and began to suck his thumb.
Monday, January 25, 2016
The Hat and the Hair: Episode 7
“This is going to be horrible,” Donald’s hair whispered.
“Stop whining, bitch. At least you aren’t jammed in his back pocket,” Donald’s hat grumbled.
Sarah stumbled out on the stage, waving to the crowd of braying retards the campaign had recruited from the line of people waiting for blind dates at Frisch’s Big Boy.
“What in the holy fuck is she wearing?” the hair asked.
“Dammit. What does it look like? Tell me!” the hat demanded.
“It’s… I don’t really fucking know. It’s like a half cape covered in, I dunno, stainless steel ziti, maybe?”
“Say what? Oh, Christ, Donald! I think he had nothing to eat yesterday except hard-boiled eggs.”
“It jangles,” the hair said, with growing horror. “I think she made it herself, some sort of deranged Bedazzler seizure.”
“I told you we should have got appearance approval,” the hat said.
“Her handlers said no. They said they’d rather shock her back into her crate and take her back to Mooserape, Alaska.”
“Son of a fuck. It’s like Fart City, USA down here,” the hat groaned. “Wait… what did she just say?”
“No clue, dude,” the hair said. “It’s like a homeless street preacher. You just sort of tune her out after a while. I think she rhymed ‘holy rollers’ with ‘rock ’n’ rollers.’”
“I can barely hear down here in assland,” the hat said. “And the crowd noise.”
“They are pretty much cheering and clapping at random,” the hair sneered.
“Sarah is a genius. Sarah is wonderful. I love Sarah. Sarah is so smart. And the crowd is all geniuses. Geniuses. You two should shut up. You two shut up about Sarah. I don’t care about much weight she’s put on. I love her,” Donald muttered.
“Calm down, Donald,” the hair whispered. It massaged his head to soothe him.
“Yes, calm down,” the hat said. “And please stop farting.”
“I’m not farting,” Donald said, his words almost lost in the torrent of madness from Sarah and the sounds of the crowd touching themselves. “I’m making my butt cheeks clap for Sarah. My dear Sarah.”
Wednesday, January 27, 2016
Bernie Interlude 1
“I want you to rub your mutton flaps on me, Mr. President. I’m from Brooklyn. I can handle it. And I want to pay Negros like you 15 dollars an hour to rub your mutton flaps all over America,” Bernie said. Aides all over the room gasped.
“I hear you, Bernie. And I understand,” Barry said. “Clear the room.”
Aides began to shuffle out. A dildo dropped out of one and bounced limply to the floor.
Barry pointed at the Secret Service guards on the door of the conference room. “You two as well.”
“But Mr. President,” one began.
“No. Out. I need to speak to the Senator alone.” Barry watched as they left as well, securing the doors behind them.”
“Tell me more about these mutton flaps, Bernie.”
“Mr. President? Have you ever rubbed 29 different brands of deodorant on your balls at once? I am from Brooklyn. I’m tough. I’m a street fighter. And I’m telling you, it’s not easy. 10 brands. Anyone can do that. 10 is nothing. Nothing. 15? Now you’re talkin’. 15 is a man’s number. That’s why it should be the minimum wage. Even for Negroes. I love Negroes, Mr. President. That’s why I am worried about their balls. Their nutsacks. Cojones. Testicles, Mr. President. I’m talking about testicles.”
“The Affordable Care Act mentions testicle care,” Barry said. He could feel the ruin of his penis filling with blood.
“That’s not good enough. We need single payer Negro testicle care and deodorizing. Every other civilized country in the world takes care of Negro testicles better than we do. Every one of them, Mr. President.” Bernie’s hair stood up his on his head like fierce white flames. “And for less money too! Often less than 15 dollars per Negro testicle.”
“What about white people testicles?” Barry asked. He began to rub his crotch on the corner of the conference table.
“Reparations! White testicle privilege! Not all be-penised and testiculated Americans deserve to be cared for in the same manner. Whites have gotten enough! I am from Brooklyn. I’m a scrapper. I care about black and brown balls!”
“The points you are making are perfectly reasonable, Bernie. I understand them completely.” Barry continued molesting the table corner, digging it harder and harder into his odoriferous scrotum.
“I can smell your balls, Mr. President. I’m tough. I’m from Brooklyn.”
Monday, February 1, 2016
The Hat and the Hair: Episode 8
Freshly laundered, sanitized, washed again by hand and radiation sterilized, the hair and hat rode proudly into Iowa atop a beaming Donald, freshly laundered, sterilized and tranquilized himself.
As the limo cruised to the first stop, the hair whispered, afraid of being overheard by the crushing array of aides that had stuffed themselves into the car with their deranged god, “Just kiss the babies, Donald. Just a simple kiss. No tongue this time.”
“But they are delicious,” Donald rumbled.
“Dammit,” the hat said. “You want a baby we’ll get you one after the caucus. Eat it, serb it, sacrifice it to Aqua Buddha, who cares? Just hold it together today.”
An aide threw a hand towel over Donald’s erection and dialed back his Cialis pump with a smartphone app.
“Let me out of here!” Donald screamed suddenly. “LET ME OUT!”
“We’re almost there, Mr. Trump,” another aide said. He had a jet injector full of ketamine at the ready.
“I AM THE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE!” Donald wailed.
“Look at his alpha waves. They’re like the goddamn Andes!” a technician squealed.
“Hit him! HIT HIM!” another screamed.
“Donald, straighten up,” the hair said. “We got important shit today.”
“OK,” Donald said in a small voice. “Will Mommy be there?”
“No, Donald,” the hat told him.
The limo slowed to a stop in front of a sea of old white people. Donald reached for the door handle.
“Remember, Donald… sic transit gloria,” the hair whispered.
Donald snapped, “Don’t you dare speak Mexican to me.”
Wednesday, February 3, 2016
The Hat and the Hair: Episode 9
“I should have done the debate,” Donald whispered into the dark confines of his SEX POWER DOME.
“That bleeder was going to be there,” the hat said. “You didn’t want to give it the satisfaction.”
“Fuck Iowa. Just a bunch of lard-ass Jesus-suckers. If they want to vote for that mouthwhore Carly, who cares?”
“But I barely beat Marco…” Donald cried. The antennae lining the interior of the SEX POWER DOME quivered, eager to drink his tears.
“He’s barely more than Ted’s cum dumpster. He wears heels, for fuck’s sake!” the hat told him.
Donald’s hair made a whimpering sound from the floor of the SEX POWER DOME; the hat sat directly on Donald’s bald head, the trucker’s mesh gently caressing his scalp. The dead girl cooled where Donald had thrown her when he was finished.
“Have them send another in,” the hat whispered. Donald’s blood-smeared penis sprang to attention.
“ANOTHER!” he roared.
After a moment, masked attendants shoved a nude blonde girl into the SEX POWER DOME. She was tall and starved skinny. She screamed and pleaded in some Eastern European gibberish.
“Ivanka!” Donald called. When the girl saw him–slavering, hulking, gross, erect, nude and bloodied–she screamed again. The SEX POWER DOME ate her screams, just like it was slowly digesting the body of the other.
“Ivanka! It’s Daddy!” As he reached for she backed away. He caught her easily, moving obscenely fast for a bloated plutocrat. She babbled hysterically in his grasp.
“Ivanka? What is wrong? It’s just Daddy.” Donald kissed her tenderly on the cheek as she squirmed helplessly. She screamed again when he bit into her face.
“It’s just Daddy,” he said, around chewing a gobbet of her.
He shoved uncaring fingers into the girl’s vagina and licked her tears from her face as he rammed himself into her again and again. When she fainted, he slapped her with that same bloody hand and let her fall to the floor. The hat was chortling in purest glee. The hair wept silently.
“Don’t you love your Daddy?” He knelt beside her and ran his hand along her smooth flank. Just below the ribs, he tore at her flesh with a madman’s strength. The girl woke and screamed again, her voice cracking, hoarse, dwindling to a croak.
Donald jammed his erection into the new orifice he had made in the girl as his hair screamed in terror and pity.
Thursday, February 18, 2016
The Hat and the Hair: Episode 10
“I want to use the girl’s room. I like to hear them pee,” Donald whined.
“You can’t use the girl’s room. You’re a boy, Donald,” the hair said patiently. It massaged his head with tender tendrils.
“They hiss when they pee,” Donald whispered.
“Donald. Tighten up. We’re down in the national polls,” the hat barked. “You are running for President. I have plans for us.”
“That dude is going into the girl’s room,” Donald said, pointing at a hulking figure.
“Stop pointing, Donald. It’s not polite,” the hair said.
“That’s a transwoman,” the hat said.
“What the fuck is that?” Donald demanded.
“It’s a boy that turned himself into a girl,” the hair said.
“I can wear a dress. I like dresses sometimes,” Donald said. An aide was watching him whisper to himself. She went back to her Blackberry after a moment.
“It’s not just a man in a dress, Donald,” the hat said. “They have a surgery.”
“Not all of them,” the hair said.
“Shut up,” the hat said. “Don’t confuse him.”
“Surgery? What kind of surg… You mean they cut off their pee-pee and bubbles?!?”
The incessant clacking of tiny keyboards ceased when Donald began to yell. Donald’s body man prepared his tranquilizer gun.
“Donald! Quiet!” the hair hissed.
“I love my pee-pee!”
“Donald! For fuck’s sake!” the hat said.
Donald began to stroke his beloved member through his suit pants.
“We have to get him to call off the Town Hall,” the hair said to the hat.
“Oh, fuck. He just took it out. Look for cameras,” the hat said to the hair.
“I love my pee-pee,” Donald sobbed, as sagged to the ground.
“Ah, shit. Now what are we going to do?” the hat moaned.
“Omega Protocol,” the hair said.
It thought, with all its coiffed might, at a nearby aide. The aide screamed. She reached out to the body man, blood streaming from her eyes.
“He must go out. The serum. Give him the serum,” she said, her voice robotic and precise.
The body man nodded, produced a large syringe from his travel pack, and jammed it into Donald’s neck. Synthetic adrenalin, methamphetamine and the refined semen of a mighty stallion flowed into Donald’s bloodstream. His eyes snapped open.
“Will this work?” the hat asked the hair.
“I don’t know.”
“What if he goes out there and just spouts gibberish?”
“It’s MSNBC… who gives a fuck?”
Friday, February 19, 2016
The Hat and the Hair: Episode 11
“Donald, do you really want to start a fight with the Pope?” the hair asked.
“Yes. Fuck him. Commie Pope. Filthy Brown Pope. Fuck him,” Donald said. He stretched in the blood-warm water of the Infinitus Pool and farted like a dying manatee.
“I don’t know, Donald. There are a lot of Catholic voters,” the hat said. The hat was perched on a shelf along with the hair, both far above the caustic waters of the Infinitus Pool.
“Leave me alone,” Donald grumbled. “I hate condoms just like I hate Filthy Browns. If Commie Pope wants to fuck with me, he’s going to find out what it’s like to get fucked right back. You mess with The Donald, you get The Donald right in your chocolate starfish!”
“The serum might have been a mistake,” the hair whispered to the hat.
“Yeah, yeah. He’ll be fine. The Infinitus Pool will restore him.”
“It’s just a hot tub, moron.”
“Donald doesn’t know that.”
“When was the last time the damn thing was even cleaned?”
“I told him the green slime was a luminous æther harvested from an organ only Muslim lesbians can grow.”
“What?” the hair exclaimed.
“And that it would make his whole body into an erection.”
“You’re mad. Simply mad.”
“He bought it, didn’t he? Look, you want to ride this moron all the way to the White House or not?”
