When I woke up this morning Martyman and Mr. Trump Head were missing. I thought for sure that Martyman had taken Mr. Trump Head outside for some sick joke, like placing him under the tree where the wild turkeys roost each night. Then I heard this high pitched whine coming out of the bathroom. I looked in, and there was Martyman being all tender—consoling Mr. Trump Head.
“There, there,” Martyman was saying. “Don’t cry over the Democrats investigating you. Hillary Clinton didn’t cry once during the thirty-three Republican Benghazi hearings or all the investigations into her emails.”
Mr. Trump Head cried harder. I think they’ll both be in the bathroom all day.