“ARE YOU A SPY?” Donald screamed, throttling the hair.

“Donald,” the hair said.

“ARE YOU?”

“Donald!” the hat yelled. “Let him go!”

“He’s a spy!” Donald hissed.

“No. I’m. Not,” the hair managed to gargle.

“Pah,” Donald harrumphed and tossed the hair onto a potted plant.

“Donald, you have to calm down,” the hat said.

“Spies, spies, spies, all around me. I’m surrounded by spies,” Donald muttered and fell back into his office chair. He slammed a palm down on the Diet Coke button.

“Donald,” the hair rasped, trying to untangle himself from the ficus, “I’ve been with you since 1978. We met in Studio 54. We did coke together in the bathroom. You know me.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” Donald said.

“I wonder if Harvey jacked off into that when Bill was in here?” the hat asked.

“Guh,” the hair moaned and dropped to the floor.

The hat looked around the Oval Office and whistled. “I bet if we got a black light, this whole place would look like a rave.”

“Ew. c’mon, dude,” the hair said. He got up on his tippy-toe tendrils and walked gingerly back to the desk.

The office door slammed open and John Bolton stomped into the room. “Mr. President,” his mustache said gruffly. “Pence, fucked us. He really, really fucked us.”

“Was his wife in the room?” the hat asked brightly.

“Pence mentioned the Libya-model, sir,” the mustache continued.

“Is she hot?” Donald asked. “I like big tits. Does she have big tits?”

“The Libya-model, dammit. I’m talking about the country. The country of Libya,” the mustache growled.

“OK, I get it, she’s from Libya. I don’t care where she’s from, I’ll pee on any of them. I just want to know about her tits.”

“Libya, sir. Pence mentioned Libya to the North Koreans. They took it as a threat.”

“So, she’s North Korean? I don’t know about that,” Donald said. “I like ‘em to be at least a little bit meaty.”

“Colonel Muammar Gaddafi, Mr. President. The US convinced him to give up his weapons program and then backed a revolt a few years later?” the mustache prompted.

“Weapons program?” Donald asked, mystified. “I don’t know about that, John. I don’t like those hookers that used to be a guy. Sometimes they have a penis. I mean, sometimes they look real convincing and then SURPRISE! A PENIS!”

“Sir,” the mustache said.

“Did you see The Crying Game?” Donald asked. “Half-black chick. Really hot. And then PENIS! Huge. Just a huge penis.”

“Sir, I’m trying to talk about foreign policy,” the mustache said wearily. “The North Koreans are pulling out of the talks on nuclearization.”

“Jong? Jong would never pull out. He told me he was balls-deep in these negotiations!”

“Donald,” the hair said, tugging on his pants leg, “Please take me to go get a shower.”

“Or maybe that was a dream,” Donald said. “But anyway, let’s get back to the issue at hand. Are they at least 36D?”