“The State of our Union is STRONG!” Donald said into his bedroom mirror.

“OK,” the hat said, “but make sure to wait for the applause to die down.”

“There isn’t any applause,” Donald whispered loudly.

“There will be,” his hair said.

“Well, I don’t hear any,” Donald replied. He began to scratch under his left armpit and dropped a stack of index cards.

“There will be applause, Donald,” the hat assured him. “So much applause. Bigly applause, not the thin applause of a loser. Winner applause.”

“Winter applause?” Donald asked. “If it’s cold, I’ll need a coat.”

“Winner,” the hat said. “Winner. W-I-N-N-E-R.”

“Pick up your index cards, Donald,” the hair instructed. His perspective shifted as the old man’s bovine body bent at his thick middle and he groped for the fallen cards. The hair struggled not to vomit up his dinner of Rogaine and scrunchies. Donald farted thunderously to add to the dank miasma of the White House bedroom.

“Put the cards back in order, Donald,” the hat said.

“They are numbered up in the corner,” the hair added helpfully.

“The state of our union is strong,” Donald mumbled as he struggled to put the cards in order.

“This is going to be a disaster,” the hair muttered. “I can feel it in my bones. My hair bones.”

“It will be fine. We’ve got all the Senators bribed or blackmailed or frightened into clapping. And the Congress is just a bunch of idiot puppies. They’ll yap on cue.”

“I want my Ukrainian piss hookers!” Donald screamed.

“Yeah, this will go well,” the hair said. “Just great. So great. Tremendous.”

The hat laughed.

“Oh, fuck,” the hair moaned. “Now you’ve got me talking like him.”

“I want a sausage McGriddle,” Donald whined, backing up to sit down heavily on the bed.

“You can have one after you finish practicing the speech,” the hat said.

“But I want one now,” Donald whined. “All day breakfast. All day breakfast.”

“There’s food down in the kitchen,” the hair said.

“No, I want a McGriddle. I don’t want to be poisoned,” Donald said.

“For the last time,” the hair said, “No one is trying to poison you.”

“Mexicans,” Donald said darkly. “Mexicans in the kitchen.”

“There are no Mexicans in the kitchen, Donald,” the hair said.

“There are ALWAYS Mexicans in the kitchen,” the old man said and shuddered. “Sausage McGriddle, Large Diet Coke. And three cheeseburgers. And a six-piece of Buttermilk Crispy Chicken Tenders. Sweet and Sour sauce. And Barbeque.”

“Later, Donald, after you practice the speech,” the hair insisted.

“Buttermilk Crispy Chicken,” Donald whispered. He stood up from the bed and approached the floor length mirror. He began to slowly rub the pocked and pallid flesh of his large stomach.

“Buttermilk is good for my skin.”

His hand descended to the waistband of his stained underwear.

“Buttermilk,” he whispered.