“Nikki Haley is out,” Dr. Biden fumed. “Of course she is. Dumb little jeet cunt. And she said she was going to help us.”

“Unreliable browns,” Hunter said. “And she gives lazy head.”

“Hunter…” she began.

“What? It’s the truth! You’ve got to get in there and suck, suck like you’re trying to turn it inside out.”

“I have an erection,” Joe said suddenly.

“Super Tuesday was yesterday, Daddy,” Hunter said.

“What?” Joe demanded.

“You should be resting, dear,” Dr. Jill said. “I’m writing you a prescription for 20 hours of sleep.”

“You won big on Super Tuesday, Daddy,” Hunter said loudly. “You should be happy. You did great for someone running unopposed.”

“And this, this Nikki, she beat Trump?” Joe asked.

“He’s adorable when he tries to keep up,” Hunter said to Jill. She rolled up the magazine she was reading and hit him a few times with it.

“I feel nothing,” Hunter said. “I’ve got more Percocet in me than a Kentucky Derby winner.”

“Why am I getting messages from someone named ‘Cookie Monster?’” Joe asked, staring intently at the stapler in his hand.

“Cookies!” Jill growled in the Monster’s voice.

“Cookies!” Hunter grumbled. “Coooookies!” He pulled out a much-depleted Cracky and put him in his mouth and let him fall back out while going “NOM NOM NOM!”

“Cookies!” Finnegan said, walking in, her desexualizing sweater three sizes too big. “Coookies!”

“What is happening?!?” Joe cried. “What is happening?!?”

“Super Tuesday cooookies!” Dr. Jill said, miming throwing sweet, precious cookies at her face.

Joe stood, hunched, grimacing, and shuffled toward the bathroom, trying to raise his hands to his ears.