Satire The Trump Dig

Migration Meltdown …

“Kelly! Get in here!”
The gnarled, downtrodden, hollow-eyed Chief of Dino Staff entered the Oval Dwelling where the Tyrumposaurus and security bigwig, the Johnbolton, squatted together. …

“Kelly! Get in here!”

The gnarled, downtrodden, hollow-eyed Chief of Dino Staff entered the Oval Dwelling where the Tyrumposaurus and security bigwig, the Johnbolton, squatted together. Squatting a little too close together, the Marinegunkelly noted. Something was up.

“Did you see my Trollertweety message?” asked the T-Rump.

“The one you fired back at the Stormydaniels following her comment about the size of your–”

“No! Not that one. I’m talking about this crazy caravan of … how many dinos, Bolton?”

“Four thousand.”

“Four thousand Latinonachos! Who do they think they are? The nerve. Poor, persecuted — Hey, let me tell you about having a bad day. They can’t come to the Milkanhoney Preservation. Not while my Great Tex-Mex Divide is still a pipe dream. Bolton here says it’s all your fault, Kelly. What do you have say to that?”

The Marinegunkelly frowned. Not again. This always happened when mother nature called. You step away from the Oval Dwelling for five seconds and some dino dufus was diving in to make you look bad.

He growled at the Johnbolton. But the T-Rump mistook the growl for him and fell over himself getting behind the Johnbolton. The T-Rump peeked out from behind his security dino.

“Ahem, I detect some animosity. I have my great face and not-so-great bone spurs to look out for. Deal with it, Bolton.

The Johnbolton scratched his whiskers.

“I don’t know, boss. I was making some good moolah-moolah with the Foxsquawkbox — over half a billion last year. I took a pay cut coming here because you promised — which I’ll take as a maybe — that I would someday be Secretary of State. Even if you hate the hair on my face.”

Incredibly, the Johnbolton was the first dino in 50 million years to sport a moustache.

The Marinegunkelly sensed the fight had already left his opponent, if this weekend warrior ever had any in him in the first place.

“You’re in charge of security for the Milkanhoney Preservation,” barked the Marinegunkelly. “What are you gonna do with 4,000 Latinonachos rolling up on your doorstep?”

“Did someone order out?” asked the T-Rump.

“Oh, yeah,” countered the Johnbolton. “Well, you’re the Chief of Staff.”

“Alright already with the chain of command,” said the T-Rump. It only confused him. “I already said you don’t answer to Kelly.”

The Johnbolton nodded and turned to the Chief of Staff. “Listen, swamp chief, the Latinonachos caravan is your problem.”

“Don’t forget the Kirstjennielsen,” hissed the T-Rump, grinning at his latest, callous salvo.


“What about the Kirstjennielsen?” the Marinegunkelly said through clenched teeth.

“For starters, she might just try to do her job. But o-o-o-o-h, no. We have a conspiracy theory that you’ve been leaving lovey-dovey footprints in the sand for her. You know, the ones that make her eyes water.”

“Why, you little …”

The Marinegunkelly charged the Johnbolton and held the dino’s head in a semi-headlock. Semi, because that’s as far as his short arms would go.

“Let me go, you old warhorse-face.”

I like it, mused the T-Rump.

“Why are you even here?” snapped the Marinegunkelly. “You’re a hawk without feathers. And c’mon, tell the world. That’s a fake moustache. Isn’t it?

The Johnbolton quickly simmered to a boil. No dino made fun of his pride and joy. Or penance, since every meal tasted the same.

“Fu-… -oo!”

The words came muffled inside the semi-headlock. The Marinegunkelly feigned surprise.

“Did you just drop the F-bomb? At me? Inside the Oval Dwelling?”

The head in the semi-headlock nodded.

All bets were off. Dropping the F-bomb at another dino spelt extinction for one. But first they would curse. And how. The Marinegunkelly released his grip and the ensuing swear words between them covered everything from ancestry to appendages. It was a spectacular spat. The spittle flew, drenching both dinos.

Even the T-Rump was impressed. He wanted to stay for the body slam but violence was in the air and an angry dino just may turn on their master. Time to clear out. Tail between his legs, he scurried out of the Oval Dwelling, bumping smack-dab into the blushing Huckabeecyclops.

“T-Rump, what do I tell the Mediacircustops? For a normal bad day, this is bad.”

Relax. Blame it on the Donkeykongrus.”

“Uh, the argument?”

“Everything. It doesn’t matter what you tell the Mediacircustops. We’re gonna win. Because that’s all that matters. Damn the migration! Zero tolerance is zero tolerance. And quit giving me those damn lost baby dino updates. As if I care.”

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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