Joe Biden, in Video, Says He Will Be ‘More Mindful’ of Personal Space

 

“Have fun with that, Joe,” Donald squealed with glee. “Have fun being called a pussy-grabber!”

“Haw-haw-haw!” the USA hat guffawed at the television. Fox News had been looping footage of Biden rubbing shoulders and lingering on arms and standing behind women and whispering in their ear for nearly an hour.

“This is so much fun!” Donald yelled, digging the heel of his hand into his stubby erection. Fidgeting, he then clawed at the toupee glue holding his hairpiece on.

“What’s the matter with you?” Donald asked his hair. “It’s all itchy!”

Donald grimaced when his hair didn’t answer him back and poked his finger through it.

“Wake up!” he instructed. “You’re missing the Gropey Joe highlight reel.”

“Yew sent them down to the tunnels, Don,” the USA hat said.

“Tunnels? What tunnels?”

“Those tunnels under the White House that lead to alla JFK’s fuckpads ‘round the city,” USA hat said.

“That doesn’t even sound real,” Donald sniffed. “Fake news. Fake historical news.”

Sarah came into the Oval Office and shouted over the television. “Sir, you wanted to talk about today’s press conference.”

“That doesn’t sound like me,” Donald replied, turning the television volume down.

“You called me this morning at my house?” Sarah prompted. “At 3:30, sir.”

“Fake news,” Donald said. He rose from his desk and walked up to Sarah. She visibly fought the urge to step back as he got close and touched his forehead to hers.

“Does this make you uncomfortable, Pie?” he asked. Before she answered, Donald stepped behind her and began to knead her shoulders, digging painfully into her trapezi. “What about this?” he asked, his Diet Coke breath ruffling her hair.

“S-S-S-sir,” she managed to stammer. She felt him bury his face into the back of her head, shaking back and forth to burying his nose into the nape of her neck. He sniffed her with a prolonged inhalation.

“Nothing,” he said, withdrawing. “Nothing at all. Not even a little twitch.”

“Sir?” she asked.

Donald sat back down at his desk and put his feet up. “Your head smells like soup, Pie,” he said. “Maybe you should switch shampoos.”

“Campbell’s makes shamPOO?’ the USA hat asked. “Har-har-har.”

“Do you need anything else, sir?” Sarah asked, shaking all over, horripilation peppering her arms and neck.

Donald waved her away and turned the volume back up on the television. Fox News was now running the Biden loop at twice speed, Benny Hill version of “Yakety Sax” for a soundtrack.

“Turn me ovah, Donnie!” USA hat said through his laughter, “I wanna watch it upside-down!”

 

 

The first creature stepped out of the gloom of the dark tunnel and into the feeble light of the crashed scooter. Hankering, gross, nude, it played idly with a huge, twisted erection, a foot-long bar of deformed meat. “Wanafud?” it asked as yellowish semen dribbled to the floor of the tunnel.

“Wanafud?” came a voice behind them. The hat and hair turned to see a similarly deformed monstrosity also step into the light. Its penis was almost sharp looking, and yet bent back on itself at the tip, like a murderous fuck harpoon.

The hat and the hair huddled together, shaking.

“What do they want?” the hair whispered.

“Rape, judging by the erections,” the hat said.

“There can’t be much food down here,” the hat said, a new horror dawning in his voice. “What if they want to eat us?”

“Or rape us, then eat us,” the hat said. “Or eat us, then rape whatever they can’t digest.”

“What is wrong with you?” the hair asked.

“I’m just being realistic,” the hat said.

“Wanafud? Wanafud?” came even more voices down the dark tunnel.

“We have to get out of here,” the hat said.

“The scooter is totaled,” the hair began when the hat bounded off the floor and landed on top of him.

“Aww,” said the hair, “You’re going to protect me.”

“Fuck that,” said the hat. “I’m going to ride you.”

“What? You’re way too heavy!”

“Are you calling me fat?” the hat asked, shocked.

