“He’s not going to take me to the UN?!?” the hat screeched. “You’ve got to get me back in the game!”
“We’re just worried that you might relapse,” the hair replied.
“But it’s the UN. Nobody loves to hate on the UN like me! And you know I want to perv on Nikki.”
“Donald just doesn’t think you are ready yet.”
“Donald doesn’t think anything. Don’t give me that shit. Look at me,” the hat said. “I am strong.”
The hair had to admit that the hat looked better than he had in months. His color was back to a crisp red and the stitching on the MAGA logo was snow white and tight. He hadn’t thrown up thread or strap chunks in weeks.
“Donald needs me,” the hat argued, “That USA idiot is fucking everything up! A DACA compromise? A budget deal with the Crypt Keeper and the NYC Capon? He ate Chinese food with them! You know MSG gives him explosive gas!”
“The USA hat has very little to do with day-to-day policy decisions…”
“Fuck that,” the hat said hotly. “He’s losing the base, dammit. We’ve got to get those DACA fucks back to their shithole countries and we must Build That Wall. He got rid of Steve, costing us the critical hobo vote. He put Hope in charge of Sarah, which you know is going to run Sarah off. You can’t put a hottie in charge of a fattie; they naturally revolt!”
“You sound like you want us back on the campaign trail,” the hair said.
“We are on the campaign trail!” the hat thundered. “Get that ignorant fucking USA hat in here and I’ll rape that fucker right in half!”
“I’ll try and talk to Donald, get him to see how much he needs you,” the hair said.
The bank of TVs in the Trump Tower wig had finally been turned on when the hair felt the hat was ready to go back on a diet of the 24-hour news cycle. The hat jammed his bill angrily on the remote and the volume shot up.
“The Paris Accords? We’re not backing out of the Paris Accords?!?” he yelped.
“Calm down,” the hair said. “That hasn’t been decided yet.”
“Then why is CNN talking about it?”
“64th dimensional chess?” the hair said weakly.
“I’m going to kill that USA hat!” the hat fumed. “I’m going to ship him to North Korea in a crate of rat meat! I’m going to, I’m going to…”
“Calm down. Try some alternate nostril breathing.”
“I DON’T HAVE ANY FUCKING NOSTRILS!”
The hat began to seize, shuddering and grunting. The hair pressed the button for the on-call nurse and turned away.