“IM-PEACH-MENT?!?” Donald yelled from the Presidential Shitter.
“Oh, fuck, here we go,” the hair said.
“Shh. Sleeping,” the hat said hoarsely.
“Will you wake up?” the hair said, rocking back and forth. “This is embarrassing.” Donald had left the hat on the Resolute desk, upturned like a turtle dying in the sun, the hair inside the cap.
“Call the scheduling secretary!” Donald said. “Get her to get that old hag over here! We had a deal, dammit. A deal!”
“WAKE UP!” the hair screamed.
“What, goddammit?” the hat asked loudly and then quietly, “Why am I upside down?”
“Donald left us like this after you passed out,” the hair said.
“I passed out?”
“You took like eight Benadryl.”
“Why did I take eight Benadryl?”
“I don’t know,” the hair said wearily. “Why do you do anything you do?”
“Where’s Donald?” the hat asked.
“Reading Twitter on the shitter.”
“Stop rhyming; too tired for that,” the hat replied.
“Turn over,” the hair order. “Let me out of your bowlish nethers.”
“And Schumer! Get them both in here!” Donald yelled. “Drag him in by his hairy tits if you have to!”
The hat rocked to one side, grunting, and then to the other. “I’m stuck, I think,” he said, still rocking.
“I can’t get any leverage,” the hair said.
“Throw your weight to the said side when I do,” the hat said.
“I’m hair!” the hair said. “I don’t weigh anything.”
“All that Rogaine you been stress-eating?” the hat asked maliciously. “You weigh, buddy-boy. You weigh.”
“ARE YOU CALLING ME FAT?!?” the hair screamed.
“Fat?” Donald asked. “Who’s calling me fat?”
“Can we just do this?” the hat asked. They grunted and rocked together until the hat flipped over. The hair crawled out from under the brim with a series of loud sighs.
They heard the toilet in the Presidential Shitter flush once, then again and again. “Goddammit,” Donald grumbled.
“He eats, like no fiber,” the hair whispered.
“Who called me fat?” Donald demanded, standing in the doorway to the Oval Office.
“Oh, my God, Donald!” the hair said.
“Donald!” the hat ordered, “Put your pants on!”
“What?” Donald asked, shrugging and making the bulbous tip of his penis bob.”
“Go,” the hair ordered. “Pants. Now!” Donald grumbled in retreated to the bathroom.
“A fucking mycological goddamn nightmare,” the hat muttered.
“Should we see if we can get Nancy and Chuck to come over?” the hair asked.
“Of course not. Nancy doesn’t want impeachment, she’s just had her hand forced. And Chuck is just her ass-puppet.”
“What are we going to do?” the hair asked.
“Yeah, what are we going to do?” Donald asked, back in the doorway and struggling to button his pants.
“We sit back let them eat each other alive,” the hat replied.