Satire The Trump Dig

Sleeping with the Enemy …

The Tyrumposaurus sat bolt upright in his nest of fine fig leaves. The rustling leaves awakened the Tymelania, who was sleeping a good tail’s length away. …

The Tyrumposaurus sat bolt upright in his nest of fine fig leaves. The rustling leaves awakened the Tymelania, who was sleeping a good tail’s length away.

“What is it?” She asked.

“A nightmare. Must’ve been that third helping of Caviaraptor legs.”

“Maybe it’s been the strain of getting Puerto Rikiricardo back on it’s feet.”

“That has nothing to do with me. No, in the dream, well … it got personal.”

“Yes?” She blinked in shock. Twelve years they’d been together and this was the first time he was opening up to her. She cringed at the thought.

“The Kimjongadon and I were gazing at the stars. Imagine that crackpot and me, looking at the stars. Why, I don’t even look at the stars with you.”

Thank god, she thought.

“The lunatic was going on about the meaning of life and other nonsense when he has the nerve to call me Little Rocketman. Can you believe it?”

“Wasn’t that the last thing you called him before you fell asleep?”

“Sure, but I said it first. They’re my words now.”

He paused and looked at her.

“So …”

“So what?” she asked.

“Do you think I’m Little Rocketman?”

“No,” she said yawning.

“No? That’s it?”

“T-Rump, I don’t remember the last–”

“Not that. You’re supposed to pump me up. Make me look great. That’s your job. Excuse me.”

He raised his head above a low-hanging branch of huckleberries.

“Mitchgetbacktowork! Saveyourenergyrex!”

The T-Melania shook her head.

“They’re sleeping.”

“They work for me 24-7. They need to figure out what I’m going to do to that herb-sucking Hamiltonian, Linmanmiranda. He told me to go straight to hell.”

“You did tell the Sanjuanmayorsaur she was a loser.”

“I thought that. What I said was that she had poor leadership ability.”

“And that she was a complainer and her dinosaurs want everything done for themselves. That hurricane almost wiped them out. There were dinosaurs dying.”

“That reminds me,” said the T-Rump. “Our battle-scarred veterans. Only eleven dinos were lying on their backs during the humming of the Flight of the Trollertweeties. That’s progress. Great progress.”

“How can you say Trollertweety and Puerto Rikiricardo in the same sentence?”

He looked at her carefully. His eyes narrowed.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You’re starting to sound like the Mediacircustops and their fake news. I need to know. Are you with me?

“Three days a week. You know I need … my own time.”

“Are you being nasty to me? Did the Donkeykongrus put you up to this? You’re out to get me, aren’t you?”

“No, no and I thought we had an agreement.”

“And that damn Lutherstrangia with his Bamahama dinosaurs in Crimson Creek. You did see the Mediacircustops failed to mention that even though he lost his battle, his popularity went WAY UP after my endorsement!”

But the T-Melania had once again tuned him out. She reclined with a sigh back into her nest. Her eyes found the nearby huckleberries. She’d lectured the dino tots only yesterday not to eat them because they would make the young ones dizzy. But they didn’t have to live with the T-Rump.

She coughed to cover the sound of her snapping off the branch. She licked her lips at the glossy, succulent berries glistening in the moonlight, each beckoning her, ‘bite me, no me.’ She plopped one into her mouth. One huckleberry of course begets another. She plopped more, plowing through the branch like corn on the cob until happy sleep found her.

By David Belisle

I'm a novelist and screenwriter in search of the Great Guffaw. It's kind of like getting hit with a bucket of Gatorade. It's a good time that sticks with you.

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