Sarah Sanders, Raj Shah planning to depart the White House

“Sarah might be leaving!” the hair said, reading off an iPad bolted to the wall. He was perched on the back of the Presidential Shitter, right under the sign that said “Presidential Shitter: Presidents ONLY!” The cold surface of the gold felt good on his intimate undercarriage after the swamp heat of the D.C. summer.

“Who?” Donald asked. He was lounging in the Presidential Hydrotherapy Tub, a Korean spa mask over his face.

“Your White House Press Secretary,” the hair said.

“What? My what?” Donald asked.

The hat was bathing in the Presidential Sink, rubbing himself with a bar of Presidential Soap and humming “Camptown Races” softly.

“The woman we send out to talk to the media, Donald,” the hair said. “The big one. The one that could stand to learn to lie better?”

“I don’t know who you are talking about,” Donald said dismissively. He began to rub his nipples and moan.

“What are you doing, Donald?” the hair asked carefully.

“I am moisturizing my nipples,” he said. He rolled in the tub, his ponderous weight creating waves that slopped water out onto the Presidential Bathroom floor.

“Proper nipple moisturization is key to nipple health and longevity,” the hat said.

“And is very important for a youthful nipple appearance,” Donald added.

“Are you telling me that you don’t properly moisturize your nipples?” the hat asked with feigned incredulity. “What are you, poor or something?”

“I don’t have nipples,” the hair said, “And neither do you.”

“But unlike you, I would take care of them if I did,” the hat said. He hit the Presidential Hot Water Knob with his bill and began to rinse himself.

“I…” the hair began.

“Take care of your nipples,” Donald said dreamily, still rubbing his nipples in ever-slowing circles. “They might just be the only nipples you’ll ever have.”

“Donald…” the hair started.

“I love it in here,” Donald said. “So warm and inviting. This is my favorite place in this dump.”

“It sure cost enough,” the hair muttered.

Ignoring him, Donald asked, “How long am I supposed to leave this thing on?”

“Beats the turds outta me,” the hat replied. “The whole package was in Korean.”

Donald grunted and leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

“But what about Sarah?” the hair asked.

“Who?” Donald asked again, the slit in the mask over his mouth tightening.

“Pie,” the hat said, turning the water off. “He’s talking about Pie. Pie is going to quit.”

“What?” Donald asked. “Why? Why would Pie leave? She’s always been given plenty to eat.”

“Yeah she has…” the hat said lewdly.

“It’s a tough job, Donald,” the hair said. “It’s hard to go out there and be hated by almost everyone.”

“Who hates Pie?” Donald asked. “Everyone loves pie. Pie is delicious. Pie is better than cake. Cake is fake news.”

“The cake is a lie?” the hair asked.

“Shut up, 2008,” the hat snapped.

“This mask is getting sort of itchy,” Donald said.

“We should bring back Hope,” the hat said, dragging himself across a Presidential Hand Towel. The hand towels were stacked under a sign that said, “PLEASE DO NOT FLUSH DOWN TOILET.”

“Yes!” Donald groaned loudly. He stretched out in the Presidential Hydrotherapy Tub.

“Hope Hicks,” the hat said, lost in a memory. “Now there’s a girl that looks good all covered in blood.”