“You there! Tuck in that belly! Absolutely no flabby trollertweeting today. Is that clear?”
The guilty Trollertweety nodded, grimaced and sucked in more air. The Tyrumposaurus stuck out his jaw as he inspected his fleet of Trollertweeties. Since the T-Rump came to power, their alert status hadn’t budged from DEF-CON 1. Deafening Content on par with white noise, that is.
The Trollertweeties slapped their cute little wings smartly to their sides. Their turquoise-coloured feathers with a hint of azure shimmered in the sun. Their golden beaks were finely honed to tweeting precision. They were a well-oiled machine, the only functioning unit in the T-Rump’s communication network.
The Trollertweeties were his pride and joy — a little army of Smurfs with wings. Not that he’d share that with them. Empathy was a sign of weakness. The Putinodon had drilled that into him. The T-Rump stopped to face his frequent feathered flyers.
“You are all expendable! Every last one of you … because my Trollertweeties have to be the best the world has ever seen!”
This was his morning ritual. Many a time he’d forgotten to kiss the Tymelania upon waking up — there were so many nasty thoughts burning holes in his walnut. Never just one. His paranoia saw to that. He did his best ranting before high noon. His deplorable dinosaur base depended on it.
“Today’s a big day. I didn’t sleep well which means I’m in fine whining form.”
“SQUAWK! Would you like some cheese with that?”
“Who said that?!”
There were no takers, nary a beak was beaking.
“Once more,” he glared down at his Trollertweety fleet, “I write the jokes around here. You’re just the messenger. I’M the joke.”
A single snicker came from deep in the pack.
The T-Rump glared after it … to no avail.
“Alright then. Yes, I do have lot to whine about. So let’s start with the Big Whine. Everybody!”
“SQUAWK! Nobody appreciates me! Nobody! SQUAWK!” came the nerve-jangling response from the 1000 Trollertweety strong. Like a barrel of howler monkeys, each squadron was solely trained for derisive division.
“Great! The greatest! Now then, I have three messages to remind the Milkanhoney Preservation who their favorite dinosaur is.”
The T-Rump paused. He was breaking a sweat. This wouldn’t do. Work was for losers.
He looked off to the side and spotted the Kushneratops sitting in a nearby field of forget-me-nots and poison ivy. The dinosaur was scratching himself and mumbling as he pulled petals off the flowers …
“She loves me, she loves me not. I’ll tell the truth, tell the truth–NOT.”
“Yes, uh … dad?”
“Fatigue alert. Get over here now!”
The Kushneratops hustled over to his father-in-law’s side.
“You remember that special targeting you did during the campaign? The one where we beat the Crookadillary.”
“Tell me again,” the son-in-law said on cue.
“We beat the Crookadillary. You may thank me now.”
“Thank you, um … dad.” It would always sound strange.
“Uh, yes. Now then, I have three messages …”
The T-Rump related them to the Kushneratops, then exited to practice his latest flogging technique at Mar-a-Guano.
Twenty minutes later, a sweet little Trollertweety, looked up at the Kushneratops.
“Are you sure you know what the hell you’re doing?”
“Quiet or I’ll step on you.”
“That’s not what the T-Rump said. You’ve got to say what the T-Rump said.”
“Okay, okay.” How he hated these little birds. He was better than them. Why was he talking to birds? Because they owned the T-Rump and the T-Rump owned him. Color him a happy slave.
“You know where to go. Just go. Fly away!”
Three Trollertweety squadrons lined up and took off into Trumpassic history.
The first squadron flew over the Californation with the following news blast:
“SQUAWK! … Lavarballboy! … You were caught saying bad things about your favourite dinosaur. Your career is toast anyway! SQUAWK!”
Moments later, in an area the Trollertweeties flew daily, they let loose the following shrill shriek:
“SQUAWK! … Crookadillary! … I have only one thing to say to the deplorables that voted for me. I should’ve left them in jail! SQUAWK!”
And finally, in a secluded flight along the Kushkislyak Back Channel, a fleet of Trollertweeties laid down the following scorched earth message over the Moscovian Bluffs:
“SQUAWK! … Putinodon! … You’re the worst and biggest loser of all time! Get on with your life and give it another try in three years! SQUAWK!”