“Meet you all the way! Roseanne, uh yeah, uh yeah,” Donald sang loudly.

“Uh, Donald,” the hair said.

“All I want to do in the middle of the evening is hold you tight! Roseanne! Roseanne! I didn’t know you were looking for more than I could ever be,” Donald belted out.

“Donald,” the hair said again. He reached down and flicked something off of Donald’s lapel. A crumb from his morning McGriddle.

“Just let him sing,” the hat said. “He’s upset. Fucking Valerie Jarrett,” the hat muttered, not looking up from the phone he was typing up. “And since when is she black? She looks Puerto Rican, for fuck’s sake.”

“I didn’t know that a girl like you could make me feel so sad,” Donald said in a hoarse whisper and sank down on the bed heavily.

“Rosanna, Donald,” the hair said. “The song is about Rosanna.”

“Rosanna?” Donald asked. “Who the fuck is Rosanna?”

“The song was written about Rosanna Arquette,” the hair said.

“Who told you that?” the hat asked. He was furiously typing on Donald’s burner phone.

“It was on VH1. Pop-Up Video,” the hair replied.

“Oh, man. I miss Pop-Up Video,” the hat said. “Blorp. Blup.”

“So what are we going to text about Roseanne?” the hair asked.

“No clue. I’ve been beating up on Jeff all morning,” the hat said. He hit send on the phone and then cackled. “Oh, man. I hope that gets the little dwarf crying.”

“Well, we’ve got to say something in support, right?” the hair asked.

“Rosanna Arquette?” Donald asked. “Is she the one that cut her dick off? The ugly tranny one?”

“No, that was Alexis,” the hair said.

“So she was the one married to Courtney Cox?” the hat asked.

“No, that was a guy, David,” the hair said dryly.

“So Monica’s husband got a sex change?!?” the hat asked.

“No, he didn’t. And they are divorced,” the hair said.

“So which one is the song about, asshole?” the hat demanded.

“Probably the one with the big floppy jugs from True Romance,” Donald said.

“That’s Patricia!” the hair snapped.

“Just how many of those fuckers are there?” the hat wondered aloud.

“Rosanna Arquette was in Desperately Seeking Susan,” the hair prompted.

“Nope,” Donald said.

“I got nothing,” the hat said.

“She was Jody in Pulp Fiction? Eric Stolz’s wife? The one with all the shit in her face?”

“Was he deformed in that movie too?” the hat asked.

The hair fell flat on Donald’s head in exasperation.

“Roseanne!” Donald sang out in a cracking falsetto, “You don’t have to put on the red light!”