Satire The Trump Dig

Death Penalty! …

A rogue dinosaur ambush had left several dead and wounded. The Tyrumposaurus hunkered down in his oval dwelling with his right-hand dino, …

A rogue dinosaur ambush had left several dead and wounded. The Tyrumposaurus hunkered down in the Oval Dwelling with his right-hand dino, the Marinegunkelly, the sometimes loquacious Huckabeecyclops and the Cryingchuck, leader of the Committee on Mass Migration.

“He was a Sleepercellatops from Izbackmigraine,” said the Marinegunkelly.

The T-Rump thrashed his tail.

“It’s a disaster and it’s all your fault, Cryingchuck. You and your ‘diversity dinosaur.’ That was a real Cryingchuck beauty, oh yeah. Death penalty! We need to know who these dinosaurs are!

Before we kill them?” asked the Huckabeecyclops.

The T-Rump brushed the contradiction aside.

“I want extreme vetting!”

“Petting?” she asked, feeling flushed.

“Good god, woman. Listen! Vetting.”

“I just wanted to make sure I got it right.”

“For every dinosaur,” said the T-Rump. Chain migration must end now! Some dinosaurs come in, and they bring their whole family with them, who can be truly evil. Not acceptable!”

“Excuse me, T-Rump?”

It was the Cryingchuck.

“Yes, what is it?” Questions during briefing meetings peeved the T-Rump to no end.

“I have a cousin. A second cousin, really. The, uh … Amyschumershow?”


“She wants to come to the Milkanhoney Preservation. To make it her home.”

“Hmm. Sounds like migration to me. Cousins, huh? Well, that’s nice, I suppose. Where’s she from?”


“What?! Absolutely not. This is craziness!”

“But my ancestors are from there.”

“Consider yourself lucky to have beat the deadline.”

“What deadline?” asked the Huckabeecyclops.

“Whatever travel ban we’re up to. Figure it out.”

“But, T-Rump,” said the Cryingchuck. “She’s the Amyschumershow. She’s funny.”

“I’ll bet she is. A real laughing-stock. Got that, Huckabee?”

“Uh, any more details?”

That set him off. The T-Rump huffed and puffed. Huge snot bubbles blew in and out of his large nostrils.

The Huckabeecyclops grimaced.

“I’m sorry. I said the ‘D’ word, didn’t I?”

“Waste of time,” said the T-Rump. “Now then, this extreme vetting. Being politically correct is fine, but not for this!”

“T-Rump,” said the Cryingchuck. “What about the T-Melania?”

“Don’t start with that anti-bullying thing again.”

“No, no. I’m talking about where she’s from — the other side of Izbackmigraine.” The Cryingchuck swallowed a burp. “Slomovodka.”

The T-Rump growled at him.

“Your point?”

“Well, she migrated here. We all migrated here.”

“Make up your mind. Her or everyone?”

“T-Rump?” said the confused, frightened Huckabeecyclops.

The stark realization hit the T-Rump between the eyes.

“We’re done here.” He rose from his haunches and cleared his throat to bellow. “Extreme vetting! Death penalty! Mitchgetbacktowork!”

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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