Satire The Trump Dig

Call me Ashtag …

He was a Trollertweety who went by the name Ashtag. He wasn’t much to look at, destined to forever fly under the radar. He knew deep down where twits didn’t tweet that he was as disposable as a Kushneratops. But that didn’t stop him from staring into the eyes of dark contempt before him. …

He was a veteran Trollertweety long in the beak. Not much to look at, he was destined to forever fly under the radar. He knew deep down where twits didn’t tweet that he was as disposable as a Kushneratops. But that didn’t stop him from staring up into the eyes of dark contempt before him. The eyes of deep corruption. The eyes of a surly Tyrumposaurus that is, because the T-Rump, Ashtag felt, had flirted with for so long and finally crossed the dreaded red line. That red line in the sands of democracy that even a Trollertweety did best to tiptoe around.

“I won’t do it,” Ashtag said.

“What do you mean you won’t do it?” The T-Rump’s nostrils flared and his face screwed up into a scaly, wrinkled knot of hate. “Since when do you have a voice?”

“Since, well …” The Trollertweety had to think fast. “Since I noticed you haven’t been yourself lately.”

“Oh?” The T-Rump sneered. This was rich. Being psychoanalyzed by a wee Trollertweety. “Go on.”

“Two days ago. You had to recall a Trollertweety because you got your wife’s name wrong. Your own wife, T-Rump. It’s the T-Melania, not the T-Melanie. You never got the Stormydaniels or the Katemcdougal wrong. Or the …”

“Okay, okay. But this has nothing to do with that.”

“But it does. Then there’s the five Trollertweeties you sent out yesterday.”

“What about them?”

“There were 11 lies between them. Eleven.


“So … besides the fact that the dinos want the truth from their leader, it makes me look bad.”

“You? Who cares about you? You’re just a … tiny, measly …Trollertweety.”

I care about me.”

The little Ashtag’s beady eyes belied a bravery that gave even the T-Rump pause. The dino leader scowled down at him.

“You do know I can have you, ahem … deleted.”

“Better than to fly around the Trumpassic kingdom spouting your nonsense about the Langleyops eavesdropping on your cave … or the improper unmasking of your dino aides. That was pure malarkeyville … Or claiming you had evidence of your Comeyonus chat in the Oval Dwelling. Nope. … A deep state within the Langleyops? Not a chance. … The Christophersteele footprints in the sand triggering the Russodino investigation? I don’t think so …”


“Which brings us to today’s message you want me to bring to 52 million dinosaurs. I have a little problem with the first sentence.”

The T-Rump bristled.

“It is exactly the way I want it.”

“Really. ‘I hereby demand?’ If that doesn’t scream dictator …”

“Look, the Putinodon would do the same thing. And he’s a great leader. Great.”

“Afraid not, boss. What you have here is just another scorched earth message. You’re telling the Deeohjay dinos to investigate the Langleyops to see if they infiltrated your team for political purposes.”

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t own the Deeohjay dinos.”

“I don’t? But I picked them.”

The Trollertweety shook his head.

“This informant was there as part of a counterintelligence operation, not a criminal one.”


“He was trying to help you.”

“Oh. Well, this is the first I’m hearing of this,” the T-Rump lied for the 3,165th time. 

“Perhaps you do need me around,” Ashtag said with a shrug. “You know, to keep you informed. Call me the messenger who can help craft your message.”

The T-Rump mulled it over. His nightly chats with the Seanhannity had become toxic, even by Foxsquawkbox standards. He stared hard down at his wee tweeter, considering his options of slim and none. The expression on the T-Rump’s face softened.

“You are my little Trollertweety.”

“Less trouble than the Michaelcohen, the Manaforta, the Flynnhasbeen …”

“Alright already. You made your point!”

And so, of course, the fly-by-night, 29-syllable relationship continued between the T-Rump and his Trollertweety fleet. Perhaps because the T-Rump knew he couldn’t be friends with anyone but himself. He only longed to hear his words trumpeted across the land. But maybe, just maybe, deep in the empty pit of his soul there was a small scraping of empathy suggesting he be on good terms with the messenger. However ridiculous the courage of the small, insignificant Ashtag.  

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.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s