“This is just stupid. Just fake news. CNN fake news. I don’t complain about the Russia witch hunt 20 times a day. That’s just nonsense. No one believes that I would complain about this fake Russia probe 20 times a day. That’s preposterous. Who could even say something about that sort of slanderous nonsense 20 times a day! Ten times a day, maybe! Maybe. Crooked Mueller’s crooked investigation? 20 times a day? Never. That makes less sense than the fraudulent special counsel investigation,” Donald said. He was talking to a particularly erotic water stain on the ceiling of the Oval Office.
“Give me that damn phone!” John Bolton’s mustache growled as it chased the hat around the floor. It scuttled along on thin follicle legs after the hat, who had been strapped to the backs of four of the mustache’s feeder rats that had been set free. “NEVER!” the hat cried. “I write the tweets around here!”
“Stop praising Kim Jung-Un!” the mustache screeched. John Bolton’s body lay slumped over behind the couch, occasionally twitching and issuing streams of urine.
“Did you watch that fucking CNN story?” Donald asked. “I looked terrible. Lying Mueller probably has them put filters on the cameras to make me look worse. I should just fire him. He’s a terrible investigator and a terrible person and the investigation is just terrible. And I looked terrible. I looked 70-damn-years-old on CNN. It’s a witch hunt, the whole thing is a witch hunt and they are trying to make me look like a witch.”
“You should just turn the TV off, Donald,” the hair said. “It’s just making you angry.” He scampered down Donald’s arm and leapt to the desk.
“Don’t touch that TV. Don’t touch it. I have to keep an eye on the lies Mueller is having CNN tell about me. It’s all lies. Mueller probably put Stormy up to it. Mueller probably paid her that $130,000 dollars. Why would I pay her any money? I’m not a John. I don’t have to pay for pussy. I bet Mueller has to pay for it. Virgin Mueller the Whoremaster and his stupid crooked probe,” Donald said.
“At least let me turn it to Fox News,” the hair pleaded. The hat squealed and laughed as John Bolton’s mustache jumped to catch him, missed, and went tumbling under the settee.
“Where’s the FBI?” Donald yelled at the stain. “I want to see Mueller’s tax returns. I bet there are all sorts of pay-offs. Someone is paying him off. That’s the only reason he would be doing this. Hush money! I’d pay Stormy to tell everyone! I nailed a PORN STAR! How many guys can say they’ve done that? Not small-dick Bob Mueller and his false crusade that is his witch hunting all over me!”
“Mr. President?” the intercom crackled. “It’s almost time for the Jerusalem address.”
Donald slapped the Diet Coke button and yelled, “What Jerusalem address?”
“Other button, Donald,” the hair said. He grunted with effort and pressed the intercom button down.
“What Jerusalem address?” Donald yelled again.
“The one for the embassy being opened?” the intercom said.
“I’m not in Jerusalem, you ditzy broad!”
“The telecom address, sir. You sent Ms. Trump and Mr. Kushner as dignitaries?”
“Melania’s not in Jerusalem!” Donald said into the intercom. “I saw her skulking about in the Residence this morning. She laughed at my penis. Mueller made her! Mueller made her laugh at my penis!”
The hat ran his rats up the leg of the couch. He paused on the arm to laugh at the mustache struggling to follow. “I’ve never felt so free!” the hat cried out.
“Ivanka, Mr. President,” the intercom said.
“My God, isn’t she hot? I wish I could find a woman that hot. Right? Isn’t she hot?” Donald asked.
“Yes, Mr. President. She’s a very attractive woman,” the intercom said.
“Back off, bitch! She’s mine!” Donald snarled into the microphone.
The hat, astride his rats, ran the length of the back of the couch and leaped onto Donald’s desk.
Donald pounded the Diet Coke button a few more times. “What do you want?” he asked the hat.
“Show me how to turn on the camera! I want to take a selfie!” the hat said, suffused with manic glee.
“NO!” the hair yelled.
“I won’t tweet it out,” the hat told him.
John Bolton’s mustache shook on the couch, flecks of foam dripping from his mandibles.
“AH-HA! The camera!” the hat crowed in triumph.
“I need better TV lawyers,” Donald fumed. “Like L. A. Law TV lawyers. That’s with get Mueller running scared. Someone with Arnie Becker on his side would have to put up with such a witchy-witch hunt.”
There was a bright flash in the gloom of the office.
“Mr. President,” the intercom pleaded.
“Victor Sifuentes,” Donald mused. “No way Mueller could say I was racist with Victor Sifuentes on my side.”
“That was just a TV show, Donald,” the hair said.
“Oh, wait,” the hat said. “That’s not right. Wait. No! Unsend! Unsend!”
“This is just a TV show, numbnuts,” Donald said.