“Loyalty!” Donald howled.

“Why are we outside?” the hat asked.

“He wanted to go for a walk in The Rose Garden,” the hair told him. “Go back to sleep if you want.”

“Loyalty!” Donald howled again. “I gave Jeff that job so that he could help me out and he recuses himself. Recuses!”

“How can I sleep with this shit going on?” the hat asked the hair. “It’s so fucking muggy out here.”

“It used to be a swamp.”

“Don’t call it a swamp. It’s a sewer now. Or cesspool. Get Droopy-eyed Fatty McFat-fat to write you up a list if you can’t remember,” the hat said.

“I’m not talking to her. She flashed Donald the other night after he told her she could be Press Secretary. Her body looks like something barfed up by a cat.”

“Where was I during this?” the hat asked.

“Nodding off, you fucking junkie.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“I’m going to fire Jeff and put someone in the job who is on my side for a change,” Donald told a rose bush.

“Someone like that would never get approved, Donald,” the hair said.

“Yes, he will! I’ll make them approve him. The art of the deal. I wrote a book about that. Art! It’s an art!”

“Keep your voice down, Donald,” the hair murmured.

“There aren’t any Boy Scouts around. I can say whatever I want!” Donald screamed. “Trannies charge too much! Girl Scouts need more makeup! JEFF IS A POOPY BOTTOM!”

“OK, Donald,” the hat said.

“Jeff should be looking into Hillary’s fucking emails and telling Muller to go back to acting in Phantasm movies!” Donald said.

“I know, Donald.” I know,” the hair said. Donald began to urinate on a Magnolia tree.

“Six months,” the hair whispered to the hat, “That’s all it’s been. Six months. Three and a half more years of holding this all together? I don’t know if I can do it.”

“The sunlight is making me itch all over,” the hat muttered, ignoring him. “I miss France. They called me Mssr. Chapeau and the hookers were hairy like I like ‘em.”