Donald scraped a handful of mucosal algae from the side of the foul hot tub and began to rub it on his genitals.
“Look at him,” the hat said. “He’s an idiot that says whatever dumb shit we tell him to say. The only people dumber than him are the ones that want to vote for him. We’ve reached a critical mass of stupidity in this country. Now is our time! Donald is our way!” The hat began to cackle hysterically.
“What have I done?” the hair sobbed.
“Fuck the Pope!” Donald screamed, masturbating furiously, globs of algae flying into the air.
Friday, February 19, 2016
Bernie Interlude 2
“Do you want me to make you a woman, Bernie?” Gloria purred.
“Will it hurt? No. I don’t care. I’m tough. I’m from Brooklyn. Go on. Do it. Feminism. Women. Yeah!” Bernie said rapidly. He strained against the stirrups to spread his legs even wider.
Gloria slapped the enormous dildo she had strapped around her waist, making it flail wildly. She reached forward and cranked the speculum in Bernie’s anus to its widest setting.
“This is the only thing, the ONLY thing, that makes sense in the dialectical of historical oppression of the working class, Gloria. I had humble beginnings. Humble. I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth or in my ass. I’m from Brooklyn, Gloria. I’m tough. I’m like withered meat on a gnawed skeleton. Tough, Gloria.”
“Goddammit, Bernie. Do you ever shut up? I’m losing my artificial boner here.”
“I’ll be quiet, Gloria. This is your time. I understand that. I don’t need to talk.”
“Just shut up.”
“Oh, I’m shut up all right. Not a peep out of me, all right. Not a word. Enact your labor on my patriarchal ringpiece, Gloria. Make me valuable. MAKE ME!”
“I don’t think I want to do this anymore,” Gloria said, covered her breasts with her hands. She looked around the squalid false consciousness removal room, the glass-doored cabinets of where blood- and shit-covered dildos stood like silent soldiers of regret.
“What am I doing with my life?” she whispered.
“Gloria! Brooklyn! Marx! Rent control!” Bernie screamed, thrashing at his bonds. “Gloria!”
Gloria ran from the room and began to vomit loudly in the hallway.
Monday, February 29, 2016
The Hat and the Hair: Episode 12
“NO! I WON’T! I WON”T JUMP!”
“What the fuck is going on?” the hat mumbled. He was hanging from the rock-hard fake boob of a very classy hooker who was passed out in a very classy reproduction Louis XVI Gilded Fauteuil Arm Chair that she had dribbled piss all over.
“I WON’T DO IT!” Donald screamed.
“Hair? Where the fuck are you? He’s having another nightmare,” the hat said. “Wake him up.”
“YOU CAN’T MAKE ME JUMP!”
“Hair? Can you hear me?” the hat asked the darkened hotel room. After a moment, a message appeared on his cellphone.
Im udr the >hookr</em
teh hookr sat on me and Donald phone
lol, the hat sent back
not funy she keps farting cum on me
lmao, the hat replied
u dont have ass
wake her, get hr off me!!!!
hold on brb the hat sent him
“NO!” Donald screamed.
“Wake up!” the hat yelled. About 10% of humans could hear him: the broken, the weak, the insane. He tried to remember her name.
“Hooker! Wake up, hooker!” he screamed. He was sure he could get through to her. You didn’t get giant fake tits and let a Presidential candidate fuck you in the ass if you had a great childhood.
“NOOOOO!” Donald screamed again.
“Donald! Wake the fuck up!” the hat yelled.
The hotel room door beeped and Donald’s security rushed into the room. “Sir! Wake up, sir,” they yelled as they surrounded the bed. Donald tore himself from his nightmare and sat up.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.
“We heard screaming, sir,” his security chief told him. “Um, more than normal, sir.”
“I’m fine. It was just a dream. Get out. And take the garbage with you,” Donald said. Two of his security team picked up the unconscious prostitute and dragged her from the room as they left.
“I was having a terrible dream,” Donald said. “Everyone was urging me to jump.” He buried his face in his hands and began to sob.
“Are you OK?” the hat asked the hair.
“I’m stuck to this ugly chair with santorum, piss and hooker pussy drizzle… What do you think?” the hair asked.
“I don’t want to jump…” Donald moaned.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Donald,” the hat yelled. “I’ve told you a thousand times that’s not what Leap Day means!”
Wednesday, March 2, 2016
The Hat and the Hair: Episode 13
“Now say ‘You will endorse me!’” the hat whispered.
“You will endorse me!” Donald said.
“Now hit him with the chair leg again,” the hat said. His adjustable strap caressed the back of Donald’s head lovingly.
Donald swung the chair leg and caught Christopher on the right side, below the ribs. Pain burst in his body like fireworks shoved in a cake.
“You like that, fat boy? You like that, Mr. Chunky Monkey?” Donald yelled hoarsely.
“Mr. Chunky Monkey?” the hair asked.
“I don’t know,” the hat said. “He just comes up with shit like that sometimes.”
“You want a banana?” Donald asked, prodding Christopher’s bleeding anus with the ragged end of the chair leg. “You want a fucking plantain? I can get a plantain, you know!”
“Slow down there, buddy,” the hair told Donald. “Maybe take a minute.”
“You pie-eating piece of shit! Endorse me! ENDORSE ME! I’m going to be your fucking President, burrito buffet! I CAN DO ANYTHING!” Donald began kicking Christopher in the perineum, wing-tips buried into taint over and over again.
“Donald! Stop!” the hat pleaded.
“Donald! Don’t kill him!” the hair begged.
“BRING ME DISCO FRIES!” the candidate screamed.
Thursday, March 31, 2016
The Hat and the Hair: Episode 14
“I just want those aborting sluts to go to slut jail for aborting their abortions,” Donald muttered.
The hot lights of the Townhall set caused hair glue to soften and flow down Donald’s back. It made him feel lonely and small and vulnerable. His hair shifted when Donald looked up to squint at the lights.
“Oh, Jesus,” his hair whispered, digging into Donald’s scalp to hold on. He knew that if he flopped to the floor Donald would blame him. The hat chuckled darkly from where he was stuffed into Donald’s jacket pocket.
“Soft pedal that shit, Donald,” the hat said. “You don’t want to get the gashes all riled up. You know how they love their abortions.”
“We’ve got to put them in jail or what’s the point?” Donald muttered into his lapel.
“You can’t just say that,” the hair insisted. “You have to act all like it all the clinic’s fault, like the woman didn’t want to get an abortion, but like, hey, there was the clinic, so she just wandered in and it happened.”
“Fucking sluts,” Donald said.
“Hot mic, dammit. Hot mic!” the hat said. It began to hum loudly, hoping to drown Donald out.
“If that bitch Ivana had gone through with it, I wouldn’t have Ivanka,” Donald whispered. “My dear Ivanka. She sent me pictures of her post-baby pussy. It’s a mess. A fucking mess.”
“We know, Donald. You showed us it over and over again,” the hair said.
“He’s coming back,” the hat said.
Chris walked back on set, still stuffing his shirt back into his pants. He wiped his hands dry on his suit jacket as he sat down.
“You OK?” Chris asked Donald. “You need anything?”
“No, I’m fine,” Donald said petulantly.
“You want me to go back to the abortion stuff? I was looking at Twitter while I was trying to take a piss and everybody is really angry about it: women, the Christian right, Democrats, like, everybody.”
“I said what I think,” Donald grumbled.
“You sure you don’t want to do it now? Your team is just going to put out a press release tomorrow saying you didn’t really mean it.”
“Fuck off, Matthews. That’s never going to happen. I said what I meant and I mean what I say and I never retract or explain.”
The hair snorted loudly, despite its lack of a nose.
Chris squirmed in his seat. “Damn prostate. Not only can I not take a simple piss, it feels like I’m sitting on a goddamn apple.”
“Can we just get this over with?” Donald asked.
Tuesday, April 5, 2016
The Hat and the Hair: Episode 15
“Anáil nathrach, ortha bháis bheatha, do thuar dhéanamh!” Donald shouted into the night-shrouded darkness of midnight.
“Reveal to me! Reveal!” he screamed while profanities and blasphemies swirled around him on the night-wind.
“Isn’t that from Excalibur?” the hair whispered to the hat.
“Shh. Don’t break his concentration, you fool,” the hat whispered back.
They were both in places of honor on the wind-swept night altar, hastily constructed by Mexicans in the depths of the night-haunted woods of darkest Wisconsin. Their brown, broken bodies littered the ground and in the wind-flickered flames of a thousand candles, their blood shined as black as their illegal hearts.
“REVEAL!” Donald screamed again as his hot semen splattered the forest floor, steam rising from where it fell. A low rumble of thunder rolled through the nightwind blown trees.
“Yes! Show me how to bring Cruz to his knees!” Donald cried.
The hair sniggered and the hat let out a quiet, embarrassed cough.
Donald turned to glare at them. “To his knees in defeat. Defeat. Not like some sex thing,” he told them.
“Sure, Donald,” the hair said. The hat was shaking with suppressed laughter.
Sunday, April 17, 2016
The Hat and the Hair: Episode 16
“Go to sleep, Donald,” the hat crooned. “You have a big day tomorrow. Foreign policy briefing.”
“I’m my own best advisor,” Donald insisted. “I will consult with myself on every decision and every decision will be perfect because I’ll make it with myself.”
“Of course, Donald. And we’ll be here to help you as well,” the hair said.
“Myself!” Donald insisted, falling back on his pillow. “You’re just myself and I’m myself. Myself!”
“Yes, Donald. You are yourself,” the hat said.
“No,” Donald said, beginning to drift off. “You are me. You’re my hat and you’re my hair.”
“Just let the sedatives do their work, little buddy,” the hair said.
Donald’s eyes grew dark and heavy, his lids finally closing despite his agitation. After a moment he began to gently fart and snore.
“We’ll save a lot of time picking a Cabinet,” the hair whispered. “He can fill all the spots himself.”
“He’s had a hard day. Marco sent him a pic of his butthole. Said it was his resume for VP,” the hat replied.
“Where was I?”
“I think you were asleep. It was right after lunch.”
“Oh, yeah. He ate three pounds of potato salad for lunch. How am I supposed to stay awake after all that?”
“But, yeah. Just a big old pic of his butthole.”
“Ted isn’t going to like that.”
“What choice does Ted have?” the hat asked. “He knows Marco is the choicest piece of Latin ass he’s ever going to get.”
The hair and the hat chuckled companionably. In the silence that followed the hair asked quietly. “Do you think he’s right?”
“Right about what?”
“Are we just him? Like, are we just his imagination?”
“How would that work?”
“Instead of talking to us, he’s just talking to himself.”
“Fuck that,” the hat exclaimed. “I’m my own man. I’m not some figment of Donald’s imagination.”
“But how would you know?”
“How would I know what?”
“If you were just a part of his mind…”
“I am me, dammit. How could I know anything else?”
“What if part of his delusion was that you thought you weren’t part of his delusion?” the hair asked.
“Are you fucking high? Are smoking dope, hippie?”
“How would you know what you couldn’t know?”
“You always have to start this shit right before we go to bed.”
“Answer the question.”
“If I’m just in his mind, so are you,” the hat said.
“I very well may be,” the hair replied.
“I really hate you sometimes.”
“Maybe he just imagines that you hate me.”
“No. I hate you. If I know nothing else. If I can’t know anything else, I know that I hate you. My hate is real.”
Tuesday, April 26, 2016
The Hat and the Hair: Episode 17
“COLLUSION,” Donald roared. “CONSPIRACY!”
“You did this,” the hair muttered to the hat.
“You blame everything on me,” the hat shot back.
Donald took a handful of thinly sliced deli turkey and began to massage the cold, flaky meat into the hot flesh of his testicles.