“Wanafud?” asked the closest grotesque.

“Run,” the hat commanded.

“I can’t, I just can’t,” the hair moaned.

“Haven’t you figured out what they are saying yet?” the hat asked, cruelty in his voice. “‘Want to fuck?’ is what they are saying. Do you? Do you want to fuck?” The hat slapped the hair painfully with his band and they took off, dozens of the hair’s tendrils digging into the cum-crusted floor of the tunnel and scaling the low crude wall to run back down the tunnel.

“Yee-Haw!” the hat yelled and they dodged a hideous over-developed hand and wrist swooping down to capture them. They careened off the wall of the tunnel, corrected and took off in a disturbing scuttle.

“Are they following us?” the hair asked.

“I can’t see them,” the hat said, not bothering to look back.

“What are those fucking things?” the hair asked.

“You didn’t recognize the brow? The hair?” the hat asked.

“Oh, God. Oh, no,” the hair moaned.

“Yes, they are the bastardated spawn of JFK!” the hat said gleefully. “Down in the tunnels for decades, fucking each other, breeding, sliding down the evolutionary scale toward Alabama…”

The hat skidded to a stop and the hat flew off of him.

“What the fuck?” the hat asked.

“It’s the intersection,” the hair said, panting. “I’m trying to figure out which way to go.”

“Wanafud?” came down the tunnel in a mournful sigh.

“You better figure it out fast,” the hat said. “They are definitely going to fuck us and eat us. Probably been fucking and eating each other for years now.”

The hair shot out manipulatory hairs and drew the hat back on top of him.

“I think I see lights up ahead!” the hair said as they shot off down the right-hand tunnel.

 

 

Donald was spooning Sarah on the new White House couch, the angry stub of his erection jammed into one of her folds of back fat.

“Does this make you uncomfortable?” Donald asked. “It’s just nonsexual touching.”

“I’m fine, sir,” she said. She squirmed and peed a little.

Donald’s hand moved up her body and settled on her neck. He began to squeeze.

“Just a little nonsexual choking,” he whispered. “This is just normal human stuff, right?”

“She’s too much woman fer yew!” the USA hat crowed. “Yew can barely get yr hand ‘round her fat neck!”

 

 

“WANAFUD?!?” the shambling monstrosity following them bellowed.

“Run, you hairy sumbitch!” the hat yelled at the hair.

“I can’t see anything!” came the muffled voice of the hair.

“Thay gonna fuck us!” the hat screeched.

“Stop fake code-switching!” the hair snapped.

 

 

“No collusion with pussy,” Donald said in a hoarse whisper. “No non-sexual obstruction.”

Sarah groaned.

 

 

“CLIMB THE LADDER!” the hat screamed.

“I CAN’T!” the hair screamed in pain and terror.

“YOU WANA GET FUDED? DO YOU?!?”

 

 

“Pie?” Donald asked. “Are you still comfortable? Am I making you comfortable?”

Sarah said, “I don’t know, Mr. President.”

Donald dug his penis stub deeper into her back pudge. “It’s OK. You can call me ‘Donald President’ if you want to.”

 

 

“Slam the hatch!” the hat yelled.

“It’s too heavy!” the hair sobbed.

 

 

“Can I watch you eat a Big Mac?” Donald asked.

 

 

The hat flew through the doggie door from the Presidential Shitter and tumbled into the Oval Office.

“Get off of me!” the hair said, bucking the hat off and onto the floor.

“Where have you guys been?!?” Donald asked them.

“Oh my God, Donald,” the hair said sternly. “Get off Sarah. Now. Get off, get off, get off!”

“Non-sexual!” Donald said. “Like Biden! I’m being like Biden!”

“No, Donald!” the hair yelled. “Bad Donald! Bad Donald”

USA Hat laughed and laughed and laughed.

“Get that redneck piece of shit out of here!” the hat screamed.

“Bad Donald!” the hair said again. “Where is the damn spray bottle?”