“I’m the hardest working president ever,” Donald gasped.
“Donald, hurry up in there, we need to review the 2020 Democratic field,” the hair called.
“Let him concentrate, dammit!” the hat.
“He’s been in there forever!” the hair protested.
“Ten minutes is not forever!” the hat replied.
“It’s happening!” Donald gasped, leaning forward and groaning.
“Maybe you need more fiber in your diet,” the hat said quietly.
“Fiber makes you gay,” Donald said.
“Fiber does not make you gay,” the hat said.
“It makes you gay and impotent,” Donald insisted.
“Hurry up!” the hair called.
“This is my executive time!” Donald screamed.
“When was the last time you took a shit, Donald?” the hat asked quietly.
“When did the shutdown end?”
“That long? Donald, you need to go to the doctor!” the hat said.
“No doctors! I’m the healthy president ever!”
“You have a meeting with the joint chiefs after this!” the hair said.
“A little bit is poking out!” Donald replied.
“Shut up! You’re going to make him prairie dog,” the hat said. “He really needs this!”
“I feel like I’m splitting in half!” Donald groaned.
“Breathe, Donald,” the hat crooned soothingly. “In and out, nice and slow.”
“Aw, Jesus Christ, shut the fucking bathroom door, Donald!” the hair said. “It smells like you’ve got a dead bum up your ass!”
“C’mon, Donald, you can do it,” the hat said.
“A healthy human shouldn’t make a smell like that, Donald!” the hair said.
“Ungh,” Donald replied. “Yurg!”
“Use the air freshener!” the hair told the hat.
“OK, OK, don’t get your hairnet in a wad!” the hat shot back.
“Hurry! You know these windows don’t open!”
There was a prolong spssssssssst of an aerosol can and the scent of someone taking a shit in the wildflower meadow of a pine forest wafted into the Oval Office.
“You eat too much McDonald’s!” the hat yelled.
“NEVER!” Donald roared. “NEVER!”
The hair winced at the agonizing scream that followed. “You’re killing him, you’re killing him,” the follicles cried.
“Nonsense,” the hat yelled over the horrible splashing sounds. “This is the healthiest man to ever be President of the United States of America!”
Donald’s scream cut off abruptly.
“What’s happening in there?” the hair demanded.
“I think he passed out,” the hat said. “Yup, oh yeah, he’s out. He just slid off the shitter and slumped to the floor.”
“Is he alive? Is he breathing?”
There was a soft fwump in the silence of the bathroom and the hat made his way into the Oval Office in his inchworm fashion.
“He’s down,” said the hat. “He’s out, but there’s not much blood.”
“Should we call the doctor? The Secret Service?”
“Eh, give him a minute. It was a huge shit. Epic. Just amazing really.”
“I think I should call the doctor. I don’t want him to go down in the history books as the president who shat himself to death,” the hair said.
“And I don’t want to be Mike Pence’s hat,” the hat said glumly. “I don’t even think he wears hats.”
The hair walked on flagulate follicles to the intercom and was about to summon help when a groggy voice spoke from the bathroom, “Where’s my phone?”
“Donald,” called the hair. “Are you OK?”
“Where’s my phone?” he asked querulously.
“It’s on the magazine stand, Donald,” the hat supplied.
They heard the elderly man stand, bumping and crashing into various fixtures in the bathroom.
“Get the Secret Service,” Donald said hoarsely.
“Are you OK?” the hair asked. “Are you in danger?”
“Tell them to come clean me up,” Donald said quietly.
The hat was laughing when they both heard the shutter sound of Donald’s camera phone.
“Donald?” the hair asked. “What are you taking pictures of?”
“Nothing!” he shouted back, words slurred like a drunk.
“Donald, are you taking pictures of the huge dump you just took?” the hat asked.
“No,” Donald told them, but they heard the shutter sounds again and the Presidential Shitter lit up with repeated flashes.
“Don’t you dare put that on Twitter,” the hair warned.
“I’m not,” Donald said. But the hat and the hair were already scrambling off the Oval Office desk to stop him.