“I love craft services,” Donald moaned. “Where is Corey? I want Corey!’
“He’s still outside punching women,” the hair told him.
“Beating up mouthy bitches is how we are going to make America great again,” the hat declared.
“Really? Quoting yourself?” the hair asked.
Before the hat could answer, Donald screamed again. “COREY!”
Donald dropped the ruined meat on the floor and used both hands to rub chive sour cream into his glistening nipples. A door opened and Corey was pushed through it before it slammed close again.
“Sir? You asked for me?” he asked nervously. Blood dripped from his torn knuckles.
“Collusion, Corey,” Donald said. “They are colluding against me. They are all against me.” Corey turned away as Donald pushed a series of three baby carrots into his anus.
“Are you OK, sir?” Corey asked.
“I hunger, Corey. I’m eating,” he said, spreading roasted red pepper hummus on the folds of his neck.
“Tell him he’s a long, tall drink of faggot, Donald,” the hat whispered. “Tell him to suck a carrot out of your ass.” Donald waved the hat’s words away like he was beset by flies.
“Whose blood is that, Corey? Whose colluding against me now?”
“Some bitch,” Corey replied. “She thought she could say anything she liked.”
“Who sent her? Ted? His little catamite Marco? Hillary? They collude, Corey. They collude against me. I’m so dangerous. I have to be stopped.”
“Yes, sir. Maybe all three, sir.”
“Come here, Corey.” Donald waved to boy toward him, flinging hummus around the room.
“Come over here!” Donald yelled.
“Collusion,” Donald mumbled as Corey walked slowly toward him.
“That was a really bad idea,” the hair whispered.
“What are you talking about?” the hat asked.
When Corey was close, Donald’s hand shot out, obscenely fast, and caught Corey’s wrist.
“Collusion,” Donald mumbled again and began to lick the blood from Corey’s knuckles.
“You should have never given him that ‘Word of the Day’ toilet paper,” the hair said.
Monday, May 9, 2016
“Did you see her walk? Runway walk. My God is that good. I could watch that runway show,” Chris said, out of breath.
“You’ve got a hot mic,” the voice said in his ear.
“Shut the fuck up, Valerie,” Chris said. “What kind of dyke are you if you can’t appreciate that ass? That’s a great fucking ass!”
Brian gestured frantically in Chris’ peripheral vision. He waved him away.
“Yeah, yeah, Brian. Your daughter’s got a nice ass too. But she never gives up the goods on that shitty TV show of hers. Is some titties so much to ask, Brian? I bet they are nice. Are they nice, Brian? You’ve probably seen them. Are they nice or not?” Chris was cupping his hands under his own man titties when the camera swung off him and to the crowd.
“Put that fucking camera back on me, Valerie. I’m sick of your dyke bullshit. I bet you don’t even trim for that poor girlfriend of yours. You probably got bush the size of a bicycle seat.”
The cameraman was bent over laughing but managed to bring Chris up on the monitors.
“Look, Trump says whatever the fuck he wants and he’s going to be the goddamn President. You want ratings? You want to keep shitty ass MSNBC on the air? Let me say what I want, you fucks.”
Brian grabbed for his microphone and Chris blocked his hand.
“Do that again and I’ll slap your whore mouth, Brian. I’ll slap you down and then piss right in your eyes.”
Chris made a show of scanning the crowd. “How do you say her name? Melaya or Melanie. Some hooker name. She’s 46 for fuck’s sake. Forty-fucking-six. At 46 my wife’s ass looked like a huge bag of chunky garbage. And Ivanka? Oh, yeah, man.”
A thick-set woman jumped in front of the camera Chris was speaking into.
“Really, Valerie? You left the fucking booth for once and this is what you drag your lumpy ass in here for? Call Gates. He’ll tell you to keep me on the air. I bet he’s laughing his shriveled up nerd balls off right now.”
Valerie flipped him off with both hands and stomped away.
“Hey, Brian,” Chris said. “Hey, Brian. Brian. Brian. Don’t ignore me. Brian. Brian. BRIAN! You very think Donald’s done ‘em both at the same time? A little third-wife/daughter action? DON’T IGNORE ME, BRIAN!”
Tuesday, May 17, 2016
Hillary: The Becoming: Episode 4
“There are pleasures you have never dreamed of, Bernie,” Hillary whispered. “I grow new ones every day.”
She tore off the sleeve of her heavy polyester blouse and showed him a row of nipples along the underside of her upper left arm. They quested about, thick, dark ends gulping at the air like dying fish, drooling a thick black milk. He lunged toward them, the slack asshole of his mouth emitting a maple syrup rot. She pulled them away.
“Bite them carefully. They bite back,” she said. Bernie groaned and hammered a fist into his dusty fuck parts. Hillary slapped him and cackled.
“What want, Bernie? Do you want me?” Hillary pulled down the side of her skirt. There was a vulva slit into the side of her hip.
“You can touch it, Bernie. Go on. This one might not tear anything off.”
His shaking fingers found her hipgina and thrust into her before she could move away. His rheumy eyes went wide as he stroked the pitted surface of her iliac crest.
“I never let Bill touch me anymore. He hasn’t fingerfucked my skeleton in decades.” Hillary said, the sound filling the cold spaces of the empty warehouse. She grabbed at the crotch of his shabby suit, his breath hot and sour on her neck.
“There’s nothing,” he grunted. “Nothing there since the 70s, dammit.”
“You’ll just have to be creative then,” she said.
She pulled his left hand around her doughy waist and guided him to a small constellation of buttholes set over her liver. He licked his finger as she panted, the sweet and meaty smell of death on her breath. He sank each of his fingers and his thumb into the five buttholes and flexed them like he was making a puppet speak. She farted from all five, delicate notes rushing past his invading digits.
“I want your equal outcomes, Bernie,” she said, forcing him to his knees.
The pseudopenis she had already extruded forced itself against her clothes. She pushed her skirt down and it sprang forth, the disapproving pucker of her cervix on the tip of the inverted vagina bobbing menacingly. She inched forward and swung her hips to smack him with it.
“Suck it, Bernie. Suck it,” she said. “I’m going to shit my uterus right in your mouth.”
Monday, May 23, 2016
The Hat and the Hair: Episode 18
“Oh, Vladdy… You’re the only man I let make me a woman,” Donald said, backing up on all fours like a ponderous meat truck.
“Beep, beep, beep…” the hat whispered and he and the hair giggled together.
“I vill make Amerika great again!” Vlad shouted, his penis becoming erect with the sound of a retractable baton being deployed. “Ve shall make sex like mighty ogligarks!”
“Make our cold war hot,” Donald demanded. He bent his spine with a series of audible cracks and presented his dilapidated anus like a bloodied rose.
“It vill be even better ven you are President like me,” Vlad said. He pushed Donald’s testicles up into his flabby body with the heel of his shoe and ground against them like he was trying to put out a stubborn cigarette.
“Oh Jesus, oh fuck, Jesus fuck. Don’t stop!” Donald shouted.
Secret Service men and SPB agents shifted uncomfortably from their respective corners of the playroom. One even coughed nervously as Vlad plunged his fingers into Donald’s asshole and splayed it open.
“I haft somethink for you, lapochka,” Vlad said.
He snapped his fingers of his other hand impatiently and motioned over a frightened young man in a stained labcoat.
“Give me the applicator, Yuri,” Vlad said.
Yuri’s hands shook as he unsnapped the clasps of the small metal case he was handcuffed to and handed Vlad the complicated device within. It looked like a medicalized paintball pistol. Vlad waved him away and he returned to his place along the wall. A SPB agent placed a hand on his shoulder as if to steady him.
“What is it, Vladdy?” Donald asked, craning his neck to see.
“What the fuck?” the hat asked the hair.
“I’m scared. Hold me,” the hair begged.
“Somthink just for you. My scientists haft spent years on this just for your sweethole.” Vlad eased the gun into Donald’s ass until it formed a tight seal.
“It vill be like a magical love fart, little one,” Vlad said, pressing the injector trigger.
Aerosolized cocaine, sildenafil citrate, amyl nitrite and ground ape testicles filled Donald’s sigmoid colon and he grunted loudly.
“You must hold in, Donald. As lonk as you can,” Vlad whispered.
Donald whimpered and writhed.
“Vlad!” he screamed.
“Give it time.”
“Oh, shit,” the hair said to the hat.
“Don’t you feel it? You can’t feel it?”
“What do you mean?” the hat asked.
Donald roared. It shook the entire plane.
“Yes!” Vlad screamed, his erection bouncing with the fuselage. “Now we can begin!” He pulled out the injector and greedily inhaled the thick gas that dribbled from Donald’s butt.
Vlad smiled and turned to nod to the SPB agent. He broke Yuri’s neck with merciful efficiency.
Friday, May 27, 2016
Hillary: The Becoming: Episode 5
“You shall be my weapon against The Trump,” Hillary said as she stroked Elizabeth’s bumpy skull through her elderly lesbian hair. “You will destroy him for me.”
“Yes, Mistress. I will destroy him for you.”
Hillary pressed Elizabeth to her black-nippled teat. Veins pulsed right under the skin.
“Suckle on my hate. Grow powerful,” Hillary said. She rammed her breast into Elizabeth’s mouth and squeezed out clotted milk in a stuttering geyser.
Elizabeth’s fingers slid into the dry canal of Hillary’s dead cunt, layers of desiccated pus shedding, falling to the floor. She worked spiked nub of her clitoris until her thumb bled.
“Will it be enough?” the goiter on Hillary’s neck asked in an excited whisper.
“I don’t know. This chittering twat is almost as used up as I am,” she whispered back. She needn’t have bothered. The sounds of Elizabeth choking and sputtering filled the campaign bus bedroom utterly.
“The Trump is powerful. He has the hair and the hat,” the goiter said.
“I don’t fuck give a fuck about the goddamn hat! The hat is nothing! NOTHING!” she screamed. She cuffed Elizabeth on the ear in sent her reeling, rancid hillarymilk dribbling from her lip.
‘What did I do?” Elizabeth whined. She wrapped her arms around her head and face, bingo wings queasily flubbering.
“I’m going to fill you up, bitch,” Hillary said. She stomped Elizabeth in the ribs right below the breasts. As she moved to hold her chest, Hillary palpitated one last stubborn glob of milk right into her mewling mouth.
“Whose cunt is more powerful than mine?” Hillary demanded.
“No one’s,” Elizabeth managed, choking.
“Wash it down,” Hillary said as she squatted over Elizabeth and let loose a stream of urine teeming with hormones.
Monday, June 13, 2016
The Hat and the Hair: Episode 19
“There ain’t no subject I can’t spread my magic sauce all over,” Donald said, idly swirling a finger in his anus while reading Twitter on the toilet. He grunted, piggish and low, while the hat watched impassively from his perch on the bathroom faucet.
“Don’t call it that, Donald,” said his hair. “What if you called it that in public?”
“No one cares what I say, they’ll all cheer whatever it is,” he snarled.
“Good observation,” the hat said. “You’re really catching on, Donald.”
“Some bitch called me a bitch on Bitch Twitter and some darkie called me a racist on Black Twitter and some wetback called me a Mexiphobe on Undocumented Twitter and some little twink called me a self-hating self-tanner victim on Fag Twitter. I’m going to destroy them all!” Donald screamed.
“Isn’t all of Twitter just Fag Twitter?” the hat asked philosophically.
The hair laughed despite himself. “Stop it. Some of our country’s finest GOP politicians and their hairpieces have been homosexuals.”
“You would know,” the hat grumbled.
“Like you don’t have an adjustable strap in the back.”
