Friday, February 3, 2017

They'll never know all that I do for you

“No comment!” the hair screamed at the reporters pursuing him to Marine One.

“No comment, you vultures!” he screamed but no one could hear him over the rotors spinning. He dug into Donald’s scalp painfully to keep them from blowing him away.

Donald waved at the reporters off as his guards kept them from rushing the helicopter as he boarded. When the door was shut, he flipped him off knowing they could see it or his shit-eating grin.

“I’m your hair, godammit! Me!” the hair wailed.

Donald settled the headphones over his ears and the pilot immediately asked him where he was going.

“Just take it up.”


“Just buzz the city or something.”

“I have to file a flight plan, Mr. President.”

“Fine. Take me to New York. Take me to Melania. I’ve been missing her little swamp pussy.”


“New York! New York! Take me home!” Donald screamed into the microphone, stamping his feet and balling up his fists.

“You don’t take Rogaine,” the hair wailed, “I eat it. Can’t we tell them?”

The hat chuckled from Donald’s suit pocket.

“Go fuck a rat turd,” the hair snapped at it.

“I told you it would get out,” the hat said.

“Shut up.”

“And I told him to buy it under the table, like he does Viagra.”

“Shut up!” the hair screamed, “They think he uses Rogaine! It’s so humiliating.”

“Keep your eyes on the prize, furball. It’s all happening. MAG-A! MAG-A! MAG-A!” the hat chanted.

“Yeah, I guess,” said the hair morosely.

“Soon Rex will be feeding you all the Rogaine you want. The really thick and creamy kind too. The good stuff.”

“Just leave me alone,” the hair said and fell limp against Donald head like on a humid Mar-a-Lago day.

Thursday, February 2, 2017

it is now too late to reform the wayward sinner

"Have you heard about this groundhog?" Donald asked the crowd of carefully chosen people. "Have you heard about this dirtpig that thinks he controls the weather? Supposedly saw the shadow of a black guy and got all scared. I don't know."

The crowd laughed dutifully as the applause sign blinked overhead. The hair squirmed around so much he was afraid Donald would clamp his hand down.

"This giant rat thinks he controls the weather. The wea-a-thur. I don't think so. America controls the weather. I control the weather. Elections have consequences, rodents."

Kellyanne stood beside him, ramrod straight, her slack face sliding downward like her deflated breasts. She stifled a sigh and peed just a little. Her pelvic floor was a horrid ruin.

"It's Black History Month and I don't think Pugilnastion Phil or whatever his name his should be saying that black people scare him. The inner cities are horrible places. Humans can barely live there. And we have Iran firing in-ter-con-tin-en-tal ballistic missiles full of weather-controlling groundhogs at black people to send them terrible weather. So much for global warming."

Behind Donald, a homeless alcoholic from a film noir sway side-to-side and smiled as he watched a heavily-armed drone circle the city. Steve knew that Steve was going to be alright.

Friday, January 20, 2017

Inauguration Day, Pt. 2

“Inauguration,” Donald grumbled, “That’s a dumb word.”

“In means the formal ceremony for the beginning of something, especially a time in office,” the hair told him. The hat laughed from his display stand.

“I know that,” Donald snapped. But he didn’t. He really didn’t. “It’s still a dumb word.”

Donald turned in his closet mirrors to look at his new suit, his inauguration suit. It was perfect and classy and the best and a committee of a dozen top-ranked gays had picked it out for him. The hair longed to adjust the pocket square, but just shivered in irritation instead.

“It comes from augur in Latin,” the hair continued, ignoring them both. “In Ancient Rome, augurs were the priests who interpreted the will of the gods by studying the flight patterns of birds.”

“Look at Mr. Wiki-fag-opedia over here,” the hat.

“Birds?” Donald snorted. “Romans didn’t even have Twitter, so what do they know?”

There was a knock on the closet door. “Downold? Are vou reedy?” came Melania’s voice.

“Well, fuck. Dracula Hooker is here,” the hat said.

“Just tell her you almost are,” the hair told Donald.

“I almost am,” Donald said.

“It ees almost time to go,” she whined like a beaten cur.

“Tell her to fuck off, Donald,” the hat said.

“Fuck off, Donald!” Donald yelled through the closet door. Melania spat out a vile stream of Slovak gibberish as they could hear her heels clacking away.

