Satire The Trump Dig

Kickin’ It with the Kushneratops …

“I did not have any meeting with the Kayjeebeeops.”

The Sessionsopossum said this gleefully, placing a rock atop his pile. …

“I did not have any meeting with the Kayjeebeeops.”

The Sessionsopossum said this gleefully, placing a rock atop his pile. The Kushneratops nodded, patiently waiting his turn.

The two dinosaurs squatted a few feet apart in the local rockpile known as the Dumbstruck Lode. It was rich in deposits of Fool’s Gold, Sub-Lime and Loose Marble — all good fodder to pile onto their respective Stack of Lies, a monthly game of bragging rights they played. It was very competitive, as to who had told the most lies.

The Kushneratops grasped three more rocks.

“I failed to mention my Kayjeebeeops meetings once, twice, thrice.”

He placed the rocks on his stack, moving back into the lead by one. The Sessionsopossum was quick to strike back

“I don’t remember any Kayjeebeeops meeting or know of any dinosaur who did and I don’t believe any did.”

He placed three more stones on his stack. The falsehoods were flying now. The Kushneratops snatched up more rocks.

“I don’t know about the Wikileakybeak even though the T-Rump Jr. told me about it …”

“Good one.”

“I never met the Sergeimillianrubles and I am telling the truth.”

The two Trumpassic dinos laughed uproariously. The Kushneratops waited for the snickering to subside before carefully placing three more rocks on his Stack of Lies. The Sessionsopossum grinned mischieviously.

“I’m a sneaky little opossum. Oops. Gosh darn it. That’s the truth.”

He took one rock off his stack, making a mental note to concentrate more on lying.

These games between the two lasted for hours. Thirty minutes later however, the Tyvankanatrix interrupted them.


“Ahem, yes, dear?” came his surprised girly response.

“I’m goin’ home,” said the Sessionsopossum. Nervous about meeting more people than he had to, he stole away in the shadows.

The T-Vanka stared at the two tall piles of rocks.

“What are you two doing?”


“Playing with rocks? Honestly, Kush. Sometimes I wish you’d grow up.”

“I am 36.”

“That’s so young in dinosaur years. But the reason I’m here, I hardly see you any more.” She paused with a look of sweetness just for him. “Do you love me, Jared?”

“You broke up a game of Stack of Lies for that?”

“Pack of Lies?”


“Is there a difference?”

“Context, my dear.”

“Oh, Jared, you hopeless, semantic romantic. What about me? Do you love me … or my dad?”

“I’m not that kind of dinosaur. Oh. I mean, I love your dad’s … uh, daughter. That’s … you. Of course.”

“And not any one of those one, two, three, four, or five Prostitutaurs waiting outside father’s cave in the Moscovian Bluffs? You’re always gone for so long.”

“Oh, no. Look, you can’t believe everything you hear from the Schillersaurus and the Sergeimillianrubles. Just because they both said five. What’s one more Prostitutaur?”

“You heard mother. Five is five too many.”

“You’re better with numbers than me, dear.”

This seemed to put the T-Vanka at ease.

“Oh,” she said. “I almost forgot, I know your hired help is amateurish at best. I stopped by to remind you that your Diplomacy Workshop with the Henrykissinger begins in five minutes.”


The Kushneratops scrambled off to the Methinks-Methotts Meadow, a small dinosaur think tank on the Far Left Bank.

The Henrykissinger was waiting for him. He was in his usual grumbling mood.

“Do you remember what we discussed last week?”

“You’ll need to be more specific.”

The teacher’s tail lashed out, striking the Kushneratops upside the head.



“Walk softly and carry a big tail.”

“Hey,” said the pupil, “did you just make that up?”

“I said it last week.”

The Kushneratops instinctively ducked, but no tail came.

“What else?” asked the Henrykissinger.

“We talked about the, uh … Eastern Middle?”

“It’s the Middle Eastlands.” The teacher shook his head. “I give up. You don’t know a jihad from a jellybean. You’ll just have to smile and stay quiet. People may presume you’re intelligent.”

“But I just wanted to say …”


“Diplomacy. It’s a big word.”

“Of course it is. Because it’s all about relationships.”

“Oh, I get it. Well, you can just tell the T-Vanka I wasn’t with any Prostitutaurs.”

The Henrykissinger sighed. The teacher waggled his claw at his pupil. A small flicker finally illuminated the pupil’s walnut brain, putting his mouth in action.

“Smile. Keep quiet and …”

He looked down behind him and frowned. He carried a small, puny tail. This would never work.

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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