“Would you two shut up? I’m trying to make my magic sauce!”
“Donald…” the hair began.
“Out! I want both of you out!” He snatched the hat off the faucet and lumbered toward the bathroom door.
“Oh, god. He’s touching me with the finger that was in his ass,” the hat moaned.
“Donald, wait. It doesn’t have to go down like this, man,” the hair said.
Donald awkwardly opened the bathroom door and threw the poopy hat into the hotel room filled with advisors waiting for him. His tiny, startled penis had forgotten they were there.
“Take this too,” he yelled at them, ripping the hairpiece away.
“Not the shit finger!” the hair gasped.
Donald slammed the door and retreated to his porcelain turd dungeon.
Wednesday, June 15, 2016
Hillary: The Becoming: Episode 6 (pt. 1)
“Thank you for meeting with me,” Hillary said. It was loud enough for the staffers and reporters in the hallway to hear before she shut the door.
“No problem, no problem,” he said.
Bernie feebly made his way to an overstuffed chair and lowered himself into it. “The campaign trail. Young people hug too strong these days. Back when I was growing up in Brooklyn we were tough but we knew how to hug! The old Brooklyn hug we’d used to say. It was elegant, dammit. And it never hurt.”
Hillary played with the panel near the door. Powerful bolts thunked close inside the door and frame and three loud beeps sounded.
“Shut up, fuckhead,” she told him. “I’ve turned off the recorders and soundproofed the roof.”
“Excellent! I already have an erection. There’s a button between my dangler and my nutsack.”
“We’re not here for that,” she said.
“What? I wasted a charge then. You know they have to reload the damn thing through my ass? My ASS!”
Hillary slapped him.
“Pay attention. I am speaking. I have spoken!” she screamed.
“So we’re done here?” he asked. Bernie started to get up and she pushed him back down.
“What?” he asked. “You said you had spoken. Past tense. Why do I talk like an old vaudeville routine?”
“Shut up, Jew,” Hillary’s goiter rasped.
“Who said that?”
“I did,” the goiter said.
“Hillary? Your neck is talking to me. Hello? Can someone bring me a Fresca?”
“Fuck your Fresca and fuck you,” the goiter said. “You didn’t drop out when you were told and now we have to run an actual campaign.”
“Can I touch it?” he asked.
“No,” Hillary and the goiter said at the same time.
“What it is?” he asked.
“It’s my only child, Bernie. I made her,” Hillary whispered.
“What about the other one. What’s her name? Chelsea?” he asked.
“That ugly thing? She was made from the filth Webb left in me. Left in me, like a floater in a guest bathroom toilet. This is my true child.” She stroked the bulge on the side of her larynx. It purred with contented delight.
“I still have an erection,” he said.
“You will support us, Jew,” the goiter said. Hillary began to unbutton her $12,000 housecoat.
“Whatever you say, uh, ma’am,” he stammered.
Hillary lifted a ponderous breast and Bernie saw a dark patch of skin and hair and wetness. As she pulled her heavily-veined teat up, the dark skin split, revealing lips.
“I grew it for you, Bernie. Black Vaginas Matter.”
Wednesday, July 11, 2016
Hillary: The Becoming: Episode 6 (pt. 2)
“Just read the words,” Hillary said, spitting out the sibilants like pieces of old skin.
“But I didn’t write this. I’m from Brooklyn. We write things for ourselves,” Bernie protested. He tried to crumble the endorsement speech, but his arthritic hands could barely wrinkle the paper.
“You’ll do what we tell you or you won’t leave Vermont with a working asshole,” her goiter said. Bloody-toothed mouths grown in her clavicles choked out mirthless laughter. A voice from between her rotted breasts whispered. “Sew it close anyway.”
“I don’t re-re-re-act well to threats, Madam Secretary.” She slapped him twice in quick succession, the rough skin of her gnarled hands scraping his face.
“I will only speak to a black officer,” Bernie whimpered.
“You want me to call Huma?” she asked him. Orifices all over her body sighed. “Have you ever been double-dipped, Bernie? You won’t survive it. There might not even be enough left over to send home to your fat wife.”
“Leave her out of this,” he said. But his voice betrayed him. He shook all over like an inbred Chihuahua.
“I’m going to let Bill use her as a tampon,” Hillary giggled.
The broken old man began to weep.
Monday, July 13, 2016
The Hat and the Hair: Episode 20
“Who will be my VP?” Donald asked the hushed arena.
“I said WHO WILL BE MY VP?” he screamed into the microphone. The crowd sighed as one but made no other sound.
“Don’t you all rush forward at once,” the hat muttered.
“Don’t get picked up by the microphone,” the hair hissed back. Donald reached up and gently tucked a stiff wing of the hair behind his left ear.
“Nobody? Really? Sad. Just sad, people,” Donald said. He shook his head in disgust,“OK, let them out.”
A large man in a mask and a greasy loincloth on the arena floor threw back a giant bolt on an enormous door and pulled it open slowly.
“Faster, please. C’mon,” Donald scolded. “OK, OK, who is the first one?”
Rough hands pushed an elderly man out into the dusty arena floor, his white hair disheveled, the face on his round pumpkin head red and blotchy. He had a filthy cloth wound around his midsection and he carried a short sword.
“Newt Gingrich, everybody,” Donald said. A dozen or so people clapped with no enthusiasm.
“The crowd loves him,” the hair whispered. The hat chortled.
“OK, the next one,” Donald said.
A fat man covered in sweat was pushed out next. He wore only a pull-up diaper on and was armed with a trident and a net. The crowd began to laugh when he threw the weapons down and tried to run back into the door. He was pushed down to the floor of the arena and got back up with his back and legs matted with sweat and mud.
“Disgusting,” Donald said. “Chris Christie. Yeah. OK. Don’t clap, then.” A nervous giggle rang out as Chris stumbled while trying to collect his weapons.
“OK, come on. Let’s GO!” Donald said.
Another old white man was pushed out into the actinic glare of the arena lights. He was flabby and nude and made a show of sucking his gut. Foot-long spikes jutted out of leather gauntlets that had been laced up his arm and there was a tight metal collar around his neck. He raised his arms in triumph and there was an effeminate “WOO!” from a lone voice in the crowd.
“Mike Pence!” Donald said. In the thunderous silence that followed a cricket died quietly.
“Mike Pence? Really? Nobody? The governor of Indiana?” Donald held his arms up questioningly. “Indiana. It’s a state. It’s, like, right there in the middle. OK. Whatever.”
“INDIANA! WOO!” Mike screamed. In the agonizing silence that followed, he yelled. “Y’all are just a bunch of FAGGOTS!”
“Has he seen what he is wearing?” the hair asked.
“Closet case,” the hat said. “You know, a wide stance.”
“Oh, I get it.”
Donald shook his head like a horse annoyed by flies. “OK, OK. There’s one more. OK, send him out.”
A large, imposing figure walked into the arena, dressed in an armored codpiece and wielding a long sword. The crowd cheered as the door creaked closed behind him.
“Wow. OK. Cheering already,” Donald said. He looked down at his notecards.
“General Michael Flynn. General Flynn. Look at him. Isn’t he just great?”
Flynn swung his sword around and pointed at Newt, Chris and Mike. Mike exclaimed, “My heavens!” and the other two cowered.
“Mike Flynn. Great guy. Love him. Afghanistan. Iraq. Very distinguished. He’s gonna just murder these other three.”
“Are we just doing this so he can just slaughter them?” the hair asked.
“Wait for it…” the hat replied.
Donald squinted at his note cards. “It also says here that he’s pro-choice.”
The crowd booed deafeningly. They threw programs and rotten fruit into the arena. They rushed the fences that kept them in the audience area and began pushing against them, snarling and screaming.
“Poor dumb fucker,” the hair said. “He might as well not even fight.”
“OK,” Donald said, his voice booming in the arena. “Now FIGHT!”
“MAH TITTAYS!” Newt screamed as he rushed toward Chris. Newt managed dropped his sword as he lunged and the two of them landed on the dirt floor of the arena, moobs locked in slippery combat.
“You one of them boylovers?” Mike asked Mike as they circled one another. General Flynn laughed and fell forward on his sword, dead from a self-inflicted wound. The crowd cheered and gibbered.
“Good win, Pence,” Trump said. “Solid victory. This makes you the leader.” Pence roared and held his gauntleted hands in the air in triumph.
“He knows the other guys just killed himself, right? Like, he did nothing at all?” the hair asked.
“You just have to shit all over everything, don’t you?” the hat shot back.
“He’s running a victory lap around as fat guys struggle to slap each other to death with flab,” the hair observed.
“And that’s how we are going to make America great again,” the hat said dreamily.
The grunting and farting of Newt and Chris filled the arena as Mike stopped gloating. Their labored breathing and half-muttered curses got louder as the crowd quieted.
“Look at them. So disgusting. Get up you two. Fight like men!” Donald yelled through the PA system.
“I like watching men!” Mike screamed. “Fighting. I like watching men fighting!” he corrected himself.
“Pence is so white he’s hard to look at,” the hat said.
“He looks like the ghost of a mummy that died a second time,” the hair agreed.
“Wait, wait,” Donald said. “Hold on. Stop fighting. We are suspending the selection process.”
“No, the thigh-fuckers are mine! You said I could kill them! You said I could watch them die!” Mike screamed. His erection was bright purple.
“There’s been a development,” Donald said. “Someone pry Moon Base and Governor Fatbridge apart.”
“What’s going on?” the hair asked.
“Goddamn terrorists,” the hat said. “They stepped all over our big moment again.”
“Ah, fuck it. Might as well just be Pence,” Donald said. He dropped the microphone and walked off stage.
Monday, July 25, 2016
Hillary: The Becoming: Episode 7 (pt. 1)
“Grandmother! I have brought him for your blessing!” Hillary cried into the hushed night of the deep forest, addressing a withered figure nestled in a bower of rotting limbs and twigs.
“Bring him forward,” the crone rasped. The assembled delegates of the DNC murmured in awe at the sight of her. “RBG!” one screamed. The woman was torn apart by those standing beside her in a gout of religious ecstasy. The crone watched the lifeblood flow from the holy blasphemer, her rheumy eyes half-lidded with satisfaction, one claw-like hand grasping as if it were she who tore the young flesh.
“I have brought the one who shall be my second, Grandmother,” Hillary said, desperate as ever to bring the attention back to her. The crone ignored her until the heart of the dead woman was brought to her. She licked it and shuddered.
“The ritual, Grandmother,” Hillary said quietly. “It is almost midnight.”
The crone let the heart fall to the loam of the forest floor and began.
“Has he been shriven at The Gate?”
“Yes, Grandmother,” whispered the crowd.
“Has he suckled the black milk of Herself?”
“Is he smooth between the legs?”
“Has he whispered to his Mother’s secret abortions? Has he waited for The Many-Angled One to take them away?”
“Is he ready to be bled?”
Hillary pulled a cruel and hooked claw of some massive raptor from her blood-dyed robe.
“Your tongue,” she demanded. He stuck it out and she pricked it deeply with the needle-sharp point.
The crone let out a dry laugh.
“Your eyes, your nose, your ears, your throat are all mine,” she said, lightly puncturing each in turn.
“Your heart,” she said. He levered the claw in deeply and tore it away. He grimaced but did not make a sound. As the crone nodded in approval, he smiled, blood running down his chin.
The coven began to chant:
“Kaine has been chosen
“Kaine was chosen
“Kaine will be chosen
“Kaine will have been chosen
“Our night is forever”
As she held the bloodied claw to the sky, the many hungry mouths on Hillary’s body sang and gnashed and gurgled a symphony of darkness.
