“Impeachment!” Donald bellowed from the Presidential Shitter. He flushed the toilet again and groaned and then flushed it again.
“Two articles!” the hat told him, inching away from the open door of the bathroom. Donald had stopped closing the door on the advice of counsel, but Rudy was never around to have to experience it.
“Can’t you leave me on the desk?” the hat heard the hair ask wanly between flushes. Then the gold toilet roared again.
“Ten flushes! Ten!” Donald yelled. “This is ridiculous!”
“We are going to have to prepare a defense for the Senate,” the hat said.
“I want a better toilet!” Donald said. “The President of the goddamn United goddamn States should have the most powerful toilet in the Free World!”
“It already flushes like a jet engine,” the hair shouted over the toilet flushing again.
“Then why isn’t it working?!?”
“Big Mac casserole?” the hat asked quietly. “Three pounds of pardoned turkey meat?”
“Poke it with something,” the hair said.
“With what?” Donald asked. “Poke it with what?”
“Don’t you have a poop knife?” the hair asked.
“Poop knife?” the hat asked, horrified.
“Still back in the old country,” Donald said. “The other side of the family ended up with it.”
“Poop knife?” the hat asked again, not wanting to believe his little fabric ears.
“It’s a knife you use to break up turds, you uncultured brute!” the hair shouted. “All the best families pass them down as heirlooms.”
“Is this a thing?” the hat asked. “Are you just fucking with me?”
The toilet flushed again and again before the hair answered, “Why would I make something like that up?”
“OMG, Donald! More fiber in your diet!” the hat screamed.
“I hate fiber!” Donald yelled. “It makes me shit!”
“THAT’S THE POINT!’ the hat yelled back.
“This is all pointless! You’re being IMPEACHED!” the hair told Donald.
“I HATE PEACHES!” Donald screamed.