“Facebook?” the hair asked.

“Of course,” the hat replied.


“Yes, of course.”

“Google? Apple? Microsoft? The NBA?” the hair asked.

“Yes, yes, yes, and hell yes,” the hat confirmed.

“They’re all Russian assets?”

“Yup. All Russian assets.”

“And all of the Democratic candidates?” the hair asked.

“Everyone one of them. And when they lose to Donald, that will prove it.”


“Try and keep up, OK?” the hat sighed.

“Is there anyone who isn’t a Russian asset?”

“Only Hillary. That’s why she’s going to jump into the race,” the hat said. “She’ll have to in order to save America. If there were any legitimate candidates on in Putin’s employ, then Hillary wouldn’t be forced–FORCED, I SAY!–to get into the race.”

“All Russian assets?” the hair asked incredulously.

“Only a Russian asset would question their designation as a Russian asset,” the hat said matter-of-factly.

“Is that all of them, just the entire traditional and social media and all twelve Democratic candidates?” the hair asked.

“No, there are more. Far more. Millions more,” the hat said and paused for dramatic effect. “Everyone who didn’t vote for Hillary Clinton in 2016 is also a Russian asset.”

“That can’t be true,” the hair said.

“And some of the one that did vote for her too. They confused the electoral college by giving Hillary the win of the popular vote.”

The hair gasped and whispered, “Diabolical.”

The hat nodded sagely.

“So who isn’t a Russian asset?” the hair asked.

“Well, Hillary, obviously.”


“And Chelsea. And maybe Bill.”

“What about his penis?” the hair asked.

“Oh, Bill’s penis is definitely a Russian asset.”

“What about Huma?” the hair asked.

“Well, she was a Russian asset, but Hillary turned her.”

“How did she turn her?”

The hat lolled out his tongue and waggled it suggestively.

“Ah,” the hair said.

“Sapphic rites,” the hat said.

“No, I get it,” the hair replied.

“A trip through the rubyfruit jungle. She shucked her oyster.”

“You’ve made it clear…”

“Bumped doughnuts. Munched her rug. Licked her carpet. Slurped her hairy taco.”

“Stop, just stop.”

“Stirred her bean curd!’ the hat said.

“‘Stirred her bean curd?!?’” the hair asked, confused.

“It’s Chinese.”

“Chinese?” the hair asked.

“Is there a fucking echo in here or something?” the hat asked Donald.

“You guys need to slow down,” Donald said. “I’m trying to write all this down and you are going way too fast.”

“Well, let me see what you have so far,” the hat asked. Donald turned the writing pad and slid it across the desk to the hat.

The hat studied the pad intently and then said, “Donald, this is just a drawing of two giraffes having sex.”

“And that’s a hyena watching,” Donald said, pointing to the small figure in the lower corner.