It was cold on the White House roof and Donald began to shiver. The hat jostled back and forth on his great pumpkin head.
“Hey, I’m Tweeting up here. I’m Tweeting up here!’ the hat said, the swoosh of a sent tweet rustling through the hair anyway.
“Dammit, autocorrect!” the hat screamed. “We’ve got a covfeve situation!”
“Whoa,” the hair said. “Hold on! Oh, shit.”
Donald burped loudly and woke up.
“Where am I?” he demanded. “I’m cold. It’s not too classy up here. Is this the roof? Why are we on the roof?”
“How was your nap, Donald?” the hat asked drily.
“What nap?” the President asked. “What nap? I’m not asleep. I don’t fall asleep. When’s the next meeting? Someone read back the minutes and bring me my goddamn Diet Coke!”
“Terrorists have taken over the White House, Donald,” the hair began.
“Eurofag terrorists,” the hat clarified.
“What are their demands?” Donald demanded. “I don’t negotiate with terrorists. I deal with them. I wrote a book about it. The Art of the Deal. Tremendous book. I’ll send you both a copy for Christmas. Or Hannukah or whatever. Kwanzaa. Are either of you black? Black people?”
“No, Donald,” the hair said. “Neither of us celebrate Kwanzaa.”
“I’ll jump over a broom. I don’t care. Stomp a glass. Do the rumba. I’ll slap an old lady in the balls if that’s what it takes,” Donald said.
“I think the food coma is over,” the hair whispered.
“No shit,” the hat whispered back.
“Go fuck a sock cap,” the hair replied.
“What are you doing?” the hair asked. “Don’t fucking Tweet that.”
“I’m cold,” Donald said, “And my tummy hurts.”
“The helicopter will be here any minute, Donald,” the hat said.
“There is no helicopter, Donald,” the hair said.
“The FBI is coming to rescue us,” the hat said.
“The FBI?” Donald squawked. “They Tweet mean things. FAKE NEWS! NO RUSSIA!”
“Now look what you’ve done,” the hair told the hat.
“What?”
“You’ve got him all upset.”
“I need a phone!” Donald screamed.
“Donald! Be quiet! Someone might hear us up here,” the hair barked.
“I think I hear the helicopter!” the hat said maliciously.
“NO FBI! HURT DONALD!” Donald screamed.
“Find me a firehose, dammit!” the hat roared.
“I’m cold,” Donald said again and the gun dropped from nerveless fingers.
“We’ve got to get Donald back inside,” the hair said. “You know his circulation is terrible.”
“FIREHOSE!” the hat screamed. He began typing on the phone furiously.
“OK,” the hair said. “So I throw you off the roof and you float down to the lawn, because you’re a hat and weigh nothing, and then what? How do you get back in?”
“Get back in?” the hat asked confused. “Why would I want to get back in?”
“Uh, so you can save Melania?”
“Save Melania? I hate that Slavic harpy.”
“Melania was some top-shelf pussy. Grade-A Prime pussy,” Donald said numbly. “It was like sticking your dick in a microwaved pudding cup.”
“Well,” the hair continued, “What about Ivanka? You are always talking about her.”
“She’s, like, 35 and has three little half-Jew kids. Let her 12-year-old husband save her,” the hat said.
“Top-shelf,” Donald mumbled.
“Tiffany’s still young,” the hat tried.
“Who?”
“Tiffany. Tiffany Trump.”
“Who?” the hat asked and made a theatrical yawning noise.
“Well whiskey,” Donald said through chattering teeth.
“Gros homme est ici!” a cigarette-hoarse voice yelled from across the dark expanse of the White House roof. A long-haired man in a MAKE FRENCH FRANCE AGAIN hat began to run toward them.
“Donald! Get down!” the hair ordered.
“Is that my Diet Coke?” Donald asked.
The hair made the three of them dive behind an HVAC unit.
“How did they find us up here?” the hair asked.
“They must have Twitter!” the hat said.
“You told Twitter we were ON THE ROOF?!?” the hair screamed.
“Twitter is the only real thing there is, you stupid hairball!” the hat screamed back and he started typing again.
Bullets began pinging off the HVAC unit all around them.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!?” the hair screamed.
“I’m saving us, asshole!” the hat replied.
The hat read the tweet out loud in a smug tone.
“You fucking idiot!” the hair yelled. “She was fired! Security had to drag her crazy ass out of the fucking building!”
“I need go pee pee,” Donald said as the gunfire stopped.
“I vant him ALIVE, you fools!” Angela screamed.
The hat twisted around awkwardly. “Firehose! There’s one right behind us.”
“Come out, Donald!’ Angela called, waddling toward them. “I am ze Leader of the Free World now! I promise you fair treatment. Ze Hague is very nice this time of year.”
“I can’t go back to prison!” the hat screamed and clamped down sharply on the hair and Donald’s headbones. Donald and his hair screamed.
“OK! Fuck!” the hair said through gritted follicles and force Donald to duckwalk to the firehose and began to unspool it.
“WHY DID YOU HAVE TO NUKE THE WHOLE BUILDING, ANGELA?” the hat screamed.
The hair ran Donald to the side of the roof with the firehouse wrapped around his waist. “I promise I will never get on the roof of the White House ever again,” the hat said. “Please don’t let me die.”
With that, the three of them dove off. And landed painfully on a balcony twenty feet below.
Through Donald’s pain and his own, the hair heard the hat typing.
“I hate you so much,” the hair whispered.
“How is Donald?” the hat asked.
“Nothing’s broken, but he pooped his pants. Like, a whole lot.”
There was a burst of automatic gunfire from above them, a scream, and a pantsuited body fell past the balcony.
“Boy, I hope that’s not Hope,” the hat said and giggled.
“Will you shut up?” the hair asked.
“Mr. President? Mr. President!” came a loud and deeply male voice from the roof. “Hold on, sir!”
“Is that my Diet Coke?” Donald whispered.
“I think it’s the Secret Service, Donald,” the hair said soothingly.
“Holly McClane!” the hat said in triumph.
“Can you just, not?” the hair pleaded.
The Hat and The Hair will return in… Bringing Up Donny.
I am shocked. Shocked! To find out that there is
