“Stop whining, bitch. At least you aren’t jammed in his back pocket,” Donald’s hat groused.
Sarah stumbled out on the stage, waving to the crowd of braying retards the campaign had recruited from the line of people waiting for blind dates at Frisch’s Big Boy.
“What in the holy fuck is she wearing?” the hair rhetoricalled.
“Dammit. What does it look like? Tell me!” the hat demanded.
“It’s… I don’t really fucking know. It’s like a half cape covered in, I dunno, stainless steel ziti, maybe?”
“Say what? Oh, Christ, Donald! I think he had nothing to eat yesterday except hard-boiled eggs.”
“It jangles,” the hair said, with growing horror. “I think she made it herself, some sort of deranged Bedazzler seizure.”
“I told you we should have got appearance approval,” the hat said.
“Her handlers said no. They said they’d rather shock her back into her crate and take her back to Mooserape, Alaska.”
“Son of a fuck. It’s like Fart City, USA down here,” the hat groaned. “Wait… what did she just say?”
“No clue, dude,” the hair said. “It’s like a homeless street preacher. You just sort of tune her out after a while. I think she rhymed ‘holy rollers’ with ‘rock ’n’ rollers.’”
“I can barely hear down here in assland,” the hat said. “And the crowd noise.”
“They are pretty much cheering and clapping at random,” the hair sneered.
“Sarah is a genius. Sarah is a wonderful. I love Sarah. Sarah is so smart. And the crowd is all geniuses. Geniuses. You two should shut up. You two shut up about Sarah. I don’t care about much weight she’s put on. I love her,” Donald muttered.
“Calm down, Donald,” the hair whispered. It massaged his head to soothe him.
“Yes, calm down,” the hat said. “And please stop farting.”
“I’m not farting,” Donald said, his words almost lost in the torrent of madness from Sarah and the sounds of the crowd touching themselves. “I’m making my butt cheeks clap for Sarah. My dear Sarah.”