Thursday, March 31, 2016


“I just want those aborting sluts to go to slut jail for aborting their abortions,” Donald muttered. The hot lights of the Townhall set caused hair glue to soften and flow down Donald’s back. It made him feel lonely and small and vulnerable. His hair shifted when Donald looked up to squint at the lights.

“Oh, Jesus,” his hair whispered. He knew that if he flopped to the floor Donald would blame him. The hat chuckled darkly from where he was stuffed into Donald’s jacket pocket.

“Soft pedal that shit, Donald,” the hat said. “You don’t want to get the gashes all riled up. You know how they love their abortions.”

“We’ve got to put them in jail or what’s the point?” Donald muttered into his lapel.

“You can’t just say that,” the hair insisted. “You have to act all contrite, like the woman didn’t want to get an abortion, but like, hey, there was the clinic, so she just wandered in and it happened.”

“Fucking sluts,” Donald said.

“Hot mic, dammit. Hot mic!” the hat said. It began to hum loudly, hoping to drown Donald out.

“If that bitch Ivanka had gone through with it, I wouldn’t have Ivanka,” Donald whispered. “My dear Ivanka. She sent me pictures of her post-baby pussy. It’s a mess. A fucking mess.”

“We know, Donald. You showed us it over and over again,” the hair said.

“He’s coming back,” the hat said.

Chris walked back on set, still stuffing his shirt back into his pants. He wiped his hands dry on his suit jacket as he sat down.

“You OK?” Chris asked Donald. “You need anything?”

“No, I’m fine,” Donald said petulantly.

“You want me to go back to the abortion stuff? I was looking at Twitter while I was trying to take a piss and everybody is pissed about.”

“I said what I think. I’m not going to change my mind so there’s no point.”

“You sure you don’t want to do it now? Your team is just going to put out a press release tomorrow saying you didn’t really mean it.”

“Fuck off, Matthews. That’s never going to happen. I said what I meant and I mean what I say and I never retract or explain.”

The hair snorted loudly, despite its lack of a nose.

Chris squirmed in his seat. “Damn prostate. Not only can I not take a simple piss, it feels like I’m sitting on a goddamn apple.”

“Can we just get this over with?” Donald asked.

Wednesday, March 2, 2016

Like Classy Poutine

“Now say ‘You will endorse me!’” the hat whispered.

“You will endorse me!” Donald said.

“Now hit him with the chair leg again,” the hat said. He made his adjustable strap caress the back of Donald’s head lovingly.

Donald swung the chair leg and caught Christopher on the right side, below the ribs. Pain burst in his body like fireworks shoved in a cake.

“You like that, fat boy? You like that, Mr. Chunky Monkey?” Donald yelled hoarsely.

“Mr. Chunky Monkey?” the hair asked.

“I don’t know,” the hat said. “He just comes up with shit like that sometimes.”

“You want a banana?” Donald asked, prodding Christopher’s bleeding anus with the ragged end of the chair leg. “You want a fucking plantain? I can get a plantain, you know!”

“Slow down there, buddy,” the hair told Donald. “Maybe take a minute.”

“You pie-eating piece of shit! Endorse me! ENDORSE ME! I’m going to be your fucking President, burrito buffet! I CAN DO ANYTHING!” Donald began kicking Christopher in the perineum, wing-tips buried into taint over and over again.

“Donald! Stop!” the hat pleaded.

“Donald! Don’t kill him!” the hair begged.

“BRING ME DISCO FRIES!” the candidate screamed.