“They can have my gun when they pry it from my cold dead fingers,” the hat said, turning from the TV in disgust.

“You don’t have fingers,” the hair replied.

“I have fingers,” Donald mumbled.

“I mean, just look at this,” the hat said, gesturing to the TV awkwardly. “Is there no one thin in Ohio? They all look like tattooed manatees.”

The hair ruffled the newspaper he was reading and faked a hacking cough.

“What?” the hat asked. “Look at the TV.”

“Swing state,” the hair said, cutting his eyes toward the TV.

“I know it’s a swing state,” the hat said hotly.

“I knew a girl from Ohio once,” Donald said. “She gave great head.”

“That’s nice,” the hair said.

“Big mouth,” Donald said. “Could fit the whole thing in there, including the balls. It was amazing.”

“OK, Donald,” the hat said.

“No gag reflex. Just tremendous. Starred in that TV show about cops.”

“Well that narrows it down,” the hat said.

“Is that from a song?” Donald asked the frightened social secretary who stood frozen in the Oval Office. “I knew a girl from Ohio once / She gave great head,” he sang tunelessly. “Neil Young, maybe?”

“Young sang a song about Ohio, but there wasn’t anything about getting head in it that I remember,” the hair said.

“All songs should be about getting head,” the hat said gruffly.

The secretary stared at the hat and the hair on the desk for a little too long.

“Uh, I think we got a live one,” the hat said.

“Then shut up,” the hair whispered.

The hat and the hair sat like a hat and a toupee, motionless and quiet until the secretary stopped looking at them.

“Mr. President?” she finally ventured.

“Who are you?” Donald asked angrily. “What are you doing in here? Don’t have have any goddamn security?”

“You asked to see me, sir. To help coordinate your trip to El Paso.”

Donald picked up his hair and jammed it onto his head roughly. He perched the hat on his shoulder like a devilish parrot and said, “Speak! I have no secrets from my advisors.”

“Advisors?” she asked, looking around the room.

“These two idiots,” he said pointing to the quiescent hat and hair. “They bicker like old women, but they keep me on the straight and narrow.”

The social secretary made an effort to close her gaping mouth.

“Let’s get down to business,” Donald said. “I want to ride in on a pegasus. A white one.”

“A pegasus, sir?”

“Winged horse. From Greek mythology. I guess we hired you on looks alone.”

“Sir?” she asked in a pained voice.

“Wait, did you sign your NDA yet?” Donald asked.

“Yes. I mean, yes, sir.”

“Good. Grand. Gramendous. I said, ‘I guess we hired you on looks alone.’ That’s me suggesting you aren’t very bright. Unlike me. I’m a genius.”

“Yes, sir,” she said.

“Tell me that I’m a genius,” Donald ordered.

“Y-you’re genius, sir,” she said.

“Kind of skinny, but you’ll do,” he said. “Watch this.”

Donald slammed his hand down on the Diet Coke button and one rose from a slot in the desk. The disembodied voice of Shania Twain sang, “MAN, I feel like a woman!” Donald giggled and knocked the unopen can of soda on to the floor.

“MAN, I feel like a woman!” sang Shania again and a Diet Coke rose.

“MAN, I feel like a woman!” sang Shania again and a Diet Coke rose.

“MAN, I feel like a woman!” sang Shania again and a Diet Coke rose.

“I can have all I want!” Donald crowed.

The social secretary nodded as she back out of the room.

“Hey,” Donald asked her. “Anyone ever tell you you got a yuge mouth?”