“Have you got your Bible,” Donald the hair asked him after the three of them stopped laughing.

“Yeah, whatever,” he replied.

“But you need it for the swearing in,” the hair said.

“I want to swear on something I actually believe in, like The Art of the Deal or Ivanka’s boob,” Donald said.

“Donald!” the hat said sharply. “No groping today. No. Bad Donald!”

“Just the right one,” the orange billionaire mused. “The left one is sort of meh.”

“Donald,” the hat and the hair both said.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, cutting them off.

Donald turned in his dressing closet, eight full-length mirrors surrounding him. Infinties of Donalds stretched out in every direction and all he could do was laugh.

Inauguration Day, Pt. 1

"I don't know if I can go, Huma," Hillary whispered hoarsely.

Huma looked up from Hillary's squalid crotch and gently spat out an erotic cyst. "You must my love. To show them you are proud and beautiful and brave."

"I just can't stop crying," Hillary said, wiping cheeks that hadn't seen any tears in decades.

"Barry will be there and Michelle," Huma said. She began decontamination procedures, astringent orange fluid hitting her from multiple high-pressure nozzles.

"I don't know what I ever say in those two. They were terrible lovers. Barry only wanted to bottom and Michelle's dick always smelled like asshole." Hillary rolled over and farted.

"It's time to go, my love," Huma said, bathed in UV light.

"I don't care," Hillary mumbled. "I don't care about anything."

Tuesday, January 17, 2017

Golden Showers and Champagne Bidets

“Why can’t I have two First Ladies?” Donald moaned, locked in the President’s Shitter. It was just the bathroom in his Trump Tower office, but he had renamed it days ago. The President’s toilet, the President’s toilet paper, the President’s liquid hand soap; he had an assistant go around and put labels on all his stuff the day after the election. Donald wanted everything to be nice and clear in case anyone had any questions.

“Because you can’t, Donald,” the hair told him, “It’s just not done.”

“Mine is a transformative Presidency,” Donald insisted. The hat chuckled at that. He was hanging off the handle of the President’s Bidet.

“You said I was going to change everything,” Donald said accusingly at the hat.

“You need to be focusing on the Inauguration and the Cabinet confirmation hearings,” the hair said.

“My Inauguration will be perfect. It will be the classiest Inauguration anyone has ever seen. It will make all other Inaugurations look like a small town Kansas pet shelter dog show,” Donald said.

“There are a lot of Democrats vowing to boycott it, Donald,” the hair reminded him.

“Fake news,” the man grumbled, “It’s all fake news.”

There was a soft knock on the door and a woman called his name.

“Go away, Kellyanne!” Donald yelled, “It’s all fake news!”

“The confirmations aren’t going well. They are all going to get in, of course. Even Ben Carson. Christ, what an asshole,” the hair said.

“Ben is a good man. A Christian man. He’ll be the best HUD ever. Ever. Right?” Donald asked.

 “Sure, Donald. Sure,” the hat said.

“Nazi Germany had confirmation hearings,” Donald said. “Where’s my Twitter? I need my Twitter! Kellyanne!”

“Two First Ladies?” the hair asked, desperate to derail Donald’s train of thought.

“Yes. Two. Melania and Ivanka are both my ladies. I want them to both be first,” Donald demanded.

“What about Tiffany?” the hair asked.

“She’s like, maybe, fourth or fifth,” Donald muttered.

“She’s weird looking,” the hat observed,” like someone jammed a corn cob up a pug’s butthole.”

Wednesday, January 11, 2017

You Don't Have To Only Order Off The Menu

The hat enjoyed being peed on but the hair did not.

Donald watched them both--one happy, one upset--as the four Russian girls squatted to urinate on them. A fifth girl rubbed Donald bald head with her ponderous breasts, occasionally enveloping his head on both sides, making him go deaf as supple boobmeat filled his ears. It wasn't an act on the hotel menu but rather something she had come up with herself. Donald planned on tipping her well.

"Now on each other!" Donald ordered, yelling so he could hear himself. The hissing streams of warm gold splashed against legs, still managing to spatter all over the hat and the hair. The hair groaned.

"Why does he have to include us?" the hair asked the hat.

"Because he loves us," the hat replied. "HE LOVES US!"