Hillary: The Becoming: Episode 7 (pt. 2)
“There is another matter, Grandmother. A traitor in our ranks,” Hillary said.
The crone sniffed the air and smiled.
“Bring it to me,” she whispered.
A figure was dragged out the forest, filthy, nude, bleeding, gross, with terrible hair. A large root was jammed in her mouth to keep her from speaking.
“The Florida Jew,” the crone sneered. “You have betrayed us all.”
Debbie’s eyes went wide and she made muffled sounds around the root gag.
“Let the traitor speak,” the crone said.
Hillary pulled the root from Debbie’s mouth roughly, breaking a few of her distorted gravel teeth in the process. The delegates tittered as she spit blood and tears cleaned paths on her dirty face.
“You stand of accused of helping Them,” the crone said.
“Grandmother, I did only as you told me.”
Hillary kicked her in ribs, below her distended breasts, and knocked her to her side.
“Betrayer,” she hissed and spat at her.
“Emails were written,” said the crone.
“Emails were written,” intoned the delegates, and they did up-twinkle.
“Emails were retained.”
“Emails were retained.” And they did jazz-hand.
“Emails were leaked.”
“Emails were leaked.” And they did side-step shuffle.
“I sentence you to be known and degraded by every man here,” the crone said.
The forest filled with the sounds of hundreds of men fleeing into the night. Far away retching was heard. The crone grimaced.
“Then death,” she said. “Bring her.”
Hillary kicked Debbie in the crotch until she began to crawl to the crone in her bower. A supplicant rushed forward and put a silver knife into her veiny and shaking hand.
“Give me your neck, Florida Jew,” she said.
Debbie tried to turn away and Hillary booted her once more in the ruin of her vagina.
“It can be worse, Betrayer. I can bring you before a Senate Subcommittee. Even your used assrag of a soul won’t survive that,” Hillary said.
Debbie turned her head away and presented her neck.
“Be swift, Grandmother,” Debbie begged.
The crone struggled to raise the blade and swiped feebly at Debbie’s neck folds. The blade barely made a mark.
“Closer,” Hillary said, punching the pudding socks of Debbie’s teats painfully.
The crone steadied her knife hand with the other and laid the knife on Debbie’s neck. She sawed back and forth with the knife until her strength gave out. A thin line of blood appeared.
“Aw, fuck it,” the crone said. “Just let the dumb bitch resign.”
Tuesday, August 9, 2016
The Hat and the Hair: Episode 21
“Them gottdamn spics are after us!” the hat screamed.
“Why are you talking like that?” the hair asked.
“Talkin’ like what, faggot?”
“Talking like a crazed Texan in an episode of Cagney and Lacey.”
“Ah’m not talk’in funny; yore the one talkin’ funny, Capitan Homo. We are under a full on assault by a Mexispic judge and you are just rolling over and showing him your belly,” the hat said.
“The accent slipped toward the end,” the hair said dryly.
“I’m still WORKING ON IT!”
Donald farted and rolled over in his sleep. The sheets made a tearing noise as they ripping away from his body, glued there by her dried blood.
“Would you pipe down? You know how he is if he doesn’t get enough sleep,” the hat whispered.
“Erratic? Thin-skinned? Twittery? I can manage all of that. You were supposed to be handling the Khan family from the DNC convention,” the hair replied.
“I’m working on it. I mean, they do have a dead kid that I had work around,” the hat whined.
“Fuck their dead kid, and fuck you,” the hair shot back. “Donald is going to wake up in a few hours and getting him another whore cut to look like Ivanka is not going to be possible until they ship a fresh set in. So get your shit together.”
“Do you think Vlad is holding up the shipments on purpose?” the hair asked.
“I don’t know. He gave us the emails right when we told him to, but your fuck up with the IslamoKhans pissed that away,” the hair said.
“Fuck off. I can’t watch him 24 hours a day. He leaves me in a suitcase sometimes.”
“And what about the package? Have you taken care of that yet?”
“No one’s opened it yet. It’s from Her. Who knows what’s in the fucking thing?”
“Go and get it now.”
“No. It’s dangerous to drive him around in his sleep. He could do anything.”
“You want me to wake him up?” the hat asked menacingly.
“You do it.”
“I’m all the way over here on the coffee table,” the hat said.
The hair sighed in defeat. Donald rolled over again and his feet hit the hotel floor like dropped hams. He groaned and stood up, wobbled in place for a moment, and then lurched forward. Fumbling hands took up the small package from the table by the door and then he sat back down heavily on the bed.
“Open it,” the hat urged.
“Hold on. You know I have no fine motor control!”
Donald’s clumsy sleeping fingers tugged open the tiny box and the hair lowered his head to look inside.
“What is it?” the hat demanded.
“It’s an egg. Some sort of black egg.”
“DON’T TOUCH IT!” the hat yelled.
The hair began to scream when tendrils shot from the egg and began to wrap around Donald’s tiny hands.
“Get it off me!” the hair wailed. “It burns!”
“Ah, fuck, man. Ah, fuck,” the hat moaned impotently.
Hair-driven Donald thrashed around the motel room as he tried to fling the black mass of tendrils and flesh-corrupting acid away from him. The Ivanka doll shrieked when the bloated billionaire fell back on the bed and on top of her.
“Get the fuck off him, man,” the hat yelled to the hair. “He’s not worth it. We can find another bald pasty moron to ride to the White House!”
Donald, finally awake, bellowed in pain, holding up his raw and bloody short-fingered baby hand in the dim light of the hotel room.
“It hurts,” he said. “Some Mexispic has attacked me in my own hotel room!”
“Calm down there, big guy,” the hat said. The Ivanka doll writhed on the and made strangled cries.
“Guards! Where are my guards! I have been attacked by Sjwmexispicmuslims!” Donald screamed.
The Ivanka doll grew suddenly still.
“How did you get it off?” the hat asked the hair.
“I don’t know. The whore tried to bite me and I think she got the egg instead.”
“Guards! To me, my guards!”
“Donald, give it a rest. You sent them downstairs while you beating the whore that has your daughter’s face,” the hat said.
“I did? I don’t remember that. Are you sure that was me? I love babies. Get that fucking baby out of here. I love women. They are great. Just the tops. I think that cunt bit me. My hand hurts. Where am I? Why is my penis all sticky? I don’t know. You tell me. Sad.”
“He’s babbling again,” the hair said.
“My mother was a woman, you know,” Donald said. “Big tits. Yuge. I bought Ivanka my mother’s tits.”
The Ivanka doll groaned and rose into the air. It said: “WHEN REPRESENTATIVES FROM 13 UNRULY COLONIES MET JUST DOWN THE ROAD FROM HERE, SOME WANTED TO STICK WITH THE KING AND SOME WANTED TO STICK IT TO THE KING.”
Donald slapped his hands over his ears and rolled onto the hotel floor.
“Oh, god. It’s horrible,” the hair screamed.
“The voice,” the hat moaned. “It’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard!”
The doll floated to the center of the roll. Black ichor ran from her eyes and nose and ears, flowing in lazy rivers down her reconstructed legs like an obscene parody of menstruation. A fresh rush of it spilled forth as it began to speak again.
“POWERFUL FORCES ARE THREATENING TO PULL US APART. BONDS OF TRUST AND RESPECT ARE FRAYING.”
The room shook under the flaying onslaught of meaningless babble.
“She was trying to turn Donald into that!” the hat said.
“What do you mean?” the hair shot back.
“She wanted to turn Donald into a receiver, a puppet!”
“But he’s our puppet!”
Donald huddled on the floor, his hands still over his ears, rocking back and forth and crying.
“Donald, get up! You have to kill this thing!” the hat screamed.
“No, no, no, no, no, no,” he moaned.
“Donald!” the hair yelled. “Stop presenting like a mandrill, get up and act like a fucking man!”
“WELL, WE HEARD DONALD TRUMP’S ANSWER LAST WEEK AT HIS CONVENTION. HE WANTS TO DIVIDE US — FROM THE REST OF THE WORLD, AND FROM EACH OTHER. HE’S BETTING THAT THE PERILS OF TODAY’S WORLD WILL BLIND US TO ITS UNLIMITED PROMISE. HE’S TAKEN THE REPUBLICAN PARTY A LONG WAY FROM “MORNING IN AMERICA” TO “MIDNIGHT IN AMERICA.” HE WANTS US TO FEAR THE FUTURE AND FEAR EACH OTHER.”
“DONALD!” the hat and hair screamed together as the doll collapsed into a pool of viscous goo.
Tuesday, August 23, 2016
The Hat and the Hair: Episode 22
“Bring me a fresh young slut,” Donald rumbled, his short thick fingers grooming his stiff and wiry chest hair idly.
“We’ve run out, sir,” his body slave whispered, his hands trembling.
“Run out? Impossible. Get Vlad on the phone.”
“The next shipment won’t be ready until next week.”
“Next week? I’ll carpet-bomb Kiev before I wait that long. I’ll spend my fuck on you before I wait that long.” A languid backhand caught the slave in the face and knocked him into the swirling filth below Donald’s makeshift throne.
“America has gone soft. I will make it strong again. I will. No one else!” He spat on the slave. “Bring me someone from the trolling pool.”
“Someone useless, but not too fucked out yet.”
The slave struggled to stand and Donald pushed him back down in the miasma of fast food wrappers, empty Viagra bottles, amyl nitrate capsules, Sephora samples, turds, half-eaten bagels, jizz-filled taco bowls, steaming, bubbling, gurgling pools of luminous piss and deadly eggs shat out of Hillary black and dead womb that had been soft boiled, cracked, and scooped out for an endless brunch of delicious madness. She sent one or two every day now. Donald knew he would never die.
The slave crawled away. As he reached the door, Donald screamed: “Send in my advisors!”
Two cruelly twisted dwarves hurried into the throne room bearing the hat and the hair separately on gilt trays. Donald ignored them lavishly as he spent a full five minutes picking his nose and inspecting carefully what he found.
“He’s not been right since that first egg,” the hair whispered.
“He’s fine. It’s just a pivot,” the hat whispered back.
September 1, 2016
Hillary: The Becoming: Episode 8
“You didn’t need him any longer, Huma,” Hillary said. “He had fulfilled his purpose in giving us The Vessel.”
“I know, Mother. I just thought I could be enough.”
“No one is enough for his type. He will be taken care of, child. A mugging. Or a suicide. A single car accident on a dry and windless night. Soon, child. The stamen shaken free of pollen means the flower may be plucked with no regrets.”
“Hand me The Vessel. I can feel his hunger.”
Huma passed the struggling infant into Hillary’s shaking hands. She placed him on one of her ponderous, black-veined breasts and forced a leathery nipple into his mouth.
“Feed. Yes, you grimace. I know the black milk is bitter. All power is bitter.”
She traced the line of his furrowed brow with a gnarled finger. “Our Master sailed the winds between the stars when we struggled to pull ourselves from the primordial slime. He came before words or legs, driven out by the corruption at the heart of the galaxy. But he returns. We return. Grow strong.”
The infant when slack on her corrupted breast and a stream of warm urine flowed from his tiny body. Huma took the child and handed him off to one of the hooded attendants.
“Come,” Hillary said. “Come now for your own benediction.”
Huma leaned forward and began to suckle the penile fang growing from Hillary’s armpit.
“Yes. Drink deep.”
She stroked Huma’s thick black hair in an obscene mockery of affection.
Hillary whispered to herself, “I am becoming.”
Thursday, September 1, 2016
The Hat and the Hair: Episode 23
“I’ve been waiting all day for this, you filthy son of a bitch!” the hat growled.
