Satire The Trump Dig

The T-Rump Stumps at Pepsicola Flats …

The Tyrumposaurus was on the road, stumping for the Judgeroymoore in Pepsicola Flats. The battle royale was only a few days away when the Bamahama dinos of Crimson Creek …

The Tyrumposaurus was on the road, stumping for the Judgeroymoore in Pepsicola Flats. The battle royale was only a few days away when the Bamahama dinos of Crimson Creek — a modest 17 tail-dragging miles away — would learn who their dinosaur would be in the Sin Hut Chamber Pothole.

The T-Rump moved through the fresh meat section of a Ceratosaurus carcass. He stopped to mull over which bite to take when he was bumped from behind. He turned and looked into the battle-scarred face of the 75-year-old Oldschoolmarm, Sub Family of the Frazzled Fricassee.

“Say, have I seen you before?” She leaned in, squinting closely at the T-Rump.

“Morning, noon and night. I’m the T-Rump.”

“Land sakes. What’s a Carpetbagger dino like you doin’ down here in Pepsicola Flats?”

“Did you know one of my 47 retreats is just over that hilltop?” he said, pointing eastward. “Miramarble Head.”

The Oldschoolmarm wasn’t impressed, causing the T-Rump to shrug.

“I’m here to turn the tide for the Judgeroymoore.”

“Oh, I don’t think he needs any tide turnin’ from the likes of you. You can just roll on back to where you came from. Get along, now.”

“Do you know how I am?” It was his turn to lean in.

“I don’t care if you’re the Billygrahamster from Chapel Hill.”

“Ma’am, you’ve obviously been chewing the fat too long. I suggest you move on over here to the prime rib.” He made room for her.

“Oh, well” she said, her eyes on a better choice of meat. “Maybe I’ll just peck.” She clawed out a section.

“So, you’ve come to hear me speak,” he said, ignoring her earlier comments.

“No,” she said, gnawing a rib bone. “I’m here to see my second cousin twice removed, the Eunicefussbudget.”

“Well, you know what they say, a vote for me is a vote for the Judge.”

“You mean the other way around.”

“For the time being,” he said.

She lowered her bone.

“We don’t cater to you high-falootin’ dinosaurs from up north, Big Rock way. We’re simple dinos down here in the sticks. We don’t right appreciate bein’ told what to do.”

“I’m not telling you what to do. I’m just telling you the way it will be.”

“There you go again with that Big Rock rabble-rousin’, Milkanhoney malarkey. Why, if I was 20 years younger, I’d bend you over my knee and tan your hide with a Razorback tail, I would.”

“Oh, c’mon now. Truth be told,” he lied, “I’m just like you.”

“Oh?” He reminded her of a Lastblast Skunk.

“Sure. Look at the Judgeroymoore. He likes to chase the Candystripertypes. I’ve been known on occasion to engage in similar activity, though not quite so young, mind you.”

As he spoke, he dug his small elbow into her side and winked at her. She was momentarily disarmed by his miniscule charm. Call it a side effect of her walnut brain. She never shied away however, from juicy dino gossip.

“Did you get their mama’s permission?” she asked, looking down her nose at him.

“Well, uh … that wasn’t always possible. Their mamas were out on the island. The Long Island.”

“I see. I suppose they were preoccupied.”

“Very. And as for the allegations of improper advances, can you believe it that all 20 female dinos and their mamas lied about me?”

“Sakes alive, why the Judgeroymoore only had nine ladies waitin’ in a line pretty as you please to lie their ever-lyin’ heads off. Have you ever seen such a thing?”

“Nope,” said the T-Rump, crossing his heart for good measure.

“You poor thing. Mark my words, the very Trumpassic Period itself is crumbling before our sad, sad eyes.”

Her heart turned to mush as she warmed to the slumming leader, bowing heart-mush and all to him. Deep inside, she found a cache of solace no paleontologist could hope to stumble upon in their wildest dreams.

“Son, can I call you that?”

“Why not? You’re as old as Pocahontas.”

“Son,” she said, clutching his arm, “when you’re down in the dumps and got your tail between your legs, I’m tellin’ you here and now … you remember that there are so many, so very many lady dinosaurs who never ever blamed you for a dad-blamed thing. Hold onto that. You take that straight to heart. Til hell freezes over and then some, you hear? Tell me you’ll do that.”

“I will, Oldschoolmarm.”

“Bless you. And I’ll be praying for you long and hard. I promise.”

He patted her arm and smiled.

“Why don’t you just tell a friend to vote for me instead. I mean, the Judge.”

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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