‘Well, he is a sleeping son of bitch,” the hat bellowed into the speakerphone. His Donald impression was perfect.
“Sleepy,” the hair whispered. “Sleepy son of a bitch.”
“I know what I had him say,” the hat whispered back angrily.
“Sleeping?” Sean asked over the phone.
“Yeah, sleeping” the hat continued in Donald’s voice. “He’s never awake. The sleepingness son of a bitch you’ve ever met. Chuck Todd might as well be in a coma. Never awake. Never.”
“Not even when he’s reporting on live television, Mr. President?” Sean asked incredulously.
“Especially not then,” the hat said. “He’s a sleeptalking super-partisan. Totally NBC creature. They breed them in secret labs. Sleep their whole life.”
The hair shook with silent laughter.
“I’m, uh, I’m going to need some independent confirmation on this, uh, information,” Sean stammered.
“Fuck you, Sean. Report what we tell you or I’ll have your faggot husband raped!” the hat roared.
‘Yes, Mr. President,” Sean said sulkily.
“Happier, Sean. Be happier, fucknuts. I guess you wanted Hillary to be President, didn’t you?”
“No, Mr. President. Never.” Sean said in a voice hollow with shock.
“Yeah, you wanted her tentacles all up in you, right? Finding every little crevice of pleasure, right?” the hat yelled.
The hair was waving his tendrils to get the hat to stop. His Donald impression had slipped badly.
“Bigly. Huge,” the hat said. “The greatest country ever. Super classy, Sean. Super classy.”
Sean sobbed for a few seconds and then calmed down enough to continue. “And this death penalty for drug dealers, Mr. President… any particular way you want this spun?”
“Spun? What’s to spin? Drug dealers get put to death. It’s working in the Philippines and it will work here. It’s not the 80s, Sean. I can’t snort cocaine out a hooker’s vulva any longer and neither should anyone else. I don’t drink, either. Get rid of all the booze. I don’t care. Ban booze, Chinese steel and fat hookers.”
“Should I really mention prostitutes, Mr. President, what with the Stormy…”
“NEVER SAY THAT NAME TO ME!” the hat yelled. “NEVER, SEAN. That, that…”
“Balloon-tit slut canal,” the hair whispered.
“That balloon canal is a liar! I paid her to keep to keep quiet and she didn’t! Obviously, nothing she says can be believed,” the hat said rapidly into the phone.
“Yes, Mr. President,” Sean said quietly.
“You got all that, Sean. Huh?”
“Sleeping son of a bitch, death to drug dealers and no mention of balloon canals. Will do, Mr. President.”
“That’s a good boy,” the hat said and hung up before he and the hair burst into laughter.
“‘That’s a good boy,’” the hair said. “Holy shit, I almost totally lost it.”
“Hold on, watch this,” the hat said. He used the edge of his bill to make another call. A woman said, “Yes, Mr. President?”
“I want you to send Sean Hannity a pound of dog treats. Fancy dog treats. Like the fanciest treats money can buy. I want them delivered today.”
“Any note Mr. President?” the assistant asked. The hat eyed the sleeping bulk of Donald on the couch.
“Have it say ‘Who’s a good boy?’” the hat said and they both convulsed with laughter again.