“Is Dr. Cunt here today?” the Oval Office curtains asked in a loud stage whisper.

“Please don’t call my grandmother that,” Finnegan said. She say down on the couch and sighed wearily.

“Step-grandmother,” Hunter said, stepping out, dressed disturbingly in skin-tight LuluLemon, the black fabric swallowing light.

“That’s a silly distinction to make.”

“I had a real mother and she died,” Hunter said, pouting a bit.

“What do you want, Dad?” Finnegan asked.

“Crack,” Hunter said, smiling, “Well, more crack.”

“That’s just what you need, I’m sure.”

“Have you ever even tried crack, my child?” Hunter asked. “It’s…” He stared off into space for a long minute, a smile playing on his lips. “It’s wonderful.”

“I don’t want to try crack, Dad,” Finnegan said. “I don’t even drink.”

“Mitt Romney’s child!” Hunter cried, making a sign against the evil eye.

“I wonder why I don’t drink, or do drugs,” she said leadingly. “I’m still technically a virgin, you know.”

“Technical virgins are the best kind,” Hunter said.

“Gross! Just gross!”

“Whatever, lots of people have taken it in the ass,” Hunter said. “Did you go ass-to-mouth?”

“NO! DEAR GOD! YOU DON’T GET TO ASK ME THAT!’ Finnegan screamed, slapping at him.

“Your Mom did,” Hunter said, dodging away. “She threw up on my dick.”

“Why can’t I just faint?” Finnegan asked the ceiling, hoping it would get through the wood and plaster to the ears of God. “I want to pass out right now, I want amnesia, I want to literally die.”

Hunter, laughing, pulled out a bottle that said VHS HEAD CLEANER and took a long sniff of its stinging vapors.

“Grandma just called Mexicans ‘tacos,’ you know,” Hunter said as a deep flush crept up his face. He shivered and did a little wiggle and sighed. “Have you ever eaten a Mexican’s taco? ¡Caliente!”

Finnegan groaned.

“Want some?” he asked, holding the bottle toward her.

“No,” she said, hugging herself, hands jammed into her armpits.

“Makes your butthole open up,” Hunter said, pausing to dig his loincloth out of his ass crack. “Feels real nice.”

While Finnegan made a series of disgusted noises, Karine walked into the Oval Office, Joe leaning on her heavily.

“Hay, Karine!” Hunter said, flapping out a wave. “You look good, girl.”

“Hunter,” Karine said, his name pronounced with icy crags.

“You’re not still mad with me are you?” Hunter asked in a mocking pout.

“He’s supposed to be getting ready for his flight to Israel,” Finnegan said, stepping past her father.

“I found him in the East Wing, smelling the handle of the door to the women’s room,” Karine said into Finnegan’s ear.

“C’mon, Karine,” Hunter said, “A lot of lesbians go bi when they take MDMA.”

“Shalom,” Joe said and smiled, and then unsmiled and knitted his brow in confusion.