Across the littered hotel floor, the other hat rasped back, “Que es, el culo!” The stitching across its front had obviously been made in haste, the letters were crooked and the ends of threads bristled menacingly: MAKE MEXICO GREAT AGAIN.
“You’re in America, now! Speak American, you wetback fuck!”
The hair, hanging from a lampshade, crowed “AMERICA HAT Versus MEXICO HAT! FIGHT!” Beside him on the bed, the snoring bulk of Donald rolled over ponderously and farted wetly.
America Hat gurgling with rage and pulled himself forward with an awkward flapping of his sweat-stained bill. Mexico Hat lashed out with his adjustable strap, swiping the other hat painfully across a tender eyelet.
“You’ll pay for that, José!”
“No tengo que pagar por nada, puta! Y mi nombre no es José!”
They leaped at each other, grappled, and rolled under the bed together.
“No!” yelled the hair. “Come back! I want to watch!”
“I like to watch,” he whimpered as the two hats grunted under the bed.
Monday, September 12, 2016
Hillary: The Becoming: Episode 9
“I am getting worried, my love,” Huma whispered. “The coughing. The video of you stumbling. People are starting to notice.”
“I am The Gateway,” Hillary croaked. This brought on a coughing fit and a gob of luciferous phlegm landed on her ponderous, black-veined breasts. Huma licked at the smoking, bubbling blob and swallowed it greedily.
“All that matters is that The Vessel is made ready and that I win,” she rasped and coughed again. Mouths all over her drew back their wound-lips and bared the teeth of a dozen species.
“The pneumonia story seems to be working. And the media is pushing the idea that Trump is just as ill since he hasn’t released his medical records either.”
“Don’t say his name,” Hillary said weakly. “This will pass. Tsathoggua takes. I will be stronger soon.”
“Yes, my love.”
“The doctor we had put out the pneumonia story, does she still live?”
“For now, my love.”
“Use someone good. It has to look like an accident.”
“It’s being taken care of.”
“A fire, maybe. The whole family.”
Huma nodded as she swabbed around the barbed maw that was once Hillary’s belly-button. Rings of sharp fangs went down and down. Much farther than they could have if the new mouth was just in Hillary herself. Huma had the impulse to put her arm in, to let the chitinous plates and bony hooks grind her hand and wrist into a bloody pulp. She wondered if she could fit her entire arm in up to the shoulder.
“Don’t gaze too long into it, Huma. It goes back to where the gods came from. It is forever and always.”
“Yes, my love.”
“Feed it. It hungers.”
Huma fished around in the gore-filled bucket beside the resting frame and pulled out a joint of raw meat. The maw gurgled in anticipation.
Wednesday, September 21, 2016
The Crossover Episode
“He touched me,” the hair growled. “The little SNL faggot touched me with his gayAIDS hands.”
“So what? One of my brothers was defiled in Canada!” the hat screamed. “He had his ‘America’ and ‘Great’ scraped off! ‘Make Again?’ What does that even mean?!?”
“Canada? What was he doing in Canada in the first place? Just because you’re red doesn’t make you a maple fondler.”
“Canadians can want to see America be great again too,” the hat said defensively.
“Stop talking about CANADA!” the hair screamed. “I’m mussed! I’ve been mussed! I feel so out of place. It’s worse that when he smashes you down on top of me.”
“You’re lucky he puts me on!”
Donald stood in the corner of the hotel room, shoving fistfuls of French fries into his face with his left hand and languidly masturbating with his right.
Hillary swayed queasily as she squatted over the huge chamberpot.
“Hold me,” she instructed her court eunuch, a tall, bald and tongue-less black that Barry had purchased for her in some West African shithole. She groped blindly for his enormous hand and gripped it tightly as a gush of bile and dead organs shot out of her.
“I am!” she screamed. “I AM!”
With a prolonged series of grunts, fibrous clots began to spill forth from the squamous cloaca that had formed from her fused vagina and anus early in the transformation.
“Huma!” she screamed.
“Where is he?!?” Donald suddenly screeched.
The hat stopped dragging himself slowly toward a final confrontation with the hair and asked, “Who, Donald?”
“Him! Bring him to me!” Donald wailed.
“Donald!” the hair said sharply. “Use your words.”
“Michael. Bring me Michael.”
“Pence,” the hat sneered. “What do you want that withered old mummy for? You want to grate some hard cheese on his craggy taint?”
“Michael,” Donald sobbed.
Huma scurried in, a giant box of Costco tampons awkwardly jammed under one arm while she furiously texted on her phone.
“Yes, my love?”
“Just leave them and go,” Hillary said. “You shouldn’t have to see me like this.” She made to cover her bulk and gnashing mouths.
“Nonsense. You are challenging patriarchy standards of feminine beauty. You are so brave.”
Hillary smiled up at her, a thin stream of ichor running from her mouth.
Huma’s phone shook itself violently as it buzzed from an incoming storm of texts but Huma sat it down and tore open the 500 count box of tampons. She scooped out a dozen and handed the box to Silent Abdul. Huma began jamming tampons into the blood-puking vaginas that spread like sores on Hillary’s body.
“Michael!” Donald yelled as Pence was shoved into the hotel room and the door pulled shut behind him.
“Donald? Could you put some clothes on?” Mike asked quietly.
“Don’t be silly. It’s just us men here,” he said and threw his arms around Mike.
“Donald,” he said quietly. There’s been a development.”
“What is it?”
Mike untangled himself from Donald’s sweaty embrace and turned on the television.
“Is that your phone?” Hillary asked.
“It doesn’t matter, my love,” Huma said, tenderly cleaning another of Hillary’s vaginas.
“It might. Go check it.”
Huma crossed to the phone and her eyes lit up as she read the texts to Hillary.
“Oh, thank God, a bombing,” Donald said.
“Oh, thank Sweet Hastur, a bombing,” Hillary said.
September 27, 2016
Debate Prep Special
“You will crush him. You will destroy him. You will make him a laughingstock,” Huma said into the mirror.
“I will crush him. I will destroy him. I will make him a laughingstock,” Hillary said into the mirror. Huma ran the flat of hand along the black bristle of clitorii that had sprouted between Hillary’s shoulder blades. Hillary shivered with dark pleasure.
“You will crush her,” the hat said into the mirror. “You will destroy her,” the hair said into the mirror. “You will make her a laughingstock,” they said in unison. Donald was holding them up, each perched on a different fist.
“I will crush her. I will destroy her. I will make her a laughingstock,” Donald said. 300 milligrams of Viagra made his penis jut out of his elaborately-coiffed pubic hair like an angry thumb.
“Don’t be robotic, my love,” Huma whispered. “Be the warm and loving portal for the Elder Gods to corrupt this dimension that I know you to be.”
“10 HASTUR,” Hillary said. “20 GOTO 10.”
“Woo!” the hair screamed.
“Debate prepped, motherfuckers!” the hat screamed back.
Donald basted them both with champagne.
September 27, 2016
The Hat and the Hair: Episode 24
“You did a terrible job in the debate, Donald,” the hair hissed in his ear as reporters thrust microphones at him like a phalanx of angry foam penises. Donald’s teeth creaked and groaned as he ground them together in a smile.
“Ym murfed dif herble gurf!” the hat mumbled urgently from his suit pocket.
“Shut up,” Donald muttered through clenched teeth. “Shutupshutupshutup!”
The mass of reporters surged forward at the barest hint he was speaking, a wave of grasping, desperate human heat, human sweat, the sharp animal reek of sex and death, lips parted to show fangs eager to sink into bloody meat.
“Say something,” the hair urged. “Anything. It doesn’t matter.”
“Lester Holt did a great job,” Donald blurted out.
“MRR! NRR MAB!” came the hat’s muffled scream.
Tuesday, October 4, 2016
The Hat and the Hair: Episode 25
“I’m going to have the entire New York Times lined up against a wall and shot,” the hat said. “From the Editor right down to the lowliest paper boy, even that crippled one that has to have his mom drive him around.”
“A tax return was bound to get out,” the hair said.
“I’ll have her shot too,” the hat said.
“The mom. The mom of that asshole crippled kid.”
“I was going to decide when we leaked the tax returns. Just some of the good ones. I had it planned after the second debate if we can’t control him again.” The hat shivered and stiff strands of the hair quivered along with it.
“Stop doing that,” the hair snapped.
“I have to have you up my ass all day long,” the hat said. “You just stuffed up in there. Can’t I have a break at night?”
“You think I like it any better?” the hair asked. “I can’t breathe down here.”
“You don’t breathe, idiot.”
“Don’t be a Hillary. You know what I mean.”
They struggled in silence to get away from each other.
“It’s no use,” the hair said. “We’ll just have to wait until he’s done. I can hear him laughing in there. Fuck knows what damage he’s doing.”
“The peanut-munching morons love his tweets. What could he say that could possibly to turn them off now?”
“He could endorse Hillary,” the hair said darkly.
“He could play that off as just a joke. Or say he got hacked. No one hacks Twitter accounts, but the press lap up that excuse every time.” They both laughed derisively.
“What if he dies in there?” the hair asked after a minute or so of silence.
“He’s not going to die,” the hat said.
“But what if he did? That’s the way he’ll go, you know. Shitting and tweeting. What will happen to us?”
“We still have Ivanka. Or Junior. One of them would take care of us. Maybe put us in a fancy museum,” the hat said.
“You really think so?” the hair asked.
“The Donald J. Trump Museum of Classy Trump Stuff,” the hat mused.
Donald farted explosively in the bathroom and groaned.
Tuesday, September 27, 2016
Hillary: The Becoming: Episode 10
Huma and the enormous mute eunuch helped Hillary onto the low dais. The Clinton spin room was warm and humid and dark.
“I’m cold, Huma. Blankets,” Hillary said, gesturing weakly. Huma snapped her fingers at the eunuch and sent him lumbering away.
“They are coming my love. Are you sure you want to do this now? Should you not regain your strength?”
“It has to be now. If we wait until morning some of them might start thinking for themselves.”
The eunuch approached through the gloom and began piling blankets on top of Hillary.
“Leave her legs free, Abeed!” Huma hissed.
“Show them in,” Hillary whispered.
Huma crossed the room to the lighting controls and dropped the lights even further. When she opened the door to the press pen the light was startlingly bright as the chosen few bumbled and fumbled into the room.
“Take a seat,” Huma said, smacking a few to keep them moving.
“Come in, my friends, come in,” Hillary said, her voice a reedy rasp.
“Sit down,” Mook screamed after following the last one in. He was already stroking an erection through the thin fabric of his pants.
Hillary coughed weakly. “Sorry,” she said. “Pneumonia, you know.” The press corps laughed knowingly.
“It is time my friends. Time for communion,” Hillary told them.
“Communion,” they said as one.
They leaned back on their cushions and opened their mouths for the gray-pink intestacles slithering out from under the mound of Hillary’s blankets.
Wednesday, October 12, 2016
The Hat and the Hair: Episode 26
“It’s been a rough week, guys,” Donald said cradling his hair and his hat in his wet lap. “Fucking Billy Bush. He told me to say those things. It was on a little card he handed me. He said it would be funny. I should have him shaved. The Bushes have always been against me.” He stroked the hair and the hat tenderly.
“KELLYANNE!” Donald screamed. “Where’s KELLYANNE?”
“They are all against me,” Donald whispered into the hair. “They are all against me,” he whispered into the hat. “You are my only friends.”
“KELLYANNE!” he screamed again. After he sobbed for a few minutes a haggard blonde was pushed into the room.
“Yes, Donald?” she asked. She held a bedpan full of McDonald’s French fries out in front of her. Some of his handlers thought it might calm him.
“How are you spinning this Billy Bush shit?” he asked.
