“You really need to stop reading that, you know,” the hair said calmly. “It’s just going to get you upset.”

“Fuck that, fuck you, fuck Comey and fuck everything!” the hat screeched.

“Well, at least Chris Cillizza doesn’t like it. He said much of it was such petty and mean.”

“Chris Cillizza? CHRIS FUCKFACE CILLIZZA?!?” The hat shook with rage and he and his advance copy of A Higher Loyalty fell off the desk.

The hair peered over the side. The hat was still shaking and the book had opened as it fell and embraced him like a lover. “Are you OK?”

“Do I look FUCKING OK?!?”

Donald stormed in, bald and red-faced, the USA hat jammed on his head sideways. “Well, hey there fellas!” it said in a thick drawl.

“Can this day get worse?” the hair muttered.

Sarah waddled in after Donald, a large piece of pie in each hand. Her face was already smeared with sticky-sweet red goo.

“Can’t we keep this from being published? Can I sue him? I have fantastic lawyers. The best lawyers. I want to sue him,” Donald said. He was in a filthy bathrobe that flapped open as he paced the Oval Office.

“I don’t think so, Mr. President,” Sarah said thickly, pie crust spraying out.

“A tariff then. A tariff. Tariffs work great. Look at China. Tariffs have them completely cowed. Cowed? Is that the right word? Cowed? It sounds weird as I keep saying it. Cowed. Cowed. Cowed.”

“Uh, I, uh, I don’t think you can put a, uh, tariff on a book published in the US.”

“Why not?” Donald demanded.

“I’ll have to get back to you on that,” Sarah said and took a huge bite of pie.

“Well, I’m asking you right now,” Donald said.

“You’re gonna,” Sarah paused to swallow, “Have to ask the President about that directly.”

“I AM THE PRESIDENT!” Donald roared. The hat and hair snickered. The USA hat guffawed.

“Sir?” Sarah asked. A goo-slathered cherry fell from one of her pieces of pie and hit the Presidential Seal.

“DIBS!” the hat yelled out.

“What about bombing? Can we just bomb the publisher? They won’t even see it coming… or will they?” Donald leaned on his desk casually and the hair yelped under him.

“I don’t think so, sir,” Sarah said miserably.

“We have time. We won’t need all our bombs for Syria, right? Like we can spare two or three, right?”

“You’ll have to ask General Mattis about that,” she said.

“Mattis. That all anybody says.” His voice went up into a falsetto. “‘Don’t tweet military plans; Mattis wouldn’t like it. Don’t taunt Rocket Man; Mattis wouldn’t like it. Don’t put pics of the Defense Center Codebooks on Instagram for Vlad; Mattis wouldn’t like it.’ I’m so fucking sick of that old fart. What is the use of advisors that won’t tell you to do whatever you want?”

“I don’t know, sir” Sarah mumbled around a mouthful of pie.

“What’s with this?” Donald asked, waving his hands. “What’s with the pie?”

“Sir?” she asked again, cocking her head like a dog.

“The pie. The pie. The pie that you are eating!” Donald pointed the piece of pie in each of her hands.

“I get low blood sugar in the afternoons,” Sarah replied.

“Is your blood sugar low now?” Donald asked sardonically.

“I get low blood sugar in the afternoons,” Sarah said robotically.

“The pie. It’s disgusting. It’s like a cheap set-up for a fat girl joke,” Donald said. “Get rid of it.”

“I wear a size 12,” Sarah said, almost in a whisper. “Size 12 is the average dress size for an American woman.”

“I wouldn’t even watch you piss on a motel bed,” Donald said, sneering.


The hat coughed theatrically from the floor.

“Not that Melania thinks there is even a 1% chance I’d ever do that,” Donald said rapidly.

“Size 12 is the average dress size for an American woman,” Sarah said again. Tears were streaming down her face, raccooning her eye make-up, mixing dark rivulets into the red on her face.

“Ah like a girl with a little meat on ‘er bones,” the USA hat said.

Sarah broke and ran from the Oval Office, sobbing, her pie-filled hands bobbing up and down.

“Jesus, Donald,” the hair said.

“Thank fucking God,” the hat said. “It was really starting to stink like fat bitch in here.”