“Why would you make me go to a country that has so few McDonald’s locations?” Donald moaned, leaning his forehead against the hot window of the limo taking them to his hotel.
“It is neutral territory, Donald,” the hair said.
“Neutral? Neutral? They are communists,” the hat said, voice lowered almost to a growl.
“Seventeen! Only seventeen McDonald’s. How can a country survive on such a meager ration of sweet and sour sauce?” Donald wondered. He thought for a moment and shuddered.
“We brought over plenty on the plane,” the hair said. “They are transporting it to the hotel in the armored cars behind us.”
“And the Diet Coke? We brought enough Diet Coke?”
The hair massaged his furrowed brow. “Look in the lino mini-fridge, Donald. In fact, go ahead and have one. It’s been almost twenty minutes.
The hat was up on the armrest on the passenger side, watching the faces of the teeming crowds go by. “Filthy country,” the hat muttered. “I told him to listen to LeMay.”
“What’s that?” the hair asked, tipped back as Donald guzzled a Diet Coke dripping with condensation.
“Are you ready Donald?” the hat asked, ignoring the hair.
“Yep, oh yeah, totally ready. I’m the readiest President that ever negotiated,” Donald said. “Denucularblazation,” he said and paused to belch explosively. “Norkorea will be an economic porterhouse, China, trade, whatever.”
“Close enough,” the hat said.
“What? Not even,” the hair replied.
“He’s got this,” the hat said.
“What about, you know, the Rose Garden?” the hair asked
“I beg your pardon, I never promised you a rose garden,” Donald sang. “Lynn Anderson. She was a real hot piece of tail back in the day.”
“Glen Campbell, you mean,” the hat said.
“Lynn Anderson,” Donald shot back, opening another Diet Coke.
“It’s a Glen Campbell song,” the hat insisted.
“Just google it,” the hair said tiredly.
“Lynn Anderson released it as a single in 1970, Campbell’s version wasn’t until his 1971 album, The First Time I Saw Her,” Donald shot back.
“Oh, fuck,” the hair said. “Hand me the phone.” Donald passed his cellphone up into his hair and drank his fresh Diet Coke sullenly.
“You’re both wrong,” the har announced. “It was first recorded by Billy Joe Royal in 1967?”
“Billy Joe Royal? Who the fuck is Billy Joe Royal?” the hat demanded.
“I don’t know,” the hair said, his voice sliding up an octave. “I’me just reading the Wikipedia page about the song.”
“Fake news,” Donald said. “There’s never been anyone named that ever.”
“His Wikipedia page says his big hit was ‘Down In The Boondocks,’” the hair said. The light from the cellphone lit up Donald’s nimbus of hair with a bluish glow.
“Oh, yeah,” Donald said. “Billy Joe Royal. Tremendous talent. Great guy. A real classy great guy.”
“I thought you said he didn’t know who he was,” the hair said.
“C’mon, leave him alone,” the hat said. “He’s got a tough day ahead of him.”
“Lord have mercy on the boy from down in the boondocks,” Donald sang with his eyes closed as the streets of Hanoi sped by.