Satire The Trump Dig

Crazytown …

The Marinegunkelly stood guard at the doorway of the Oval Dwelling. Inside, a veteran Mediacircustops interviewed the Trumpasaurus Jr.
“I know you are but what am I?” snorted the T-Rump Jr., hands on hips, at the Mediacircustops.

The Marinegunkelly stood guard at the doorway of the Oval Dwelling. Inside, a veteran Mediacircustops interviewed the Trumpasaurus Jr.

“I know you are but what am I?” snorted the T-Rump Jr., hands on hips, at the Mediacircustops.

“Excuse me? I was just asking a question.”

“That’s disgusting. I think I may vomit. I’m not worried about anything because I didn’t do anything. Besides, the dino courts are just going to make something up. Like they always do. On everything. Because they can’t stand they’re not Tyrumposaurae. There. I said it. Run with that. Before you go though, does my tail look orange to you? You know, like my father’s?”

The Marinegunkelly cleared his throat. The warning sign that dear old dad was coming through. The T-Rump entered the Oval Dwelling with the Bobwoodward in tow.

“Hey! Get off my damn tanning rock! How many times –”

The T-Rump whipped a stone at his son, clipping him in the noggin.


The T-Rump Jr. hopped off the rock and out of the way of his approaching father. The Mediacircustops did his best to blend into the background, licking his chops at the potential scoop of his life. The T-Rump tapped two hollowed out divots at the end of the tanning rock.

“I had my lackies do these. For my bone spurs of course. Excruciating pain. Terrible, terrible injuries. Five times. I know, incredible coincidence. It’s a miracle I can even stand.” He motioned to a spot a few feet away. “Have a squat, Bob.”

The Bobwoodward squatted, noting the 63 fresh tail lashings on the Whaling-Away Wall.

“I wanted to be in your fresh footprints in the sand, Bob. Fear equals pure power. That’s me, alright.”

“I’m afraid you’re too late. The footprints have been out for two days now.”

“Yes, well, once upon a time you were a fair dino. Not any more. Those footprints are all lies. Disgraceful, bald-faced lies. Every last one of them.”

“They’re all on deep background, T-Rump.”

“I don’t care where you put them, I’ll never read them.”

“I’m sorry, exactly why am I here?”

“I want you to put out new footprints in the sand. About me. One that gets the story straight. Or something close to it.”

The Bobwoodward studied the T-Rump. Perhaps there were more footprints in the sand.

“O-k-a-a-a-y. Where would you like to begin?”

“This Hurricane Florence that’s competing with me for the news cycle. We’ll call it the Greatest Natural Disaster in 50 million years and that I saved 5,000 dinosaurs all by myself.”

“But it hasn’t even happened yet.”

“Look, Pullitzerpantz, when I say it’s over, it’s over. And while you’re handing out the many accolades to me, don’t forget to correct the death toll in Puerto Rikkiricardo. It’s 8. Or 16. Not 3000. That’s the Donkeykongrus talking. They’ve been adding in the old dinos keeling over, the dinos choking on Gingerbeefy bones, the blind dinos walking off cliffs, dinos caught cheating on their wives … there’s a lot of that. I should know.”

“Okay, T-Rump. While we’re discussing the aftermath in Puerto Rikkiricardo, you mentioned the Sanjuanmayorsaur.”

“What about her?”

“You said she was totally incompetent?”

“Why are you looking at me like that? That’s not deflection. That’s not me.”

“And she responded by saying you’re delusional, paranoid and unhinged.”

“Now that’s deflection. Am I the only dino that sees this? So that’s why I’ve got you here, Bob. I want you to think up some big, nasty words I can call her. And any dino who has the nerve to question my authority. You’ve done footprints in the sand for eight other dino leaders. Not that I’ve looked at any of them. Welcome aboard, Bobby. You’ll get paid when you get paid.”

“I’m sorry, T-Rump, I’m not an insult dino. You’ll have to get the Rickwilson.”

“Damn that dino! Everything I touch does NOT die. Why, I was holding hands with the Tymelania just two months ago. And we were intimate, uh … what dinosaur period is it?”

“T-Rump, why are you so concerned about last year’s hurricane when we have Florence flying in our face?”

“Because this is about me. And if you say that …”

“I know. You’ll deny it and call me a lying Scuzbucket dino. Tell me, are you going for 5000 lies during your stay in the Oval Dwelling?”

“With a vengeance. More than the previous 44 dino leaders combined. This hurricane will be my legacy. Fear, panic and a fresh geographical landscape. The Sweet Carolinas were becoming too … sweet. And don’t forget, if any dino dies, they brought it upon themselves. I was ready. They weren’t. We’ve all got short arms. Paddle faster, I say. There’s high ground here somewhere. Find it. I have no time for the little dino. It’s survival of the fittest.”

The Mediacircustops stealthily snuck out of the Oval Dwelling with his juiciest of scoops. It would be replaced tomorrow by the T-Rump’s next latest, greatest gaff.

The Marinegunkelly could only shake his head and mutter.

“We’re in Crazytown.”

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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