Satire The Trump Dig

The Williameffbuckley …

The Tyrumposaurus had a penchant for cheating on his Milkanhoney Preservation-sponsored fitness diet. The calorie-counting crime typically began with a few extra servings of Caviaraptor legs topped with two bushfuls of huckleberries …

The Tyrumposaurus had a penchant for cheating on his Milkanhoney Preservation-sponsored fitness diet. The calorie-counting crime typically began with a few extra servings of Caviaraptor legs topped with two bushfuls of huckleberries and a drizzle of gargantuan gristle. But tonight he was paying the price. The T-Rump tossed and turned in his sleep before finally losing himself … if only to find himself in the most profound of prophetic dreams.

He dreamt he was flogging with the Putinodon on a sunny hillside overlooking a den of healthy, vibrant Playmatapus frolicking in a waist-deep, sandy beach lagoon.

The Putinodon went one way, the T-Rump the other, and the leader of the free-running dinosaur world soon stood before a cave with a large boulder blocking the entrance.

A voice came from within.

“I’ve been waiting.”

It was dino English, but spoken with an idiosyncratic accent: something between an old-fashioned, upper class Mid-Atlanticus accent, and Britwit Received Pronunciation, with a Fine Southern Dixie drawl.

The boulder moved slowly to the side, a beam of light came from the heavens and a flock of Trollertweeties suddenly passed by overhead, a squawking squadron of sorts. It almost had a religious feel to it. The T-Rump wondered if a parade may be in store. But only a single dinosaur stood there, carefully studying the Tyrumposaurus.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I am the Williameffbuckley. Some refer to me as the Williameffenbuckley. Perhaps you’ve read my footprints in the sand. No, of course you haven’t. You don’t read. What did you do at bedtime with your baby dinos?

“We counted. Moolah-moolah leaves. Every night.”

The Williameffbuckley smirked.

“I won’t insult your intelligence by suggesting that you really believe what you just said.”

Even dinosaurs wonder while dreaming and the T-Rump wondered what in blue blazes a Williameffbuckley was doing in his.

“You’re fired!” he blurted out, a knee jerk reaction. Only in the dreams that blur reality, it sounded like the croaking of an old, withered frog.

And the Williameffbuckley was still there.

“Go on,” said the T-Rump. “Shoo. Be off.”

“Oh, you can’t be rid of me. I’m the preeminent voice of Milkanhoney conservatism. Some call me its great ecumenical dino.”

“Great, huh? Sorry, bub. I’m the greatest. At whatever you said.”

“Indeed you are the greatest at what you do during your executive time, because I profoundly believe it takes a lot of practice to become a moral slob.”

“I don’t have to put up with this. I know the Putinodon, you know. He almost invited me to dinner once.”

“Ah, the Putinodon, your home away from home. He’s still practicing communism. What would happen if the Communists occupied the Sahara? Answer: Nothing—for 50 years. Then there would be a shortage of sand. … The Putinodon cannot take permanent advantage of our temporary disadvantage, for it is the West he is fighting. And in the West there lie, however encysted, the ultimate resources, which are moral in nature. The Putinodon is not aware that the gates of hell shall not prevail against us. Even out of the depths of despair, we take heart in the knowledge that it cannot matter how deep we fall, for there is always hope. In the end, we will bury him.”

The T-Rump raised a claw.

“Before you do that, I believe I still owe him some moolah-moolah leaves. I mean, would you like to do some campaign stops with me? You sure have the gift of gab. I could use you. The Rudygiuliani is getting stale, believe it or not.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. As your most basic politicaI tenets are on the far side of common sense, I hereby expel you from the entire neo-classic conservative spectrum. You are a dino demagogue and narcissist.”

“Oh, come on. I was just having an off day like the Roseannebarr. I’m really a nice guy.”

“T-Rump,” the Williameffbuckley said as if cajoling a dino tot. “You are almost unique in your search for notoriety and absolutely unequalled in your co-existence with it. I would like to take you seriously but to do so would be an affront to your intelligence.”

“There you go again with that reading thing. Why read when I can just lie?”

“Because every dino has a right to his own opinion, but no dino has a right to be wrong in his facts. Today this seemingly indisputable truth no longer holds. Propaganda is indistinguishable from fact and we find ourselves living in the frightening Georgeorwellian footprints in the sand.”

“George who?”

“Truth is a demure lady, much too ladylike to knock you on your head and drag you to her cave. She is there, but people must want her, and seek her out.”

“Sounds like work.”

There was a pause, making the T-Rump nervous at his limited vocabulary.

“What?” he said. “Did you run out of fancy words already?”

The Williameffbuckley shrugged.

“I am satisfied to sit back and contemplate my own former eloquence. … But so you don’t go away angry … you just go away … I’d like to introduce you to a friend of mine, a great patriot …”

“Oh, no you don’t. Not the Muellersavus.”

“Rest assured, there will be time for him. I was talking about the …”

A ferocious, jagged toothed, saliva-dripping-from-jaws dinosaur stepped out of the wings. His roar sent a chill down the T-Rump’s spine.

It was the Joemccarthy, foaming at the mouth in a foul, anti-Russodino sympathizing mood.

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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