Stormy Daniels’ tell-all book on Trump: salacious detail and claims of cheating

 

“Well, I don’t think it looks like a mushroom,” Donald said, standing nude before a full-length mirror in the Presidential shitter.”

“It does have a big head,” the hair said.

“What’s wrong with a big head? I have a big head and I’m a genius!” Donald replied.

“She’s just a porn-whore telling trashy stories to sell a book, Donald,” the hat told him in soothing tones.

“Maybe this means my penis is a genius too!” Donald roared, the mirror shaking in the cheap gilt frame.

“Like a poon-seeking missile, Donald,” the hat said.

“And she said it was small!” Donald yelled. “It’s not small.”

“No,” the hair said, “not freakishly small whatsoever.”

“I can make it yuge! Where are my pills?”

“Don’t take a Viagra, Donald,” the hair said. “You don’t need, I don’t want to see it. The secretarial pool doesn’t want to see it.”

“Take two, Donald! No, three!” the hat urged.

“Maybe I’ll just rub it with that Cialis cream,” Donald said, dubiously flicking the distended head of his penis. “Does this place have side-by-side bathtubs?”

“Goddammit, Donald,” the hair said, clicking the laptop he was sitting on furiously. “I’m reading that interview again where your whore makes fun of me. I should have strangled her skanky ass when I had the chance!”

“What does it say?” the hat asked. “Read it to me.” He was sitting on the tank of the gold toilet.

“No, it’s stupid. She’s stupid.”

“Read it to me. Read it to me.”

“Oh, fuck, shut up!” the hair cried.

“It’s waking up!” Donald crowed.

“Readittomereadittomeeadittomeeadittomeeadittome!”

“By all the elder gods, just shut up!” the hair screamed.

“Look at it!” Donald said. “It’s magnificent! It’s not fungal at all!”

“Read it to me. C’mon.”

OK, fine, OK,” the hair said. He began to read from the laptop screen in a whorey vocal fry:

‘And I asked him about his hair. I was like, “Dude, what’s up with that?” and he laughed and he said, “You know, everybody wants to give me a makeover and I’ve been offered all this money and all these free treatments.” And I was like, “What is the deal? Don’t you want to upgrade that? Come on, man.” He said that he thought that if he cut his hair or changed it, that he would lose his power and his wealth. And I laughed hysterically at him.’

“Wah? That’s not so bad,” the hat said, holding back a laugh.

“I am the source of his power and wealth!” the hair screamed. “He was nothing before he started covering his bald spot with me. Nothing! And the stupid bitch is laughing about me!”

“Do you guys really think I have Yeti pubes?” Donald asked.

“You? You’re the source of his power and wealth?” the hat asked, offended.

“You just came on for the election,” the hair snapped. “I’ve held him together for over thirty years! You know how much videotape of him saying the n-word there would be if it wasn’t for me? How much more pussy would have been grabbed?!?”

“The Abominable SNOWPUBES!” Donald said, stroking them. He grasped a handful and growled into the mirror and then laughed.

“I could have got him here without you,” the hat said smugly. “I could have done it no matter what. You do a good job with him and all, but I am the author of his right now.”

“It’s almost there!” Donald yelled. The distended glans of his penis was the color of a fresh blood blister, and glossy, like a scar

“You dirty motherfucker,” the hair said, seething.

“HOUSTON! WE HAVE ERECTION!” Donald screamed.

“Any time, buddy,” the hat said calmly. “Any fucking time you want.”

Donald grabbed the hair and jammed it on his head, and then pinned it there with the hat. They immediately began to struggle with one another. The President went running from his Presidential Shitter, his small penis with its bulbous tip bobbing, out into the Oval Office, his thick patch of white pubic hair waving, and into the West Wing, whooping with joy at his first natural erection in decades, his hat and his hair locked in vicious battle, grumbled curses flowing from them both like an endless stream of Diet Coke.

 

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