“You cannot tweet a recipe for Bleach Soufflé!” the hair yelled. He was squatting over the iPad, reading the morning news.

“Too French? Too fancy?” the hat asked, tapping away on Donald’s iPhone, giggling to himself.

“What if someone makes it?!?” the hair asked.

 

 

“GAH! STOP!” the hair screamed, reading the new tweet.

“NEVER!” the hat declared, hunched over the phone like a precious egg clutch.

“Biden fell asleep during Hillary’s endorsement,” the hair said quickly. “Write about that!”

“Too easy,” the hat said dismissively.

The hair began scrolling through his newsfeed. “Someone made an AI meme generator! How about that? That’s funny!” He lifted the iPad to show the hat.

 

Image courtesy of Heroic Mulatto Industries

 

“Whatevs,” the hat said. “I’m funnier than some gay robot that has gay sex with other gay robots who are also gay for gay illegal immigrants.”

“What are you even talking about?” the hair asked.

“Read the subtext, shit-for-brains,” the hat said, still working the keyboard of the phone. “Every meme boils down to gay robot sex. Everyone knows this.”

“What?”

With a cackle, the hat sent another tweet:

 

 

“Bake until done?” the hair asked. “What kind of fakakte cooking instruction is that? And it’s ‘too gamey’: T-O-O.”

“Merely added for the idiots who would complain if I didn’t,” the hair said haughtily. “Any cook that didn’t already know that shouldn’t even be attempting a souffle. Let him stick to Lysol Jello Shots or TidePods en Croute.”

“No more recipes!” the hair begged.

“I’m doing a whole book of them,” the hat said. “And I might start talking in a British accent.”

“What about Karen memes?” the hair asked. “You love Karen memes!”

 

 

“Look, de Blasio with a Karen haircut,” the hair said. “Surely you want to retweet that, right?”

“Purel soft tacos,” the hat mused, completely ignoring him.

“I dated a Karen once,” Donald said. The hat and the hair were both startled.

“I thought you were asleep, Donald,” his hair said.

“I dated a Karen once,” Donald said again, louder, squinting at the hair and the hat to be quiet. “At Wharton. 1967. Great year to be in college. I loved it, just loved it. Most of the girls had stopped wearing bras. And women wore dresses or skirts back then. I love a woman in a dress. That first day of spring when they shave their legs and put on dresses. Sundresses.”

The hat peered over the edge of the desk. “He has a full-on erection,” he observed.

“Thin dresses and girls backlit by the sun,” Donald continued as he slowly pushed the hat to the edge of the desk and then off.

“Her name was Karen, did I tell you that already? Blonde and skinny. Medium tits. Nice ass. Women were soft back then, not fat, just soft. They looked like women, not boys with fake tits. I offered to buy her some tits, in one of my business classes, I offered to buy Karen a really nice set, said it would be an investment in her. She just laughed and stabbed a pencil into my leg,” Donald made a violent stabbing motion with his right hand. “You should have seen her rockin’ knobs jiggle. It was love at first sight.”

Donald closed his eyes and whispered, “Jiggle,” again.

“He’s doing it!’ the hat said, upside-down on the floor and alarmed. “He’s touching himself!”

“Stop him!” the hair said. “We’ve got a teleconference with governors in ten minutes!”

“How am I supposed to stop him?” the hat asked, rocking back and forth to try and flip over.

“I don’t know!” the hair said. He tore himself off the iPad with a gruesome sucking sound and started to climb the Oval Office desk.

The social secretary knocked on the Oval Office door. “Mr. President?” she asked.

“She’s early!” the hat squeaked.

“Donald,” the hair said, between his grunts, “You have to stop!”

“Mr. President?” the social secretary asked, knocking louder.

“Donald!” the hat said.

“Mr. President?” she asked again. “Are you asleep? I’m going to come in.”

“Donald!” the hair said, throwing himself at the President’s clenched face, sticking and then doing his most unerotic wriggle. “You have to stop! Juicing the mushroom is why Hope left last time!”

“Hope!” Donald said, slapping both his hands on the desk. “Come in, my dear, come in.”

“Oh, Donald,” the hair said, gagging. “In your pants?”

“Now that’s what I call a Bleach Souffle!” the hat said, pausing after to let the canned laughter subside.