Sunday, April 17, 2016

The Only Real Thing

“Go to sleep, Donald,” the hat crooned. “You have a big day tomorrow. Foreign policy briefing.”

“I’m my own best advisor,” Donald insisted. “I will consult with myself on every decision and every decision will be perfect because I’ll make it with myself.”

“Of course, Donald. And we’ll be here to help you as well,” the hair said.

“Myself!” Donald insisted, falling back on his pillow. “You’re just myself and I’m myself. Myself!”

“Yes, Donald. You are yourself,” the hat said.

“No,” Donald said, beginning to drift off. “You are me. You’re my hat and you’re my hair.”

“Just let the sedatives do their work, little buddy,” the hair said.

Donald’s eyes grew dark and heavy, his lids finally closing despite his agitation. After a moment he began to gently fart and snore.

“We’ll save a lot of time picking a Cabinet,” the hair whispered. “He can fill all the spots himself.”

“He’s had a hard day. Marco sent him a pic of his butthole. Said it was his resume for VP,” the hat replied.

“Where was I?”

“I think you were asleep. It was right after lunch.”

“Oh, yeah. He ate three pounds of potato salad for lunch. How am I supposed to stay awake after all that?”

“But, yeah. Just a big old pic of his butthole.”

“Ted isn’t going to like that.”

“What choice does Ted have?” the hat asked. “He knows Marco is the choicest piece of Latin ass he’s ever going to get.”

The hair and the hat chuckled companionably. In the silence that followed the hair asked quietly, “Do you think he’s right?”

“Right about what?”

“Are we just him? Like, are we just his imagination?”

“How would that work?”

“Instead of talking to us, he’s just talking to himself.”

“Fuck that,” the hat exclaimed. “I’m my own man. I’m not some figment of Donald’s imagination.”

“But how would you know?”

“How would I know what?”

“If you were just a part of his mind…”

“I am me, dammit. How could I know anything else?”

“What if part of his delusion was that you thought you weren’t part of his delusion?” the hair asked.

“Are you fucking high? Are smoking dope, hippie?”

“How would you know what you couldn’t know?”

“You always have to start this shit right before we go to bed.”

“Answer the question.”

“If I’m just in his mind, so are you,” the hat said.

“I very well may be,” the hair replied.

“I really hate you sometimes.”

“Maybe he just imagines that you hate me.”

“No. I hate you. If I know nothing else. If I can’t know anything else, I know that I hate you. My hate is real.”

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