Satire The Trump Dig

The Shutdown Whisperer …

“Whaddaya mean I can’t go flogging?”

The Tyrumposaurus threw up his short arms and paced a tight circle. “I always go flogging on the weekend. Why do you think I even have Mara-a-Guano? …

“Whaddaya mean I can’t go flogging?”

The Tyrumposaurus threw up his short arms and paced a tight circle. “I always go flogging on the weekend. Why do you think I even have Mar-a-Guano?

“It just doesn’t look good, T-Rump,” said the Marinegunkelly. The Stephenmillerus squatted off to the side of the Oval Dwelling, perfecting his scowling glare for the Mediacircustops.

“Look,” said the T-Rump, “if this is about the number of times I’ve flogged since wiping the floor with the Crookadillary, how many times have I told you … ?”

The Marinegunkelly and the Stephenmillerus looked at each other.

“Your flogging brings other dinos to your properties and any flog days the Mediacircustops keeps track of is just more fake news,” they said in practised unison.


“Conflict of interest be damned.”

“That’s better.”

“But this is serious, T-Rump,” said the Marinegunkelly.

“What? Is the Putinodon upset? I told you not to make him upset!”

“No. The Putinodon is fine. It’s the Milkanhoney Preservation. It’s shut down.”

“You’re kidding. Really?”

The T-Rump looked from his chief of staff to his senior advisor. The Stephenmillerus confirmed the news with a petulant nod.

“I still don’t see how this affects my flogging.”

“Well, it’s like this, T-Rump,” said the Marinegunkelly. “You need to set an example.”

“An example? Of what? Not everyone can be a genius like me. I picked you guys. Now go and figure it out. Do I have to do everything?”

“We need you to stay here with us,” said the Marinegunkelly, “to keep you focused on the strict absolutely no-migration policy.”

“That sounds familiar. Okay, just don’t call me an empty vessel again.”

“We won’t.”

“It just doesn’t sound right,” said the commander in chief. “And you guys keep whispering in my ear. Always with the whispering.”

The T-Rump settled into one of his pouty moods. The Stephenmillerus saw another chance to impress his boss.

“I have an idea. What if we made it worth your while?”

“Excuse me, you don’t have that many moolah-moolah leaves.”

“I’m not talking moolah-moolah.”

The Stephenmillerus and his lecherous, drooling sneer now had the Marinegunkelly’s attention too.

“How would you like someone else whispering in your ear?”

The T-Rump leaned forward.

“It’s been so long.”

“And so expensive,” groaned the Marinegunkelly.

The T-Rump didn’t bat an eye. They were referring of course to the Stormydaniels, an attractive Pornodactyl from the Van Nuys-Mattress Alley. A dozen years before she had tickled more than the T-Rump’s fancy.

“Make it so,” he said with a smug smile. “And don’t forget to tell the T-Melania I’m flogging.”

“Of course,” said the Marinegunkelly.

He turned and plodded out of the meeting, visibly shaken. He now had to fill the Stormydaniel’s pretty little head with all the talking points that under NO circumstances was she to whisper in the T-Rump’s ear. Tail wagging or not. The chief of staff shook his head in frustration. Here he was, having to trust a lowly Pornodactyl.

It was getting ridiculous, the things he had to do keep the Milkanhoney Preservation shut down.

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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