“It’s nice to have Melania back,” Donald said. He leaned over and squirted a blob of Coconut Cream Extreme Conditioner on his desk. The hair scurried over and began to lap it up.

“Is it?” the hat asked. “Is it really?”

“I wish you two would get along,” Donald said. He ran a brush through the hair and it began to purr contentedly.

“She hates me, Donald,” the hat said. “I made you President. I made you the leader of the free world. I made you The King of Twitter. And she hates me for it.”

“OK, OK,” Donald said. The hair stomped on his bloated stomach a few times and curled up.

“Hey, furball, can’t you back me up here?” the hat asked the hair.

“She hates you,” the hair confirmed dreamily. “And it is all your fault.”

“Nuh-uh!” the hat said. He was sitting on the Diet Coke button, hoping Donald would forget it was there. He had already drunk 26 cans and the Oval Office trash can was overflowing.

“It kinda is,” Donald said.

“Lies. All lies.”

“The first time you met her you told you were available to help break up any encapsulation around her implants,” the hair said.

“I was just trying to be a part of the team; it was only polite to offer,” the hat protested.

“You said,” the hair began, “and I quote ‘I’ll help them rock-hard titties for you, girl.’’”

“No, I didn’t.”

The hair continued in the hat’s pinched voice “‘I’ll beat ‘em real nice and then maybe you give me a squeezer,’ unquote.”

“In my defense, I thought she was a hooker,” the hat said sulkily.

“She was introduced as his wife,” the hair said, arching up and then settling back comfortably.

“She talked like a hooker,” the hat said.

“Mr. President?” a voice asked.
Donald looked up from the squabbling headmates, startled. “How long have you been standing there, Pie?” he demanded.

“Oh, uh, not long, sir,” Sarah said. “Only ninety minutes or so.”

“Well, what do you want?” Donald asked. The hair made a contented grunt when Donald picked him up and put him on his head.

“Mr. President, I was wondering if we could finish up before this afternoon’s press briefing,” Sarah said.

“Where were we?” Donald asked quarrelously.

Sarah riffled through her notes, “North Korea. Singapore. Steel tariffs.”

“WITCH HUNT!” Donald suddenly screeched. “It’s a witch hunt hoax. It’s all Jeff’s fault. No collusion. No collusion. A hoax no collusion witch hunt.”

“Yes, sir,” Sarah said and scribbled on her paper. She shifted her weight from foot to foot and grimaced as she wrote.

“What’s the matter with you, Pie?” Donald asked, narrowing his eyes with suspicion.

“Nothing, sir,” Sarah said.

“Nothing? You’re shaking like you’re shitting a stream of frozen peas. What’s the matter with you? Wait? Are you wearing a wire?!?”

“No, sir,” she said and moaned.

“I won’t have spies in my office, Pie. I won’t have it. Spies and leakers. There all over. I won’t have it, I won’t have it!” Donald stood up and came around the desk, looming over Sarah.

“Cough it up, Pie,” he said. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“Mr. President…” she began.

“Spit it out,” he yelled in her face, his breath fetid with Diet Coke and mechanically separated chicken.

“I’ve been in your office for a very long time. I just have to go to the bathroom, sir,” she admitted.

“There’s a potted plant right over there,” Donald said, waving at the long-suffering Oval Office ficus.

“Sir…”

“Go, Pie. I can’t have you running off to the bathroom every five minutes,” Donald said. The hat snickered softly on the desk.

“But, sir…”

“Every President in the last twenty years has peed in that ficus, Pie, and many fine heads of state. Are you saying you are too good to pee in the Oval Office ficus?”

“No, sir,” Sarah said miserably. She set down her pen and notepad and began tugging down her pantyhose as she waddled awkwardly to the ficus.

“Now, where was I?” Donald asked.

“Witch hunt, Mr. President,” Sarah said, trying to squat over the potted plant.

“WITCH HUNT!” Donald screamed again. Sarah wobbled in surprise and sat down heavily in the planter.

“It’s a witch hunt,” Donald said. “Me? A witch? How dare they. I’m not a witch. Witches aren’t classy and I’m super-classy. Just the best. Look at this suit, Pie. Would a witch wear a suit this nice?”

“No, sir,” Sarah said as she struggled to get back into a squat.

“A witch? I’m no witch. I’ve never soured anyone’s milk. I wasn’t born with a caul. A witch,” he said disgustedly. Donald sat back down in his office chair heavily and swatted the hat flat to the desk.

“Hey, man, watch it,” the hat grumbled.

“Get off the Diet Coke button,” the hair hissed.

“A witch? What does that even mean?” Donald asked. “Pie! What does it mean to be a witch?”

“You, uh, have a black cat?” Sarah said.

“See? No black cat. I don’t even have a cat. The last cat we had was gray. Donny Jr. left a window open and oops. 28 stories. No more cat,” Donald said.

“I hated that cat,” the hair whispered. “It tried to pee on me once.”

“Are you done yet, Pie?” Donald asked. “That’s disgusting. Why can’t you use a normal bathroom like a normal person?”

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