“It was really terrible to go through, but I have to admit that I feel better after detox,” the hat admitted. He was sunning himself on the floor in the Oval Office, a bottle of Perrier beside him. He never went anywhere without fancy fizzy water.
“I’m really glad to hear it,” the hair said from his perch on a napping Donald’s head. “I thought we might lose you there for a little while.”
“Yup, you was powerful sick there, brother,” the USA hat said from Donald’s crotch, hanging there on an erection driven by erectile dysfunction meds and a filthy dream about Barbara Bach.
“OH MY GOD, SHUT UP YOU RETARD!” the hat screamed.
FLOTUS hat giggled from the back of the couch and Windbreaker One laughed hollowly from the coat rack.
“It’s getting crowded in here,” the hair said. “I liked it better when it was just you and me.”
“It hasn’t been just you and me in a long time,” the hat snapped. “It didn’t get to go to Puerto Rico, I didn’t get to go to Las Vegas. America is starting to forget all about me.”
“Nonsense. You’re the hat they love. You’re the hat that triggers college students all across the country.”
The two other hats and the jacket all made noises of agreement.
“I just don’t know…” the hat whined.
“Besides,” the hair said, “You hate Puerto Rico. I tried to get Donald to Agent Orange the whole island back in March.”
“But I really hated missing throwing paper towels to the downtrodden and destitute,” the hat whined. “It was Donald’s ‘Let them eat cake’ moment and I missed out.”
“Yours is the name that will go down in herstory, dear,” the FLOTUS hat cooed.
The USA hat giggled.
“You have something to add, Cletus the Slackjawed Headgear?” the hat asked.
“Naw, I was still thinking about whitlin’. And what Donald would do with this here i-rection ifin we had a comely lass of anal virtue true.”
“We could just order a girl,” Windbreaker One said in his deep, rich tones. “I haven’t been draped over an unconscious whore in what seems like months.”
FLOTUS hat gasped. “My Donald would never do such a thing!”
The hair and two other hats and jackets all laughed uproariously.
Donald stirred in his sleep, sat up and reached for the USA hat as it slid onto the floor. “What’s going on? Are the nig… football players still not standing up? Mike said he’d put those dirty nightfighters straight!”
The three hats, jacket, and hair said nothing.
“Answer me, dammit. I heard you all talking about me.” His voice, still bleary from sleep, rang out in the Oval Office.
In the silence that followed he began to mash the Diet Coke button repeatedly. He was still pushing it when a frightened intern pushed open a door into the office with her foot and ran in carrying a dozen Diet Cokes.
“Sir,” she said, “I brought all the ones we had cold.”
Donald pushed the button a few more times, slowly, deliberately, staring at the intern as she squirmed under the baleful glare of his piggish eyes.
“Set those on the desk,” he said. “And get me some cocaine, a pound of bologna, the Presidential Pimp, my haberdasher, a cordless phone, an overhead projector, three mannequin heads and the Nuclear Football.”
“Sir?” the pale girl asked.
“Now! And make it four mannequin heads, goddammit!”