“Is Sarah really not going to give any more White House press briefings?” the hair asked.

“I’ve canceled them,” the hat said. “I mean, what’s the point? They just ignore her and write what they want.”

“But it’s the White House Press briefing. They’ve all been lies and bullshit since the very first one.”

“Fuck ‘em. Let ’em read the press releases.”

“But what’s going to happen to Sarah? What is she going to do around here?”

“This and that. Cook and clean, I guess.”

“She’s going to look fucking terrible in a French maid uniform,” the hair said.

“Barf, dude. Just barf,” the hat said. “That shit is going to be in my mind forever.”

“Yeah, like that time I walked in on you trying to fuck a grapefruit wrapped up in duct tape.”

“Knock first!” the hat yelled.

“Oh, don’t worry about that from now on! One-hundred percent going to knock!”

Donald walked into the Oval Office, talking into his cellphone. “Ivanka, Ivanka, I’ll be my own press secretary. I’ve got Twitter, baby girl. Straight to the America people. The Real America. Farmers on tractors checking their Instagram accounts, steel mill workers pausing to take selfies with molten ore, FBI agents tracking my movements. FIFH-ty-seven million followers. I’m yuge!” He covered the phone with his free hand. “You boys want to say anything to Ivanka?”

The hair shook itself “no” in a freeform wave of tendrils. The hat said “Tell her to send me a sext. The good stuff this time. Baby-box or butthole.”

“Yeah, baby girl,” Donald said into the phone. “I gotta go. Make sure to send a sext later. Bye-bye. Daddy loves you, he really does. Tell Daddy you love him. OK, bye, sweetie.” The hair made a gagging sound and the hat giggled.

“Ivanka said we fired Pie. Is this fake news?” Donald said, turning to glare at the hat and the hair.

“Not true,” the hat said.

“Of course not,” the hair said.

“I just canceled all future White House press briefings until the stupid reporters learn to be respectful,” the hat said.

“Why wasn’t I informed of this?!?” asked the man who was informed of it numerous times.

The hat and hair looked at one another. The hat coughed.

“I’m tweeting about this,” Donald said.

“OK,” the hat said.

“I mean it,” Donald said. “I’ll tweet about it unless you stop me.”

“No one is going to stop you, Donald,” the hair said.

Donald took off his pants and then typed furiously on his phone for a few moments.

“My thumb is right over the “send” button!” he said.

“Just make sure to call her Sarah,” the hair said.

“Sarah? Who the fuck is Sarah? Donald asked.

 

‘Podium?” the hair asked, reading over the hat’s brim. “Isn’t it actually a lectern?”

“You stand on a podium, you read from a lectern. They aren’t interchangeable,” the hat said snidely.

“But he puts podium in quotation marks,” the hair said. “Is he saying it really isn’t a podium?”

“Like a fake podium, a pseudopodia?” the hat asked, laughing at his own pun.

“Fuck you both,” Donald said. “Seriously.”