Trump wants to buy Greenland. Only one-third of Americans would be willing to offer more than $12 for the island.


“Everything is for sale,” the hat said. “Everything.”

“Are you talking about Greenland, again?” the hair asked. He was perched on Donald’s head as he slept, turning around and around on the tips of his walking hairs.

“Of course I’m talking about Greenland,” the hat said, eyeing a selection of McNuggets the staff had set out for Donald.

“Why would we even want Greenland?” the hair asked. “It’s not green and the people are only sort of medium attractive. I don’t see the appeal for you whatsoever.”

“It’s the largest island. I just want it. Why do you care?” the hat asked, inching over to the McNugget box. The relentless drone of Donald’s snoring changed and he froze.

“Because it is going to cost a lot of money and a lot of people are already making fun of us about it,” the hair said, continuing to walk on Donald’s pale bald head. The hair scraped off a scab and flicked it to Oval Office floor.

“What are you doing up there?” the hat demand.

“I’m aerating Donald’s scalp,” the hair replied.

“Aerating his scalp?”

“For the proper maintenance of scalp health,” the hair said primly.

“You’re nuts,” the hat said. “An insane hairpiece. The toupee of madness.”

“I am not a toupee!” the hair said vehemently. “You’re the crazy one. You want to buy Greenland.”

“White people need a homeland!” the hat shouted. Donald shifted and farted and briefly opened one eye.

“And Greenland is your solution?” the hair asked, settling himself down on Donald’s head.

“Largest island?” the hat asked. “Did you not hear that part? Defensible, contained… the ocean will be our wall!”

“Greenland is like 90% Inuit!” the hair shouted.

“We’ll evict them once we buy it. Any of the Danes that want to stay can submit DNA results,” the hat replied. He moved closer to the McNuggets box. He was almost touching it.

“Just what America needs, more genocide of native people!” the hair spat.

“Who said genocide? I didn’t say genocide, you strawman motherfucker. Evict. Canada can take them, they seem to love the unemployed!”

The hair squirmed on Donald’s head and turned away in disgust. The hat made his move, climbing on top of the McNugget’s box and thrusting away at it in sweet abandon.

“Yeah, special sauce,” he muttered. “Get that fucking special sauce.”