Satire The Trump Dig

The Hopehicksbagotrix Comes Clean! …

The Hopehicksbagotrix was up to her ankles in the precious, mud-packed beauty of Vanity Pond, a picturesque spa for female dinosaurs, herbivores and carnivores alike. …

The Hopehicksbagotrix was up to her ankles in the precious, mud-packed beauty of Vanity Pond, a picturesque spa for female dinosaurs, herbivores and carnivores alike. Food chain differences were set aside for the sake of cracked, dry and extra-scaly skin.

She reclined on her back in the warm, soothing mud. All things T-Rump forgotten, she indulged in her guilty pleasure of blowing snot bubbles. Pop. Pop. … Pop.


It was the Tyrumposaurus.

“Not now. Go away,” she said, eyes still closed. “I’ve been with you three years, you know this is my day off.”

“Oh, I forgot. I just wanted to know where you’ve been the last couple of days. It’s not like you to miss work.”

“I was meeting with the Muellersavus.”

Silent shock and awe and a quick intake of breath from the T-Rump. He clutched his heart … and did a face plant in the mud. The splash-down beside the Hopehicksbagotrix caused her to open her eyes.


Moments later she had him propped up against a nearby tree. He was heaving deep breaths and slurring his words.

“Look at the shate you’ve put me in.”

“The what?”



The T-Rump nodded, embarrassed. He clawed the mud off his face and stared hard at his communications director.

“Okay, let me have it. What did you tell him?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

“He said you’d have a heart attack.”

“I just did. Now you can tell me.”

“I told him the truth.”

More shock and awe and chest-grabbing from the T-Rump. He grimaced in agony as a white hot bolt of stress searched his innards for a non-existent soul. The pained expression on his face seemed to beg of her, why are you doing this to me? His alarming, trip-hammer heart rate finally settled down. There were more short breaths, his lips puckering the air like a fish.

“Did you tell him everything?”

She looked at him warily, knowing her reply might kill him. Of course, in a weakened state, he’d complain less.

“Of course not.”

“Whew, that’s a relief.”

“I told him almost everything.”

The T-Rump’s eyes rolled back in his head. The Hopehicksbagotrix slapped him upside the head twice, snapping him back to reality.

“You’re killing me!”

“What was I supposed to do?”

“Lie, lie and lie again. Just like the out of control Mediacircustops.”

“I’m not going to the Solitary Sinkhole for you.”

“Why not? The Papadopoulos, the Manaforta, the Rickyprisongates and the Flynnhasbeen. They will.”

“What, and give all this up?” She held her short arms out at the mud-packed beauty around them. “No thanks. I need my mud.”

“Well say goodbye to it because you’re mud. As in, you’re fired!”

“Not so fast, T-Rump. I said I told him almost everything.”

“What did you leave out?”

“That night in the Moscovian Bluffs?”

“The Greatest Night?”

“That would be the one. With the Grabmealready … the Stormydaniels …”

“The Goldenmonsoon … and the Byebyedamagedeposit?”

She nodded.

“And don’t forget the Chuchuchuchucherrybomb.”

The T-Rump momentarily shuddered. He returned to reality, eyeing her carefully.

“You wouldn’t.”

“Just watch me. Now run along and let me and my mud be.”

The T-Rump turned away. How had this happened? His empire was crumbling before him. There was only one thing to do. He hurried off to his fleet of Trollertweety birds. Dinosaurs had ears. He had to remind them daily that the Mediacircustops was the real enemy and none of them, not a single sentence could be trusted. Except for his personal promotional Mediacircustops, the Foxsquawkbox.

He almost forgot. He’d have to get the word out as well for the Judgeroymoore’s big battle tomorrow. The Bamahama dinos of Crimson Creek desperately needed an accused child molesting dinosaur in their Sin Hut Chamber Pothole.

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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