“I hate Europe,” Donald moaned as his limo inched its way through a throng of people cheerily ringing the bells on their twee bicycles. “I hate it, I hate the people, I hate the food, I hate how hard it is to find a simple damn Diet Coke.”

“There are four cases in the trunk, Donald,” the hair reminded him, “and twelve more on the plane.”

“What good are Diet Cokes in the trunk?” he asked, taking a drink of the Diet Coke in his hand.

“You can find some kinky-ass shit to do in Belgium,” the hat said.

“I hate Belgia,” Donald whispered.

Big Bush Park, Antwerp

“Back in, what, it must have been 1964, me and some friends ended up at this club in Antwerp, real underground place, and it was a live sex show. Freaky, man, real freaky.” the hat said and sighed.

“Freaky?” Donald asked.

“You have friends?” the hair asked.

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” the hat told the hair. “Real freaky, Donald. Bitches dressed up like antique furniture. Two dudes just pounding away on an escritoire, a guy spinning a Louis XIV armchair on his dick, DVDA on a breakaway chifferobe. Crazy stuff.”

“Really?” Donald asked. “Wow.”

“They came out into the audience, dude,” the hat said excitedly, “like The Lion King.”

“This is bullshit,” the hair declared.

“Like The Lion King?” Donald asked excitedly.

“Bulllllllllshit,” the hair sang.

“Yeah, man,” the hat continued. “A skinny chick dressed like a whale-oil lamp queefed right in my buddy’s face.”

“Whoa,” Donald said.

“Bullshit, bullshit, bulllllllshit,” the hair sang again.

“I am going to kick your ass, fucker,” the hat said.
The hair drew itself into a tight bun on Donald’s head and hissed.

“Queef,” Donald mumbled and smiled. He drained the last of his Diet Coke and slurped noisily at the bottom of his glass with his straw while rattling the ice.

“And who,” the hair asked in a tight, high voice, “Was this friend of yours who got…” The hair paused, “‘Queefed’ on?”

Norman Mailer and his crotch, Diane Arbus, 1963

“Norman Mailer,” the hat said crisply.

“Norman Mailer?!?” the hair asked incredulously.

“Norman Mailer,” the hat replied.

“Norman Mailer. The author of The Naked and the Dead?”

“Well, I called him ‘Norm,” but yeah.”

The Executioner’s Song? The Armies of the Night?!? That Norman Mailer?”

“Yup, she queefed right in his face,” the hat said.

“Dammit,” Donald said. “Why won’t the window roll down?” He smacked the panel on the door.

“Security,” the hair said.

“I want to roll the window down,” Donald said, still fiddling with the buttons.

“Man, you should have seen the look on his face,” the hat said, still lost in reminiscence.

“Why do you want to roll the window down?” the hair asked.

“Never mind,” Donald said, sulking.

“You were going to yell ‘queef’ out the window, weren’t you?” the hat asked.

“Yeah,” Donald said. He settled back into the rich leather of the limo and sucked his teeth loudly.