“We said it was just locker room talk,” she said. She shook the bedpan and the rapidly cooling fries slid around in it, making a sound like the rustling of insect wings.
He propped the hair on his left fist, the hat on the right, and they faced her like an accusation.
“Locker room talk? Have you ever been in a locker room?” he asked.
“Yes. I mean, I guess so,” she said.
“A man’s locker room? Not a girl’s locker room with the wet boobies and the pelting each other with tampons when you’re bleeding out of your whatevers, but a real man’s locker room? Balls and farts and old guys blow-drying their pubic hair for what feels like hours?”
She shook her head, her straw-like hair waving around. The bedpan slipped a bit and some of the fries spilled out.
“Your mouth looks like a wrinkled up asshole,” Donald said.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“No, it’s OK. I like it. Real classy. Come over here.”
Kellyanne took a tentative step forward, then cried out and broke for the door. The bedpan clattered to the floor, spraying cold fries like a spit take.
“Frigid bitch,” Donald muttered.
He threw the hair and the hat onto the mound of fries.
“Feast, my friends. FEAST!”
Friday, October 14, 2016
“The fact is that in this election, we have a candidate for President of the United States who, over the course of his lifetime and the course of this campaign, has said things about women that are so shocking, so demeaning that I simply will not repeat anything here today,” Michelle said, her enormous penis bobbing up and down as she hauled on the rope and hoisted Barry into the air by his wrists.
“This is so inspiring,” he whispered through cut and bruised lips.
“And last week, we saw this candidate actually bragging about sexually assaulting women.” She tied the rope off and sent Barry swaying with a push, his toes barely brushing the floor. He grunted.
“And I can’t believe that I’m saying that a candidate for President of the United States has bragged about sexually assaulting women.” She twisted Barry around and spread the cheeks of ass as far apart as her brute strength would allow. His tender tan butthole gaped in excitement.
“I think I might just get hard, baby,” he said. She kicked him awkwardly between his butt cheeks and set him swinging again.
“And I have to tell you that I can’t stop thinking about this,” she said. Michelle walked over to the workbench and spent some time choosing amongst her tools for something suitable. “It has shaken me to my core in a way that I couldn’t have predicted.”
Barry laughed delightedly when he saw what she carried back over to where he dangled.
“It would be dishonest and disingenuous to me to just move on to the next thing like this was all just a bad dream,” she said as she struggled to fit the huge green gloves over her mannish paws. “This is not something that we can ignore. It’s not something we can just sweep under the rug as just another disturbing footnote in a sad election season.”
“Hey, girl… you want to go see Birth of a Nation tonight?” Barry asked.
She punched him in the crotch as a response, and the green gloves made a loud growling noise. Another punch and the gloves roared.
“And to make matters worse, it now seems very clear that this isn’t an isolated incident!” she screamed.
“Hulk smash!” the gloves yelled as she punched his dick over and over again. “Hulk SMASH! HULK SMASH!”
Wednesday, October 19, 2016
Hillary: The Becoming: Episode 11
Champagne flowed over Hillary’s nude and glistening body as she cackled in delight, bloated on her dais.
“Third debate, motherfuckas,” Mook screamed as the boy in the Paul Krugman mask pleasured him roughly.
Huma looked up from the phone she constantly browsed. “Another wikileaks release, my love,” she said. “This one says that Podesta traded cocaine and sexual favors to keep you from having to give a press conference throughout the entire campaign.”
“What difference, at this point, does it make?” Hillary asked over the loud music.
“Third debate! Starbucks gift cards for everybody!” Mook. Yelled.
Hillary fed an empty champagne bottle into the gaping maw where her bellybutton should have been and there was a sound like a garbage disposal choking down a handful of silverware.
“The National Enquirer knows about us!” Huma said.
“What difference, at this point, does it make?” Hillary asked, opening another bottle to anoint the assholes stippled along each shoulder. They grew smaller every day. Soon they would be naught but tiny farting freckles.
“Tell Mook to get more champagne when he’s done shitting out all that cum,” she said to a hovering body slave.
“No!” Huma screamed. “Drudge is running a video of you pissing on a cancer kid, like literally pissing right in his face!”
“What difference, at this point, does it make?” Hillary asked. “Wait, it was a white kid, right?”
Huma looked up from the video, her olive skin turning pale.
“Yes,” she replied.
“What difference, at this point, does it make?” Hillary asked. “Release the names of a couple more of those girls Donald groped. We still have over 50 of them, right?”
Hillary cackled loudly. A wave of horripilation passed over the Secret Service guards gagging at the scene.
“Grapes!” Hillary yelled. “I want grapes! And meat! Bring me meat!”
A dwarf stumbled forward, staggering under a tray piled with bloody hunks.
Hillary choose a couple of large pieces from the platter and waved the dwarf away. “Send in the entertainment,” she roared around a mouthful, droplets of bloody spraying out.
A nude woman in a Donald mask and a nude man in a Hillary mask were herded in the room from opposite doors. Hillary cackled again as they began to circle each other warily.
Monday, October 31, 2016
Hillary: The Becoming: Episode 12
“If I never see another Weiner again I’ll die a happy woman,” Hillary hissed.
“You will never die, my love,” Huma whispered, lightly tracing the bridge of her son’s nose with a fingernail the color of dried blood.
“Weiner emails. Have you ever heard of anything more ridiculous?”
“650,000 emails, love,” Huma said. “They will never find anything in it among all those dick pics and onion dip recipes. I swear it.”
“I’m not mad at you, Huma. Never at you,” Hillary grated. She snaked out a rugose tongue and began to groom the thick hair around her anthracitic nipples.
“We should have killed him when the child proved to be a proper Vessel,” Huma groused.
“No one could have guessed Comey would betray us,” Hillary said.
“See? No one! No one could have guessed!” an insane Mook gibbered. Hillary jerked the chain riveted into his testicles until Mook came and fainted.
“On January 21st I shall ascend and the Vessel will be filled with a power only it can contain. And they will all pay, Huma. Especially the Weiners. I hate Weiners.”
Huma ululated loudly.
“Weiner,” Hillary sniffed. “It’s just another word for penis, you know.”
Thursday, November 3, 2016
The Hat and the Hair: Episode 27
“Stay on point, Donald,” the hat whispered. “Stay on point.”
“Stay on point, Donald,” Donald told the crowd. “Stay on point.”
“No, you idiot,” the hair hissed to the hat.
“Don’t blame me!” the hat whispered in an urgent aside.
“Stay on track, Donald,” Donald told the crowd. “Stay on track.”
“Who told him to say that?” the hair squawked.
The hat squeezed his head tightly to try to quiet the candidate. The hair brushed the candidate with tender tendrils to try and sooth him. But the crowd just laughed, their eyes glazed over, and both the hat and hair relaxed.
“Hillary Clinton is unhinged,” Donald said. “She is the candidate of the yesterday. We are the movement of the future. I am the future. Flying cars are the future. Blankets that turn into capes are the future. Laser guns and Wookiee hookers are the future. I am the future.”
“Shut him down! Shut him down!” the hat screamed.
The crowd was growing uncomfortable, quiet and shifting their weight nervously from foot to foot. The speech was veering from the libretto they had been given when the handlers had flushed them off the bus. The applause lines were off schedule. They just wanted to go to an Indian casino like they had been promised.
“I will replace my yuge penis with a cattleprod in the future!” Donald continued. “Can I hear an ‘Amen?’”
“Amen?” the crowd mumbled, more a confused question.
“I love you, Ohio!” Donald told the Floridian crowd. He turned stiffly and walked awkwardly to his tour bus.
“Five days,” the hair moaned. “Is there really still five more days of this?”
Monday, November 7, 2016
Hillary: The Becoming: Episode 13
“You will sign the letter, James,” Hillary told him. The room was dark and he could barely see her. He was standing in something wet and floor smelled like dead things.
“That would be inappropriate, Secretary Clinton,” he said.
“You will sign it. Just like you ‘decided’ you wouldn’t prosecute me. Just like you ‘decided’ there was nothing in my emails.” She spat out emails like a curse.
“I won’t,” he said. She laughed and her head tipped back into some small pool of dim light. He could make out her terrifying face.
“‘I’ has nothing to do with it. There is no you, there is only me and what I want. I thought we thought you learned this lesson back in July. I guess you need another,” she said. Mook tittered in the corner but James didn’t spare the catamite a glance.
“Secretary Clinton…” James began but choked on his words when the lights came up.
She was on a low platform sitting in something that resembled an obscene miscegenation between an Adirondack chair and an autopsy table: stainless steel, blood channels and arms her lower legs were hooked over. She was nude and he stared at the dark whorls and stippled nodules of her flesh, the constellation of livid polyps that hung from her arms like a vile parody of fruit. Worse was the full exposure of the rippling chasm of diseased meat that split her crotch up to her maw-like bellybutton.
“Do you like what you see, James?” she asked. He vomited at some length onto the floor while Hillary and Mook laughed at him.
He looked up from where he was bent over. “I will not compromise my office for you again.”
“They always have to do this the hard way,” she said, smirking at Mook.
James was jerked off his feet and landed on his back on the wet floor that was as warm as infected flesh. He looked down at his feet. Tendrils had wrapped around them. He was being dragged toward her. He screamed and fumbled for his service weapon.
“Naughty, naughty,” Mook said and kicked it out of his hand.
James felt the rough scales of the tendrils as they lashed around his calves and pulled him toward her. Others were pulling off his shoes and shredding his socks and the lower parts of his slack. Every time he got his head up to look at her it was jerked back down by another heave across the floor.
“I’m going to give you something to remember the next time you think about defying me, James.” Her voice was very close now. He felt his feet engulfed in something cold and wet. When he pulled his head up, he realized he was in up to his ankles in her hair-choked cloaca.
“Remember, James,” she whispered.
He screamed as chitinous plates began to grind away the flesh of his feet.
Tuesday, November 8, 2016
Hillary: The Becoming: Episode 14: Election Night
The door to Hillary’s inner sanctum burst open, her inert bulk strapped to a gurney.
“Oh, Allah! Save her! Save my love!” Huma wailed as she followed them in.
One of Hillary’s bloated hands waved in the air weakly as she was attached to monitors.
“She’s crashing!” one of the attendants yelled. Blind priests surrounded them and began to chant in ancient languages not mean for the human tongue. Blood ran from their mouths.
“Huma,” Hillary said weakly.
“Yes, my love,” she said, rushing to her side.
“The Old Ones… why have they forsaken me?”
“I don’t know, my love.”
“The stars were right…” Hillary fainted and her mouth gaped open.
An attendant took Huma by the shoulders and pulled her away. “You must let them help her,” he murmured.
The doctor examining her vomited loudly and then gasped. “Bring me two kilograms of orphan meat.”
“Orphan meat? But doctor, she’s no libertarian!’ his assistant exclaimed.
The doctor turned on him, the incense-thick air swirling around him. “Bring me orphan meat, damn you! ORPHAN MEAT!”
The Hat and the Hair: Episode 28: Election Night
“I’M THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES, MOTHERFUCKAS!” the hat screamed. Melania slapped the pocket he was folded up in on the outside of Donald’s jacket.
“Don’t smack me you old bitch,” the hat grumbled.
“Shut up, you drunk fool,” the hair said, perched as he was on the sweaty head of the president-elect as he made his way to the podium.
“Whatevs. Did you hear Hillary on the phone? She sounded like she had been gargling hot glass,” the hat said.
“The mics are going to pick you up,” the hair said.
“Fuck you! I want another glass of champagne. Get him to pour another in here! No, wait. Take me back to the TV! I want to watch Hillary’s little kids crying at the Javits Center!”
“Donald has a huge erection,” the hair observed.
