Satire The Trump Dig

The Season of Bad Advice …

“Quiet on the steppes!”

It was the raspy voice of the incorrigible Bannoncanon. He was the director of the Trumpassic Period’s end of year play. …

“Quiet on the steppes!”

It was the raspy voice of the incorrigible Bannoncanon. He was the director of the Trumpassic Period’s end of the year play. From atop the Bullee-Tar Pit he gazed over the Puhl-DePlugg Reservoir with the Tyrumposaurus, the Mitchgetbacktowork and the Tennesseecorker.

“Now, then,” continued the Bannoncanon, “I’m calling this the Season of War.”

“Why are we always at war?” asked the Mitchgetbacktowork.

“What did I say about cutting off your oxygen?”

The Mitchgetbacktowork took a deep breath in case he was serious.

The Bannoncanon raised a claw in the air.

“The opening scene will be like the Ides of Marching Together.”

“Oh,” said the T-Rump, “like we did with the Putinodon.”

“Quiet. T-Rump, you’re going to be the Caesarsaurus.”

“But of course.”

The Bannoncanon tapped his bottom lip as he stared down the Mitchgetbacktowork and the Tennesseecorker.

“Which one of you is going to play the Brutusbackstabus?”

The Tennesseecorker tapped the Mitchgetbacktowork on the shoulder.

“It’s all yours. I want to be the Nerofiddler. We need some laughs.”

“This is my play,” roared the Bannoncanon. There is NO Nerofiddler.”

“What’s that?” asked the T-Rump.

“No Post-Roast Rome Remains?” ventured the Tennesseecorker.

“No,” said the Bannoncanon.

“You’re losing me,” said the T-Rump. I think it’s time to send out a nasty Trollertweety about that son-of-a-brontosaurus Kaepernickelback.”

“Stay right there. I need more of you.”

“Well, that’s impossible.”

The Bannoncanon shook his head.

“I’m talking authentic candidates. That’s the most important thing.”

“For what?” The T-Rump was remarkably still on task.

The Bannoncanon spotted a rare teaching moment and seized it.

“T-Rump, what do we need if we’re going to win a war?”

“Um, a plan?”

“I’ve got the plan. It’s right here in my walnut brain! We need warriors. Lots of warriors!”

“Well,” said the T-Rump with a sniff. “I almost got you one. Remember the Lutherstrangia?”

“Yes, except it was the Judgeroymoore we needed — and who I helped win, thank you very much.”

“Wait a minute,” said the T-Rump. “You should be thanking me.”

“But you didn’t do anything.”

“Your point?” The T-Rump fidgeted nervously. “Look, I really, really need my Trollertweety fix. Just tell me how this things’s going to end.”

“Madness,” said the Tennesseecorker.

The Bannoncanon gave him the hairy eyeball.

“We’ll be overthrowing the Grandoldpartysaurus.”

“Can we do that?” asked the T-Rump.

The hairy eyeball swerved his way.

“Relax, this is just the dress rehearsal.”

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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