Trump triples down on his controversial tweets about ‘The Squad.’ Here’s what we know.


“Which one of you did it?” the hair asked as Donald and his hat wandered into the Oval Office.

“Did it? Did what?” the hat asked, giggling.

“The tweets, dammit,” the hair said. “The tweets about the Congresstwats.”

“Congresstwats? That’s, like, all of them. And the guys. You are going to have to narrow that down,” the hat said. Donald was giggling along with him.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” the hair said coldly.

“Ah, yes, The Intersectionality Caucus… so brave, so brown,” the hat said.

Donald sat down in his desk chair and sighed contentedly. “Nine sausage, egg and cheese McMuffins. A personal record,” he said, smacking his lips.

“You fucked it all up,” the hair said, stabbing an accusing tendril at the hat. “We had Pelosi and those dipshits at each other’s throats. They’ll rally together behind this.”

“The base was looking hungry,” the hat said and yawned somehow. “I threw them a little red meat. Only so many spic kids in detainment at the border to keep them all tingly in their underneathers.”

“Deterrent!” Donald yelped. “Go home and clean up your own shitholes! I’m thirsty!”

“Hit the Diet Coke button, Donald,” the hat said. “Go on, I rigged up something special for you.

Donald stabbed the big red button. A section of his desk opened and an ice-cold Diet Coke rose on a small platform. Small diamonds of condensation began to form immediately.

“Sparkly!” Donald squealed.

“Look up,” the hat told them. “I had them put little lights in the ceiling to get that effect.”

“You had them?” the hair asked.

“Presidential email. I got bored one time you asswipes left me behind,” the hat replied.

“It’s almost too beautiful to drink,” Donald said in a breathless whisper.



A thousand skinflutes played a thousand melodies to keep Him dreaming, and the dream slipped the veil between worlds and coalesced into words.

“We should, like, totally impeach him,” Sandy said, not looking up from her phone. “Those tweets are totally racccccccccccist.” Illy and Sheedy and Anna shuddered at the vocal fry Sandy managed on the last word.

“The impeachment process will be a difficult one,” Illy said quietly. “And I do not wish to come to this restaurant again. There’s is nothing a believer can eat. Pig is in everything.”

“And the chef is Jew,” Sheedy said, glowering at the kitchen.

Anna put down the rib bone she was gnawing on and said, “This is a very famous barbeque place. It was on an episode of House of Cards. Best ribs in the district.”

“There is no god but God,” Sheedy muttered and moved even further away from Anna’s plate.

“<Pig eater,>” Illy said under her breath in Arabic and touched her headdress reflexively.

“I love pork!” Sandy said. “I’m a Porko Rican!” She took another picture of her uneaten food and giggled.

“<What is donkey brain even talking about?>” Sheedy asked Illy.

“<I think they put pork in the water glasses,>” Illy said. “<Don’t drink it.>”

Dancers weave around Him, also part of the Dream and the Dreaming. His voice rings out.

“SELFIE!” Sandy screamed and pulled them all toward her. “Smile everybody!”

“<Her pendulous udders are touching me,>” Sheedy hissed as Sandy snapped dozens of pictures with her phone. The restaurant began to empty, angry customers grumbling.

“#SquadGoals!” Sandy screeched. “#Impeach45, #GirlPower, #BrownGirlMagic, #Resist. We, like, need our own Pride month!”

“#FreePalestine,” Sheedy said.

“Oh, poo, I already sent it,” Sandy told her.

“Then send it again,” Illy said coldly. “You are worse than my brother’s penis.” Sheedy barked out a few mean laughs until she saw that Illy wasn’t smiling.

“Squad, squad, squad,” Sandy sang. “We are The Squad!”

Blinded priests begin to sing to Him, and the Dream shifts.



“Unhand me, I say. Unhand me, woman!” a Southern voice came from the hallway.

“What the hell is going on out there?” the hair asked.

“The Queen of South Carolina is here to see you, Donald,” the hat said dryly.

“I demand to see the President!” the voice came again.

“Lindsey, my friend,” Donald called. “Let him in boys.”

Lindsey came into the Oval Office, straightening his suit and smoothing his hair. “I have never been treated so shabbily.”

“Lie,” the hat said, making the hair laugh.

“I don’t enjoy rasslin’s with your Secret Service boys, Donald,” Lindsey said, finally composed.

“Lie,” the hat said again.

“Oh, thop it,” the hair lisped.

“Ah am here-a to offer my service to you, Mistah President,” Lindsay said, his accent thickening like cold oatmeal.

“Service?” Donald asked.

“Protection, Don-hald. Ah will protect yew from the depredations of this Ferriner Squad of upstart women.”

“Upstart,” the hat echoed.

“One might even say ‘uppity,'” the hair commented.

“Ah shall use my delicious white body to protect yew, Donny,” Lindsey said, dropping into a defensive crouch. “Yew just point me at’em, an’ Ah’ll pull my trigger right at them!”

“He has to understand what he’s saying, right?” the hat asked the hair.

“Who fucking knows?” the hair replied.

“Use me, Don! Use me against those dark commie gashes! Use my white body! My white body is yours!”



“A resholushun,” Nancy said. “That ish the anshwer!”

“A resolution, a condemnation of his shameful concoction of racist tropitudation!” Chuck chortled.

“Impeach!” Sandy said from her storage crate. “I was a bartender! I have an economics degree from BOSTON University!” Nancy kicked her crate.

“I’ll never go back to Puerto Rico! It’s a shithole!” the freshman congresswoman screamed. “Dead bodies are everywhere! There was a hurricane! The governor says mean things! #hashtag!”

“Call him a Jew,” Illy hissed. “There’s nothing worse.”

Chuck let out an embarrassed cough, making his droopy moob-meat quiver.



“A resolution?” the hat said. “They passed a resolution?”

“My how we have been lightly wrist-slapped,” the hair said.

Donald wondered what they were laughing about as he struggled to put on a new roll of toilet paper in the grand confines of his lavish Presidential Shitter.