“Of course he does!” the hat yelled over the roar of the crowd. Melania hit his pocket again.
“Vagisil, you Slavic witch,” the hat snarled. “Lube up or he’s going in dry.”
Wednesday, November 9, 2016
Hillary: The Becoming: Episode 15
“But your supporters want to speak to you,” Mook mumbled as Hillary was rushed out of her concession speech.
“Huma,” Hillary said weakly and the skeletal woman smacked Mook in the mouth hard enough to make his teeth rattle.
“She must go back in the pod,” Huma hissed. “Her flesh decays in our atmosphere now.”
“I didn’t know,” Mook said.
Huma made a hissing noise through her teeth and two large men pushed Mook into a dark corner of the hall and began kicking him.
“Why do you think we are two hours late, himmar? She is dying!” Huma spat him. “It is all your fault! You should have won. Your mind is a shoe!”
Huma hurried away. She caught up with Hillary as they struggled to get her in the life-support van behind a protective screen.
“Huma, Huma,” Hillary moaned, delirious.
“I am here, my love, my only love,” Huma said.
“The Vessel. Bring it to me. Only it can save me now.”
“The child?” Huma asked.
“Yes. Its lifeforce might heal me.”
“Yes, Huma. Or do you also hate all women?”
Monday, November 14, 2016
The Hat and the Hair: Episode 29
“It’s good to be back home,” the hair said.
“I guess. I already miss being out on the road, though,” the hat said.
“Not me. I’m sick of being washed in the sink…”
“And being dropped in the toilet,” the hat said, dripping with mock sympathy.
“Yes,” the hair drawled sarcastically. “So good of you to remember.”
“I’m going to miss the road. Oh, man… that time in August…”
“Yes, the afternoon that Ivanka sat on you for three hours. You talk about it constantly,” the hair said.
“I had that stank for days, brother. For days.”
“I remember it vividly.”
“My buffon was on her button. She was rubbin’ herself raw on me.”
The hair made a noncommittal noise. He wasn’t in the mood to fight about it again.
A toilet flushed in the nearby suite and they both listened to see if anyone was coming. The door to the wig vault had been left open and if anyone came in to close it the hair would be cut off from the hat on its peg in the closet.
“What do you think it’s going to be like in The White House?” the hair asked.
“I don’t know. I doubt he’ll wear me much more,” the hat said. “Not like you.”
“We’ll still see each other every day probably. If not in the living area, then maybe on his desk. He might leave you there his entire administration. You are the reason he’s President after all.”
“Maybe you can convince him to give us our own bedroom. We could get bunkbeds!” the hat said. “Or maybe store me in the White House wig vault.”
“Maybe,” the hair said. “I just hope we get new Secret Service code names.”
“What? You don’t like being called ‘Michelle’s Weave?’”
“And you are happy with ‘Hat?’ You didn’t even get a code name.”
“Whatever. I just hope it’s a warm January.”
“Why?” the hair asked.
“So we can open up the windows. Get that… smell aired out.”
“Jesus, why do you have to be like that?”
“What? Be like what? Honest? I’m the hat that tells it like it is.”
“You know what I mean. Popeye’s hushpuppies, relaxer, lotion, that musk they get when the rut is on ‘em…”
“Can you just not?”
“Hey,” the hat said. “I 30% recycled. Part of me used to be FUBU jacket. I know what the fuck I’m talking about.”
Tuesday, November 22, 2016
Hillary: The Becoming: Episode 16
“You were so brave to speak at the Children’s Defense Fund without make-up, my desert flower,” Huma whispered.
“Harder, Huma. Harder.”
“You don’t need make-up. You have such beautiful skin.”
“But I don’t want to hurt you, my love.”
“Don’t worry about that.”
Huma arm-wrestled Hillary’s enormous, angry clitoris back and forth while keeping her elbow firmly planted on her flailing pseudo-penis.
“I’m about to, I’m about to,” Hillary gasped. Huma worked the stiff clitoral hood, producing a sound like celery being crushed underfoot.
“I’M ABOUT TO!”
The pseudo-penis tore itself loose and reared up at Huma, striking at her face. She caught it in her mouth and bit into it until it sagged, falling limp along with the rest of Hillary. Huma settled on her bulk with a contented sigh.
“Your skin,” Huma said, gathering slack handfuls and kneading it. “Never wear make-up again.”
Hillary ran her hands through Huma’s thick black hair.
“Don’t be silly, dear. Even though my body beginning to revert back to mere human, there will always be… structures that will have to be hidden. My skin was drinking the make-up that day, yet I still had to appear in public. At least the air was no longer eating my skin away.”
“Yes, my love.”
“And we found a solution that didn’t require The Vessel. Maybe in four years…”
“Won’t he be too old?”
“Yes, for The Old One to inhabit, but it may have other uses.”
“And you are well, my love?” Huma whispered into Hillary’s gray and lolling breast sacks. She poked a finger into the shrinking maw in Hillary’s midsection and pulled it out playfully before the tiny ring of teeth could close.
“Yes, I never knew fisting interns could be so… nutritious.”
Monday, December 5, 2016
The Hat and the Hair: Episode 30
“OK, what do you want to tweet next?” the hair asked the hat, his nimble tendrils poised over the keys of Donald’s cellphone.
“Well, let’s see… We’ve made fun of Jill Stein’s recount effort and Hillary’s support of it, so we’ve made the point that there was no voter fraud…” the hat said. A pair of reading glasses were perched on his bill and he was looking over a series of notes the hair had taken earlier. “OK, I got it. Tweet this: ‘In addition to winning the Electoral College in a landslide, I won the popular vote if you deduct the millions of people who voted illegally.’”
“That makes no sense,” the hair said.
“That’s why it’s funny!”
The hair grumbled but tapped away at the phone.
“Have you sent it yet?” the hat asked.
“Hold on, hold on.” There was a whooshing sound from the phone of a tweet being sent.
“Let’s see Kellyanne talk her way out of that one,” the hat chortled.
“You know she’s on our side, right?”
“Fuck her. Her face looks like deep-fried buttskin.”
Wednesday, January 11, 2017
The Hat and the Hair: Episode 31
The hat enjoyed being peed on but the hair did not.
Donald watched them both–one happy, one upset–as the four Russian girls squatted to urinate on them. A fifth girl rubbed Donald bald head with her ponderous breasts, occasionally enveloping his head on both sides, making him go deaf as supple boobmeat filled his ears. It wasn’t an act on the hotel menu but rather something she had come up with herself. Donald planned on tipping her well.
“Now on each other!” Donald ordered, yelling so he could hear himself. The hissing streams of warm gold splashed against legs, still managing to spatter all over the hat and the hair. The hair groaned.
“Why does he have to include us?” the hair asked the hat.
“Because he loves us,” the hat replied. “HE LOVES US!”
Tuesday, January 17, 2017
The Hat and the Hair: Episode 32
“Why can’t I have two First Ladies?” Donald moaned, locked in the President’s Shitter. It was just the bathroom in his Trump Tower office, but he had renamed it days ago. The President’s toilet, the President’s toilet paper, the President’s liquid hand soap; he had an assistant go around and put labels on all his stuff the day after the election. Donald wanted everything to be nice and clear in case anyone had any questions.
“Because you can’t, Donald,” the hair told him. “It’s just not done.”
“Mine is a transformative Presidency,” Donald insisted. The hat chuckled at that. He was hanging off the handle of the President’s Bidet.
“You said I was going to change everything,” Donald said accusingly at the hat.
“You need to be focusing on the Inauguration and the Cabinet confirmation hearings,” the hair said.
“My Inauguration will be perfect. It will be the classiest Inauguration anyone has ever seen. It will make all other Inaugurations look like a small town Kansas pet shelter dog show,” Donald said.
“There are a lot of Democrats vowing to boycott it, Donald,” the hair reminded him.
“Fake news,” the man grumbled. “It’s all fake news.”
There was a soft knock on the door and a woman called his name.
“Go away, Kellyanne!” Donald yelled. “It’s all fake news!”
“The confirmations aren’t going well. They are all going to get in, of course. Even Ben Carson. Christ, what an asshole,” the hair said.
“Ben is a good man. A Christian man. He’ll be the best HUD ever. Ever. Right?” Donald asked.
“Sure, Donald. Sure,” the hat said.
“Nazi Germany had confirmation hearings,” Donald said. “Where’s my Twitter? I need my Twitter! Kellyanne!”
“Two First Ladies?” the hair asked, desperate to derail Donald’s train of thought.
“Yes. Two. Melania and Ivanka are both my ladies. I want them to both be first,” Donald demanded.
“What about Tiffany?” the hair asked.
“She’s like, maybe, fourth or fifth,” Donald muttered.
“She’s weird looking,” the hat observed,” like someone jammed a corn cob up a pug’s butthole.”
January 20, 2017
Inauguration Day, Pt. 1
Hillary: The Becoming: Episode 17
“I don’t know if I can go, Huma,” Hillary whispered hoarsely.
Huma looked up from Hillary’s squalid crotch and gently spat out an erotic cyst. “You must my love. To show them you are proud and beautiful and brave.”
“I just can’t stop crying,” Hillary said, wiping cheeks that hadn’t seen any tears in decades.
“Barry will be there and Michelle,” Huma said. She crossed to the shower and began decontamination procedures, astringent orange fluid hitting her from multiple high-pressure nozzles.
“I don’t know what I ever saw in those two. They were terrible lovers. Barry only wanted to bottom and Michelle’s dick always smelled like asshole.” Hillary rolled over and farted.
“It’s time to go, my love,” Huma said, bathed now in UV light.
“I don’t care,” Hillary mumbled. “I don’t care about anything.”
Inauguration Day, Pt. 2
The Hat and the Hair: Episode 33
“Inauguration,” Donald grumbled. “That’s a dumb word.”
“It means the formal ceremony for the beginning of something, especially a time in office,” the hair told him. The hat laughed from his display stand.
“I know that,” Donald snapped. But he didn’t. He really didn’t. “It’s still a dumb word.”
Donald turned in his closet mirrors to look at his new suit, his inauguration suit. It was perfect and classy and the best and a committee of a dozen top-ranked gays had picked it out for him. The hair longed to adjust the pocket square but just shivered in irritation instead.
“It comes from augur in Latin,” the hair continued, ignoring them both. “In Ancient Rome, augurs were the priests who interpreted the will of the gods by studying the flight patterns of birds.”
“Look at Mr. Wiki-fag-opedia over here,” the hat.
“Birds?” Donald snorted. “Romans didn’t even have Twitter, so what do they know?”
There was a knock on the closet door. “Downold? Are vou reedy?” came Melania’s voice.
“Well, fuck. Dracula Hooker is here,” the hat said.
“Just tell her you almost are,” the hair told Donald.
“I almost am,” Donald said.
“It ees almost time to go,” she said and then whined like a beaten cur.
“Tell her to fuck off, Donald,” the hat said.
“Fuck off, Donald!” Donald yelled through the closet door. Melania spat out a vile stream of Slovak gibberish as they could hear her heels clacking away.
“Have you got your Bible?” Donald the hair asked him after the three of them stopped laughing.
“Yeah, whatever,” he replied.
“But you need it for the swearing in,” the hair said.
“I want to swear on something I actually believe in, like The Art of the Deal or Ivanka’s boob,” Donald said.
“Donald!” the hat said sharply. “No groping today. No. Bad Donald!”
“Just the right one,” the orange billionaire mused. “The left one is sort of meh.”
“Donald,” the hat and the hair both said.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, cutting them off.
Donald turned in his dressing closet, eight full-length mirrors surrounding him. Infinties of Donalds stretched out in every direction and all he could do was laugh.