“Okay, I’m trying to think. Really, I am.”
Squatting before his father, the Tyrumposaurus Jr. held his head low between his knees, between his claws, trying to squeeze the information he needed from it. The frowning, brow-beating T-Rump stood over him. Did his son really have amnesia or was he simply a moron? Kids these days …
“So,” the T-Rump Jr. continued, “there was you, um … your lawyer … and me … and my lawyer.”
“And that makes four. Then I made an executive decision …”
“There’s your first mistake. You’re no executive. You’re lucky to be a senior staff member.”
“So, I … I made a senior staff member decision to use attorney-client privilege. I did good. Right, dad?”
“No. I didn’t know this until after the fact but I’m still putting the blame squarely on you. You can’t say that to protect a father-son conversation. And you had to be my son. I blame your mother for that.”
The T-Rump threw his short arms up in the air.
“Now they’re going to send the Sub-Peanuthead after you. We’ll have to go through the whole damn thing all over again. You’ve made this a disaster! How do you think I feel when you’re in there getting grilled for eight hours?”
“Tired? It’s exhausting! How many times have I told you? Deny, deny, deny.” He poked his son on the noggin with each word. “Or at least pretend you have amnesia like the Sessionsopussum.”
“Nobody’s that good.”
“That’s how he got where he is,” said the T-Rump. “That forgetful little opossum is the top law official in the land, thanks to me.”
“I was just trying to think on my own. You know I have trouble keeping it straight. Which came first again — was it the baby dinosaurs or the Crookadillary dirt?
“The baby dinosaurs! Those damn little orphans. Stick to the story. What is the Putinodon going to think of us?”
“He may be a little upset, but hasn’t every senior dinosaur here already spoken with every Kayjeebeeops here and there. That’s gotta stand for something.”
“Son, you know so much but yet so little. Let me do the thinking.”
“Sure, I guess that’s why there are so few dinosaurs in the Oval Dwelling, right?”
“For a reason. No dino can keep up with me.”
“Does that, uh … include me?” The T-Rump Jr. looked forlornly up to his father, hoping for a single, if fleeting bonding moment.
“Son … I can still call you that … I taught you everything you know, but not everything I know.”
The T-Rump Jr. was on the verge of tearing up. He shivered, wiped his nose and shivered some more.
“But you let the Kushneratops have the Middle Eastlands,” he said in a snively, whiny voice.
“Of course, for him it’s just a homework assignment. I’m sure he can wrap it up in a few days. Moving Jerusalem’s Lot will make it that much easier. I don’t need you starting a war over there. I can do that myself.”
“What about the Tyvankanatrix? She said that accused child molester Judgeroymoore would go to hell.”
“Son, the Sin Hut Chamber Pothole? It too can be hell at times. Cheer up, dammit. You can’t help it if your sister is prettier than you.”
The T-Rump Jr. rubbed his red, post-tantrum eyes. He set his jaw and dino’d up.
“Speaking of that accused child molester Judgeroymoore, I see the Alfrankenstein, the Johnconyers and the Trentfrankfurter … they’re all having to leave the pack and you’re still standing. How do you do it, dad?”
“Ha! No shame. No fear. … Say, that could be my next campaign slogan. It just needs that something little extra …”
“Now you can thank me?”
“That’s it! … Well, son, it looks like I can keep you another week.”