“Why do you shit in me, Joe?” Joe’s pants asked. “Haven’t I always been good pants to you? What did I ever do to deserve this?”

“Shut up,” Joe’s teeth said in a tiny chorus.

“Pants get shit in,” top left canine said.

“Pants get farted in,” top right canine said.

“Pants get sat on,” bottom right premolar said, and let out a guffaw. Bottom right premolar was the dumbest of the teeth by far and the others rarely let him speak.

“You let him fart right in front of Camilla! Camillia!” top right lateral incisor said in his affected British accent.

“Camilla? You mean the woman Charles once told he wanted to be her tampon?” the pants asked bitterly. “And since when do I control his bowels? If I had that sort of control, I wouldn’t be getting shit in at all!”

“Oi! You don’t be saying that about P’ince Charlie!” a soccer hooligan molar said from deep inside his mouth. Most of the other teeth hated that molar, a crown from the mid-90s on a post going loose in a rotting jaw bone.

Sleepy Joe Biden, deep in his third nap of the morning, let out a loud wet fart and the teeth all laughed at the soiled pants in dental solidarity.

 

“What are you writing over there?” the hair asked. He had been sunning himself on the veranda, splayed like roadkill on the crumbling stucco facade.

“None of your goddamn business,” the hat snapped.

“Well, it’s noisy as fuck, you clacking away like that and laughing to yourself like some retard,” the hair said.

“You know I have to use a mechanical switch keyboard for my carpel tunnel bill and brim syndrome,” the hat said.

“A condition you totally made up,” the hair said.

“I’m the only hat that types!” the hat said.

“Lucky me,” the hair replied. “Lucky fucking me.”

 

“It’s the stuff you eat, you know,” the pants told the teeth.

“The hands are the ones feeding us!’ the teeth protested.

“Boobies, boobies, boobies,” the right hand said; “Boobies, boobies, boobies,” the left hand said.

“Joe! It stinks in here!” Jill screeched. “Did you shit your pants again?”

 

“You’d think an important doctor would be trained to handle bodily waste,” the hair said behind the hat.

“Don’t sneak up on me!” the hat said, “And stop reading over my shoulder.”

“So the pants are sentient?” the hair asked. “That’s a little far-fetched.”

“It’s satire,” the hat said, letting the word drip out of his bill.

“You should call her ‘Dr. Wife,’” the hair said.

“Isn’t that a little too Venture Bros?” the hat asked.

“No one remembers that show,” the hair said. He reached out with a tendril and deleted a comma.

“Don’t edit me!” the hat said.

“Do all 32 teeth have their own personalities?” the hair asked.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“But two of them are definitely British?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“You should name one Corn Pop and have him talk all ghetto.”

“You want me banned right off? Do you?” the hat asked.

“What are you even writing this for?” the hair asked.

“Some little nothing website, on rinky-dink WordPress,” the hat said.

“Why not on Twitter? You’d get more exposure,” the hair asked.

“It would take dozens of Tweets to post the whole thing; 1 of 50, 2 of 50, so boring to read all that.”

“True.”

“And then dozens of ‘unroll, plz’ replies. Again: boring.”

“But what about…”

“Can you just let me write?” the hat asked.

“OK, OK, chill out.”

 

“He sharted in me, Jill!” the pants wailed but she couldn’t hear his cries.

“Goddammit,” Jill said, scratching up under her wig.

Sleepy Joe farted again, nothing cataclysmic, a settling fart, an afterfart tremor.

 

“You should work in some Dune references,” the hair said. “It’s a very hot IP right now.”

“Cheap,” the hat said. “Cheap and lazy. These are meant as a time capsule for the Brandon Administration.”

“Pooping and farting?” the hair asked.

“And showering with his daughter,” the hat said.

 

“Carolyn?” Joe asked, waking. “Is it time for our shower? Daddy’s little girl has gotten so big!”

The pant and the teeth tensed, watching Jill carefully.

“Is he going to say anything?” the right cuspid whispered.

“The penis hasn’t spoken in many years now,” the top central incisors replied in their creepy twin sing-song.

 

“And he’s impotent!” the hat said triumphantly.

Outside, on the veranda, the Baron Trumpkonnen farted Himself, stately and dignified, and it was as dry as the Arrakeen wind.