Satire The Trump Dig

Huckabee Hullabaloo …

The Huckabeecyclops bit her lip, rolled her eyes and prayed only for ample oxygen to survive the next few minutes. …

The Huckabeecyclops bit her lip, rolled her eyes and prayed only for ample oxygen to survive the next few minutes.

Odds were even that she’d faint dead away or throw her short arms up in the air, laugh hysterically, then run and jump off the nearest cliff. She was in the unenviable position of having to defend the Tyrumposaurus. Again. The mammoth meteor that would end all dinosaur life was still 3 million years away, but it felt like it had just hit her in belly.

The Flynnhasbeen had flipped. The inner Oval Dwelling had been breached. What would she do? What could she say?

The T-Rump’s famous line was, ‘tell a lie three times and they’ll believe you.’ 2000 lies later, she had her doubts.

She stepped to the Bullee-Tar Pit and looked out over a sizable crowd of salivating Mediacircustops. She gulped and pointed to the closest raised claw before her. It was the Jimacosta.

“What does the T-Rump have to say about the Flynnhasbeen pleading guilty?”

“That’s what you get when you hire an Obamarus retread.”

“But the Obamarus warned the T-Rump about working with the Flynnhasbeen.”

“You can’t believe everything you hear from the Donkeykongrus. The Flynnhasbeen won’t be the first dinosaur and certainly not the last to get a bad performance report.”

“He was the National Security Adviser!”

“For 25 days.” She sniffed her armpits one after the other. Still dry. So far so good. “The Flynnhasbeen was acting alone.”

She hated lying. It had turned her into a monster. The other dinosaurs made fun of her facial expressions, the size of her tail and her lazy Arkansas Whitewater drawl. It was horrible. After following her father willingly into politics, she wished instead she’d kicked and screamed to the bitter end.

“Excuse me,” said the Jimacosta, “I’m still here. Who was the Flynnhasbeen taking his orders from?”

“I already answered that question,” she snarled, baring an impressive row of razor-sharp chompers. “He’s a grown dinosaur. I’m not his babysitter.”

“So the Flynnhasbeen was talking with the Kayjeebeeops on his own?”


“Do you have a problem with that?” asked the Jimacosta.

“I answered that question already too.”

“Uh, right. He’s a grown dinosaur. Who then, was the senior official dinosaur and other senior dinosaurs that the Flynnhasbeen spoke with at Mar-a-Guano regarding the Kayjeebeeops?”

“There were no senior dinosaurs. The Flynnhasbeen is lying through every last one of his decaying teeth. He may be a pathological liar for all I know. Why don’t you look into that?”

“But why would he lie? He agreed to tell the truth. If he’s caught lying, his son will go to the Solitary Sinkhole and his grandson will never meet his father or grandfather.”

“Well, since he’s a liar, maybe that’s a good thing.”

“You are one cold-skinned dinosaur, Huckabee.”

“It’s the climate. Next question!”

The Davidaxelrod raised a claw.

“Do you get the sense that this house of moolah-moolah leaves — the T-Rump Reign — is poised to cave in soon, uh … the very near future?

“On the contrary,” the Huckabeecyclops huffed and puffed, “we just agreed on how best to proceed with the mytaxes returnis, our first major victory since the T-Rump came to power. He’s extremely pleased, as we should all be.”

There was grumbling amongst the Mediacircustops.

Again with the mytaxes returnis, the thick layer of green skin every dinosaur shed each spring. Except the T-Rump of course. He and the biggest dinosaurs had decided to keep all the green skins to line their nests while the less fortunate were left to freeze. The same less fortunate who had the T-Rump’s back when he roared to power. It was survival of the biggest.

“The T-Rump said just yesterday he has the final say,” said the Davidaxelrod. “How could the Flynnhasbeen possibly be acting alone?”

“If I said it once, I said it a million, kabillion times.” The Huckabeecyclops erupted like Ol’ Not-So-Faithful, the nearby semi-active volcano. She tremored violently on her hind legs. She drooled, gobs of slobber flying everywhere. “Read my lips!”

“I’ll try if you’ll stop shaking.”

She paid him no mind. This was politics cut to the quick of her unmanicured claws. Matching wits with the Mediacircustops with a melt-down tossed in for good measure. There was no stopping her now.

“The T-Rump team — the Tyrumposaurae — is the finest lot of dinosaurs to ever ravage these lands. Oh, sure, we’ve lost a few along the way … the Sallyatesaur, the Flynnhasbeen, the Manaforta, the Spicerophus, the Carterpagealpha, the Priebusunderbus, the Scaramunchkin, the Bannoncanon …”

“Spare us the history lesson,” the Davidaxelrod said, yawning.  

“No! Don’t take your eyes off my slippery lips! You need this lesson because the T-Rump IS the leader and when are you all going to realize that he knows what’s best for the Milkanhoney Preservation and — dammit — stop picking on us! Stop picking on me!”

You could hear a Trollertweety feather hit the ground. The Huckabeecyclops quickly stole behind a big rock and a hard place, unable to breathe. Anything to protect her from this maelstrom of psychological torture. Mammoth tears poured down her cheeks. The Mediacircustops looked at each other with wide, googly eyes.

“Uh, Huckabee?” It was the Davidaxelrod. “You have to come out now and answer the question.”

“No. No more questions. Not until you say you’re sorry.”

More googly-eyed looks.

The Davidaxelrod, veteran, straight-ahead Sub Family Mediacircustops that he was, plunged on.

“Why all the lies, Huckabee? What are you trying to hide? Besides yourself.”

There came no answer. Only a low whimper. Several of the Mediacircustops hurried around the large rock. There they found the Huckabeecyclops lying on her side in the dinosaur fetal position. Curled in a ball, that is, one short arm held out, repeatedly punching out to the side, signalling it’s egg-breaking time. She mumbled something over and over. The Mediacircustops knelt down over her to make out her hushed words, barely above a whisper.

“Make it better, daddy. Please make it better.”

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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