Jeff Sessions Is Forced Out as Attorney General as Trump Installs Loyalist

 

Jeff Sessions, Exit Interview, 2018 November 7

Donald stared at his desk and took a few deep breaths. He drank the last warm swallow of his Diet Coke, dropped the can on the floor and kicked it under the credenza with the side of his foot. He straightened his tie, shook his head to make his hair giggle and then sighed. He turned the hat on his desk to face the couch and looked around the Oval Office. Donald sighed again, his whole frame sagging.

“OK,” he said, pressing the intercom, “Send him in.”

The door to the outer office opened and the wizened creature shuffled in. Donald did not stand.

“Mistah Presuhdent,” Jeff mumbled.

“What? What did you say? Speak up,” Donald barked.

“Ah’ma here, Mistah Presuhdent,” the elfin man said, his eyes squinting, his hands folded, almost leaning forward in a bow.

“Goddammit, you talk like a fucking retard. You know that? Are you aware of that?” Donald asked, his voice low and tight.

“Yes, Mistah Presuhdent.”

“How is the country supposed to respect someone that talks like he has a mouth full of possum assholes?”

The hat snickered softly while Jeff looked at his feet.

“Is there something down there?” Donald asked. He stood up and walked around the desk. “Is there something on the floor that is going to answer my question?” He bent over to look at the floor. “Nope. I don’t see anything on the floor.”

He straightened enough to look Jeff in his beady little eyes. “I certainly don’t see anything on the floor that would explain why you talk like LIKE YOU HAVE A MOUTH FULL OF POSSUM ASSHOLES!” he screamed.

Jeff recoiled from the from the hail of McGriddle flecks and atomized Diet Coke pelting his face, the rancid tang of sweet and sour sauce filling his nose, the glaring eyes of Donald surrounded by loose, pale flesh.

“Traitor,” Donald said in a hoarse whisper. “I made you Attorney General in order to help me. And you did nothing. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

“Mistah…” Jeff began.

“I don’t want to hear it,” Donald said, stalking away. “All I want is loyalty from my employees. 100% unquestioning loyalty. And you couldn’t even give me that, little man.”

Jeff shuffled his feet.

“Traitor!” Donald yelled. He rushed the smaller man and rammed the prow of his gut into Jeff’s wee torso. Jeff wheeled his arms for balance, staggered backyards a few steps and fell over.

“Traitor!” Donald yelled again. He pulled off his hair and began whipping Jeff with it, repeating with every blow: “Traitor, traitor, traitor, traitor!”

Donald, breathing heavily from the exertion, dropped his hair on the desk beside his hat. He sneered at the tiny, weeping, wrinkled man.

“You’re done,” Donald said, jabbing at his with a forefinger. “You’re through. I want your resignation turned in before I can tweet about getting it. You have thirty minutes.”

“Yes, sir,” Jeff said in a small voice.

“Disgusting,” Donald said. “I wouldn’t even use you as a tampon.”

The hat guffawed.

“I’m going to go take a shit,” Donald said, smoothing the stray hairs on the sides of his head. “Get out. I’ll find someone for your job that knows how to do as he’s told.” Donald walked away and slammed the door to the Presidential Shitter behind him.

“OH MY GAWD!” the hat crowed. “He fucked that n[beep]a up!”

“Guh,” the hair replied weakly.

“Really?” the hat asked no one in particular. “Not even n[beep]a? Really? It’s in rap songs all the damn time!”

“Guh?!?” the hair asked. The hat realized that Jeff was staring at them both.

“Ah bet you faggots think y’all real clever, dontcha?” Jeff asked the hat and the hair as he used the arm of the couch to pull himself up off the floor.

“I think he can hear us,” the hat said to the hair in a stage whisper.

“Guh,” the hair replied. He was spread out on the desk like a splatter.

“Of course Ah can hear you little peckerwoods,” Jeff said, straightening his tiny suit jacket. He smoothed the thin hair on his small head, his little head that was no bigger than a grapefruit.

“How can he hear us?” the hair asked wanly.

“Ah’ll show you little buttfucks!” Jeff said triumphantly and sprayed glitter from his hands at them.

“ELF!” the hat screamed. “ELF MAGIC! ELF!” He began to scream like an angry frog.

The hair got up, every strand erect and hissed. Another handful of glitter hit him full on and he sputtered. “Motherfucker!” the hair said, shivering to get the glitter off.

“DONALD!” the hat yelled as he threw himself off the desk tried to inchworm his way under the couch. A blast of glitter hit him before he wiggled to safety.

“You all have been working ahgainst me from the vehry start!” Jeff said. “Fucking pothead hippie shitbirds!”

The hair scuttled to the back of the Oval Office desk and jumped, aiming himself at a floor vent. “DONALD! GET IN HERE!” he yelled.

“ELF MAGIC!” the hat clarified, coughing out glitter.

Jeff grabbed the arm of the couch and strained with all his diminutive might to flip it over.

“Elf magic?” the hair asked, hiding behind a ficus and trying to pry up the grate of a floor vent. “Is this really magic? I think he’s just throwing glitter at us.”

“What’s the difference?” the hat asked, trying to climb into the underside of the couch. “I don’t want glitter on me, even if it isn’t magic.”

“DONALD!” the hat cried. “COME DO SOMETHING ABOUT YOUR GODDAMN FORMER ATTORNEY GENERAL!”