“Blagonivich?” the hair asked angrily.
“Forty-seven percent job approval rate,” the hat said. “I can do whatever I want.”
“Whatever we want!” Donald cried from the couch. He took another fistful of McDonald’s french fries and ground them into his pubic hair. No one had managed to get him dressed since signing the pardons.
“Vindicated on impeachment, cleaned out all the rats and traitors, the Democratic primaries in disarray, the luscious Hope is returning to the White House, investigations into Biden… I have never felt better,” the hat said.
“And my Twitter fight with Little Mikey Bloomberg!” Donald said. “Woosh!” he said along with the whooshing sound of another tweet being sent. He dropped the phone into his armpit and went back to eating.
“I’m so happy I could just unravel!” the hat squealed.
“But Blagoyavanch?” the hair asked.
“For you,” the hat crooned. “I did it for you.”
“Huh?” the hair asked.
“The hair, the hair,” the hat said. “You know he’s going to be grateful to be out of prison. He’ll give it up.”
“Give up what?”
“The hair, that glorious mop of rich Chicago hair,” the hat said. “I’m trying to get you laid, son!”
“Aw, yeah,” Donald said, grinding his bare ass into the couch.
“He’s a guy,” the hair said frostily.
“I know, but hair is hair, right?” the hat asked.
“I’m not gay,” the hair said.
“I didn’t say you were, but humpin’ up on one guy’s hair’s not going to turn you gay, right?” the hat asked.
“You fruit-fucking assturd,” the hair said.
“Burn!” Donald crowed, throwing a fistful of french fries into the air.
“He’s a hot silver fox now,” the hat said, leering.
“You pardoned a Democrat because you thought I would want to have sex with his hair?” the hair asked.
“Yes,” the hat said brightly.
“Despite the fact that I am not gay and reproduce through the asexual production of polyps?” the hair asked.
“Yes,” the hat said.
“I fucking hate you,” the hair said.
“I know,” the hat said. “I’m totally Han Solo.”