“Fucking Billy Bush. He told me to say those things. It was on a little card he handed me. He said it would be funny. I should have him shaved. The Bushes have always been against me.” He stroked the hair and the hat tenderly.
“KELLYANNE!” he screamed. “Where’s KELLYANNE?”
“They are all against me,” Donald whispered into the hair. “They are all against me,” he whispered into the hat. “You are my only friends.”
“KELLYANNE!” he screamed again. After he sobbed for a few minutes a haggard blonde was pushed into the room.
“Yes, Donald?” she asked. She held a bedpan of McDonald’s French fries out in front of her. Some of his handlers thought it might calm him.
“How are you spinning this Bush shit?” he asked.
“We said it was just locker room talk,” she said. She shook the bedpan and the rapidly cooling fries slid around in it, making a sound like the rustling of insect wings.
He propped the hair on his left fist, the hat on the right, and they faced her like an accusation.
“Locker room talk? Have you ever been in a locker room?” he asked.
“Yes. I mean, I guess so,” she said.
“A man’s locker room? Not a girl’s locker room with the wet boobies and the pelting each other with tampons when you’re bleeding out of your whatevers, but a real man’s locker room? Balls and farts and old guys blow-drying their pubic hair for what feels like hours?”
She shook her head, her straw-like hair waving around. The bedpan slipped a bit and some of the fries spilt out.
“Your mouth looks like a wrinkled up asshole,” Donald said.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“No, it’s OK. I like it. Real classy. Come over here.”
Kellyanne took a tentative step forward, then cried out and broke for the door. The bedpan clattered to the floor, spraying cold fries like a spit take.
“Frigid bitch,” Donald muttered.
He threw the hair and the hat onto the mound of fries.
“Feast, my friends. FEAST!”