“It’s always got to be abortion with the fucking rednecks,” the hat said, scrolling through Donald’s Twitter feed.
“They feel that abortion is a form of murder,” the hair said calmly.
“Donald?” the hat called. “Are you done in there?”
“Oh, leave him alone,” the hair said. “You know going to Pennsylvania always binds him up.”
“We’ve got a meeting with Mr. Mustache in twenty minutes.”
“Maybe instead of invading Iran, Bolton can get his rocks off by carpet bombing Alabama.”
“Since when did you get all pro-choice?” the hair asked.
“I’m not pro-choice, I’m pro-everyone shutting the fuck up. Religious idiots spouting piety over babies they don’t really give a shit about and ugly shouting dykes that no one would ever fuck in the first place fighting for a right they’ll never need. It’s tedious. And, worse, it’s boring. I’m anti-boredom.”
“But what about…” the hair started.
“It’s a distraction, nothing else!” the hat said, slapping his bill forcefully on the Resolute desk.
Donald emerged from the Presidential Shitter sweating and grimacing, in only his undershirt and boxer, shoes on, dress socks held erect by tiny calf-garters.
“No one go in there,” he said, his voice raspy.
“We weren’t planning to,” the hair said dryly.
“Why aren’t you dressed? We have a security council meeting in 18 minutes,” the hair said.
“Hadda take it off,” Donald said. “Needed the traction.”
“Traction?” the hair asked.
“What do you want to tweet about abortion?” the hat asked.
“Why?” Donald asked, narrowing his eyes. “Who’s pregnant? I never touched her.”
“The Alabama bill, Donald,” the hat said. “What is your official reaction?”
“Abortions are too expensive. We need to lower the costs,” Donald said. “I could have bought a nice car on what I spent on Ivanka alone.” He walked back into the bathroom.
“Uh, Donald, I don’t think…” the hair started.
“Bring abortion jobs back to America!” Donald said, reappearing in the door. He leaned against the jamb and tried to get his pants on.
“Donald,” the hair said gently, “Alabama has banned abortion.”
“Who said they could do that?” Donald asked suspiciously. With one leg in, he tried to balance himself to lift the other in to put on his pants. He wobbled a bit and farted and grunted and mumbled a curse.
“The Alabama legislature voted,” the hat said.
“Idiots,” Donald said. “Abortion is the backbone of our economy. We should slap a tariff on foreign abortions.”
“I, yeah, don’t, uh, think,” the hair stuttered.
“35% tariff!’ Donald said, buttoning his shirt. “Let the ABORTION WARS BEGIN!”
“Donald, lower your voice,” the hair admonished.
“Every abortion should be an American abortion!” Donald declared.
The hat groaned.
Donald tucked his shirt into his pants, straightened his tie, pulled on his suit jacket and held his arms out to the side. “How do I look?”
“Fine, Donald,” the hair said. You look fine.”
“Make Abortion Great Again!” Donald declared as he marched out of the Oval Office.