“Don’t call it that, Donald,” said his hair. “What if you called it that in public?”
“No one cares what I say, they’ll all cheer whatever it is,” he snarled.
“Good observation,” the hat said. “You’re really catching on, Donald.”
“Some bitch called me a bitch on Bitch Twitter and some darkie called me a racist on Black Twitter and some wetback called me a Mexiphobe on Undocumented Twitter and some little twink called me a self-hating self-tanner victim on Fag Twitter. I’m going to destroy them all!” Donald screamed.
“Isn’t all of Twitter just Fag Twitter?” the hat asked philosophically.
The hair laughed despite himself. “Stop it. Some of our country’s finest GOP politicians and their hairpieces have been homosexuals.”
“You would know,” the hat grumbled.
“Like you don’t have an adjustable strap in the back.”
“Would you two shut up? I’m trying to make my magic sauce!”
“Donald…” the hair began.
“Out! I want both of you out!” He snatched the hat off the faucet and lumbered toward the bathroom door.
“Oh, god. He’s touching me with the finger that was in his ass,” the hat moaned.
“Donald, wait. It doesn’t have to go down like this, man,” the hair said.
Donald awkwardly opened the bathroom door with his ass play hand and threw the poopy hat into the hotel room filled with advisors waiting for him. His tiny, startled penis had forgotten they were there.
“Take this too,” he yelled at them, ripping the hairpiece away.
“Not the shit finger!” the hair gasped.
Donald slammed the door and retreated to his porcelain turd dungeon to Twitter forevermore.