Satire The Trump Dig

Party Pooper …

Short arms flailing, the Tyrumposaurus scurried around the Oval Dwelling between a dejected Stephenmillerus and the T-Rump’s new chief of staff in charge of communications, the Billshineola. …

Short arms flailing, the Tyrumposaurus scurried around the Oval Dwelling between a dejected Stephenmillerus and the T-Rump’s new chief of staff in charge of communications, the Billshineola. The T-Rump stopped in front of the Stephenmillerus.

“How do I look? Be honest now.”

“T-Rump, your meeting with the Putinodon is still, uh … two weeks away.”

“I know that! And stop calling it a meeting. It’s a par-TAY … P-A-R-T-A-Y. I want to look my best. I have to look my best. Are my scales too orange? What if they’re too orange? He may think I’m on fire. Do I look like I’m on fire?”

“In a good way. To antagonize and divide the masses.”

“Oh, T-Rump?”

It was the Billshineola, poking his head around the Stephenmillerus.

“The Seanhannity says hello.”

“Good. Very good. Uh, you do realize you’re only here because I couldn’t pay him one-tenth the moolah-moolah he’s getting from the Foxsquawkbox dinos.”

“Excuse me, T-Rump,” interrupted the Stephenmillerus. “I have a dozen dinos all ready to step into the small two-storey brownstone …”

That small two-storey brownstone?”

“Yes, the one on Supreme Court in the esteemed Dino-Judge neighborhood. I’ve given the Anthonykennedy his notice to move out tout suite.”

“Good. Pick the most conservative dino that looks the best in front of the Mediacircustops and sign him up. Fast!”

“Of course. I promise you, we will get this done before the meeting — I mean party.”

“The Putinodon will be pleased, don’t you think?”

“Of course.”

The T-Rump turned to the Billshineola.


“Well, what? I don’t know a thing about the Putinodon.”

“You call yourself the Billshineola, and you can’t make up something to gratify me? The Seanhannity told me you were an outstanding director of falsehoods, misdirections and confounding conspiracies.”

“Sorry, first day on the job jitters. Just trying to fit in, you know.”

“Well, there’s only one fit. The reason you’re here, aside from your daily licking of my shins, is to craft my message for the Putinodon. That is your only concern.


The Billshineola breathed a sigh of relief … then genuflected for good measure.

“Uh, T-Rump?”

“Yes? What is it Stephen?”

“I realize it’s never a good time for anything around here, but I was wondering …”

“Spit it out, dino.”

The Stephenmillerus coughed up several semi-digested rodents.

“There. No wonder I’ve been feeling crappy. I was just going to say … now that you’ve given the Huckabeecyclops secret service dino protection. Can I have that too? She’s not the only one hated by a lot of dinos.”

“Sorry. Not gonna happen. I need you to stay sharp. I want you heckled. I want you angry. The Trollertweety messages you create for me wouldn’t be the same without fire and brimstone in your belly.”

“Of course.”

Meanwhile, a short distance away, the Huckabeecyclops addressed the Mediacircustops.

“I would answer that question but again, for the 49th time, I must refer you to the T-Rump’s legal dino, whichever one is still available.”

The Jimacosta raised his arm. The Huckabeecyclops saw him. Her eyes settled upon him as if to say, “I will never field a question from you again” before moving on. The Jimacosta rose from his haunches anyway. He was about to speak when a chant arose from behind him.

“Go home, Jim! Go home, Jim!”

He turned around. It was a one-dino chant in the form of a female Blue Hair dino with distinct shell markings that gave her away as being from the Plodding Church of Immaculate Mercy. His jaw dropped in surprise.

“What are you doing here?”

“Go home, Jim! Go home, Jim!”

“But I work here. You go home.”

“Aha! You’re threatening me. The T-Rump said you’re an enemy of the state. Fake news!”

The Jimacosta ignored her and turned back to the Huckabeecyclops.

“Where are the 1500 little dinos separated from their mothers? And what about the Puerto Rikiricardo dinos? Did 4500 die?”

A big, beefy secret service dino stepped in front of the Jimacosta.

“That will be enough of that!”


“That question is harassment, bub. You cannot, will not, pepper her with questions. Can’t you see she’s helpless. Is that clear?”

“But this is a free country!”

“Correction. Free-running country. Now be a good dino and run along. Move along, Mediacircustops. Change the narrative.”

Back in the Oval Dwelling, the Stephenmillerus stood in the doorway, in conference with the Marinegunkelly. The T-Rump had returned to running around, his short arms flailing.

“The Fake News! I have to show the Putinodon I’m in control of the Mediacircustops. Yes, my great footprints in the sand does include the Art of the Deal. But the Putinodon, he did the Acts of a Tryant. I have to show him I’m capable of that big first act. Controlling the Mediacircustops.”

The T-Rump turned to the Billshineola.

“We need to ratchet up the Fake News Trollertweety messages. Fake. Fake. Fake. Got it?

Before the Billshineola could respond however, the Stephenmillerus interrupted them.

“I’m sorry, T-Rump, that may not be a good idea. I’ve just received word that a rogue Annapolisaurus has massacred five Mediacircustops.”

The T-Rump paused. 

“Well, that’s not good.”  He frowned at the Stephenmillerus. “You are such a … a …”

The Billshineola held up a claw.

“Party pooper?”

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