Satire The Trump Dig

Ethics with the Richardpainter …

“Trump?! I know you’re in there. Come on out!”
A groggy-eyed Tyrumposaurus rose from his mid-morning nap. He’d sent out his fleet of Trollertweeties on a tweeting foray against those damned Donkeykongrus …

“Trump?! I know you’re in there. Come on out!”

A groggy-eyed Tyrumposaurus rose from his mid-morning nap. He’d sent out his fleet of Trollertweeties on a tweeting foray against those damned Donkeykongrus who kept him from ruling the Trumpassic World carte blanche. Fire and fury was a tough road to hoe. He was exhausted. The T-Rump turned to the T-Rump Jr., squatting at the foot of his king-sized, moolah-moolah-lined nest.

“Who is it?”

“That crazy nut the Richardpainter, from DREGS.”

DREGS was the committee Dinos for Responsibilities and Ethics in Grandoldparty Shenanigans of which the Richardpainter was a veteran member.

“Ethics,” snorted the T-Rump. “At this time of day.”

He rose from his nest and trudged down to the entrance of his sprawling dinosaur tenement, the T-Rump Dumps, where the Richardpainter stood.

“The jig is up, T-Rump!”

“What jig? Your committee has no standing. I dissolved it six weeks ago.”

“That’s why I’m standing here. I’ve begun a new committee.”

“Oh, yeah? Knock yourself out.”

“It’s called the Investigative Motion Promoting Ethics And Clearing House. IMPEACH for short.”

“News flash on the fake news front. I don’t know any Kayjeebeeops.” The T-Rump turned on his fake bone spur heel.

“What about the Davidbogatin?” snapped the Richardpainter. “Do you know that knuckle-dragging dinosaur?”

The T-Rump stopped in his tracks, causing the Richardpainter to sneer.

“Of course you do. 34 years ago he bought five of your run-down rockpiles here for six million moolah-moolah leaves. Do you remember that?”

“No. Why should I?”

“Because you were there when he moved in, grinning like a juiced-up jackal. Because that’s when the Russomafia moved in.”

The Russomafia was a large, bellicose, ruthless raptor from the other side of the fault line, a shady, dangerous haunt known as The Underground.

“He was Russomafia?” said the T-Rump. “Well, I don’t know about that.”

The Richardpainter saw through the false bravado in the T-Rump’s voice unconsciously spewing lie number 2,178.

“You don’t know a lot of things but you know damn well who the Davidbogatin was. He pleaded guilty to working with the Russomafia. His no-good brother was in cahoots with the Semionmogilevich, another nice dino you’d like to bring home to meet mama.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Oh, but you have. You know him better than that prancing pornodactyl, the Stormydaniels. The Semionmogilevich is the head honcho. The big cheese. The dino with the vino. And he can think a coherent thought, which is more than I can say for your numbskull noggin.”

“Your point?”

“The Russomafia used you and your failing T-Rump Dumps to wash millions of their moolah-moolah leaves on the banks of the Shell-Kompaneez.”

“I’ve never put a toe in that river. So it must not exist.”

“Exist? It runs right through your decrepit, downgraded soul!”

“Hah! I don’t have that either,” said the T-Rump.

“Why is it the T-Rump Dumps are one of only two dino accommodations — and I use that word lightly — that allow anonymous purchases?”

“My dinos enjoy their privacy.”

“Privacy, my battle-scarred butt. It’s so your Russomafia bunkmates can wash their moolah-moolah here and hide!”

“Where’s your proof?” scoffed the T-Rump.

“Proof? Thirty years ago you couldn’t rub two rocks together. Where’d you get the moolah-moolah for the T-Rump Dumps? … Thirteen! No less than thirteen dinos with links to the Russomafia have owned, lived in or run criminal activities out of your properties. They saved your bacon, buddy boy.”

“I’m waiting,” the T-Rump said, throwing in a yawn.

“Two years ago your T-Rump Taco Mall was fined ten million because you were washing so much Moscovian Bluffs moolah-moolah. It’s thanks to your gawd-awful performance as the perfect patsy that allowed their biggest reptiles — the Vyacheslavivankov, the Felixsater, the Tokhtakhounov — to slither on over here and call the T-Rump Dumps home.”

“Are you done yet?”

“I’ll be done when you’re sittin’ in the Solitary Sinkhole sipping on week-old skunk water.”

“Okay, then. Well, good luck with that. I’ve got to go now. I have a Great Tex-Mex Divide to build so I can put an end to this migration mess.”

“And you can tell your buddy the Putinodon to keep his Russomafia.”

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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