“You should be packing, Donald,” the hair said, flipped over on his majestic combover, warm and idle in a sunbeam splashed across the floor.

“I’m never leaving,” Donald said. He leaned back in his office chair, the leather and steel creaking under him like a submarine at crush depth.

“I’m not going anywhere!” the hat declared. “There’s still our lawsuits and our recounts. Rudy will save us.”

The hair laughed and shifted himself slightly to get all of him back in the sunbeam.

“Rudy is a great lawyer and a great friend and I won this election and I’m still the President,” Donald said.

“I think we need to get more realistic,” the hair said.

“Realistic?” the hat said, hanging from the desk lamp, rumpled, worn, his voice gravel and smoke. “REALISTIC? I’m a talking hat and you’re a clump of sentient hair and now you want to talk about realism?!?”

“How dare they say I didn’t have any women on my communications team,” Donald grumbled. “I had Pie and she was probably a woman.”

“And easily three women compared to little miss Commie hat,” the hat said.

“I wonder what the Commie hat told her,” the hair said.

“Nothing! Commie hat told her nothing! It’s just a hat!” the hat ranted.

“Are you sure?” the hair asked. “Are you sure it didn’t whisper sweet nothings from Marx? Revolutions are the locomotives of history, baby. Did you see the pictures of her smiling?”

“I am the hat!” the hat said. “I’m the only hat!”

“To be radical is to grasp things by the root,” the hair said seductively. “I bet that turned her on.”

The hat fell off the desk lamp, landed on the sun-drunk hair and the two grunted and writhed on the floor.

“We don’t have time for the two of you to fool around,” Donald said.

“Argh!” the hat replied.

“Gruh!” the hair replied.

“Stop it,” Donald said. “I’ll go get a bucket of ice water! Cool you two right off.”

“We’re fighting, Donald,” the hair managed.

“Good clean American fighting,” the hat said.

“Well, it sounds like you two are fucking. What if someone walked in right now? The Oval Office is a high traffic area, you know.”

The hat and the hair sprang away from each other.

“We’re not gay,” they both said, a little too practiced.

“Well, you fight like a couple of old queens over a wig,” Donald said.

“I’m not a wig!” the hair said.

“We could have Pie eat the new press secretary,” the hat said, shaking himself like a wet dog. “She’s tiny, barely a snack.”

“You don’t need a sturdy press secretary when you have the media on your side,” the hair snorted, bunching up in a tight bun.

“Pie, Pie, why did you leave me?” Donald asked wistfully.

“Maybe it was because you kept asking to see her pie?” the hair asked.

“No, all women love it when you do that,” Donald said.

“She sat on me once,” the hat said. “I don’t think you would have been too happy, Donald.”