Satire The Trump Dig

Rally! … Really? …

The Huckabeecyclops bit a chaw off her private peyote stock, swallowed and stowed the rest of it on her head where she could keep her eye on it. Her Cyclops eye. Apart from a burning need to lie, the peyote was her only vice. …

The Huckabeecyclops bit a chaw off her private peyote stock, swallowed and stowed the rest of it on her head where she could keep her eye on it. Her Cyclops eye. Apart from a burning need to lie, the peyote was her only vice. She partook in order to mellow out before stepping in front of the Mediacircustops scrum. Attack mode was not a good look on the global dino stage. Was it just her or did every day seem worse than the one before?

She stepped to the flat rock lectern, prepared for the worst. The barrage of questions began immediately. She loathed her job.

“Huckabee, is the T-Rump going ahead with his rally in the Smurf-Free Burrow — even after the ambush of the eleven Synagoglidytes?”

“Of course he is. We can’t let violence get in the way of more violence. I mean, our daily lives.”

Another Mediacircustops jumped in.

“We’ve just received word that more, late-arriving Pipebombasaurae are running rampant in the heartland.”

“Old news,” she said with a snort and a wave of her hand. “You’ve seen one Pipebombasaur, you’ve seen them all. The T-Rump has spoken. And let’s give credit where credit is due. For the past 18 hours, he’s behaved exemplary.”

The Poppyharlow chimed in.

“We’re getting word that the Obamarus and the Clinton Duckbill have been kidnapped!”

“And the Crookadillary is still walking around,” the Huckabeecyclops said with an indignant roll of her eye. “Now why is that?”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re missing a big one in your so-called Enemy’s List conspiracy theory — which by the way is absurd.”

The Mediacircustops gave their collective heads a shake. Then the ground began shaking too.

“Next question!”

“Did you feel that?” asked the Jimacosta, “Are you telling us the T-Rump is actually going ahead with the rally during an earthquake?”

“Way ahead of you, Jimbo. The latest Bible Belt Flood Forecast has a wall of water hitting the Smurf-Free Burrow sometime tonight. Need I remind you, it’s a small venue. Just 8,000 dinos looking for the chance to holler ‘Lock’her up!’ at the top of their lungs. Can’t we at least give them that? I’m sure they’ll be fine.”

The Andersoncooper raised his claw.

“I’ve just received a late-breaking report from the Smurf-Free Burrow that there’s been a massive outbreak of herpes. Surely the T-Rump must be worried.”

“There you go again, Anderson. Trying to cause panic.”

“Excuse me, but by the very definition, a pandemic should cause panic!”

The Jimsciutto joined the fray.

“Huckabee, the T-Rump will be taking the stage at the same time a plague of locusts is scheduled to arrive. How can you possibly go on with this?”

“Jim, the T-Rump is planning to name locusts as a new fringe food group. You may want to thank us on this one.”

“I like a plate. Not a plague.”

“I need to move on, Jim. We need to focus on this dangerous, onrushing caravan of migrant Latinonachos.”

“On that note,” said the Jimacosta, “can you finally admit that there are no dinos from the Middle Eastlands in the caravan?”

“Never. The T-Rump said so. I mean, just because he’s told 5000 lies. C’mon, dinos. Give the guy a break!”

“But you have no proof.”

The Huckabeecyclops gripped the edges of the lectern and leaned toward her nemesis.

“Look at me. Look at the hairy eyeball.”

“No, please. No.”

He turned away, terrified.

“You’re not looking,” she said, taunting him.

The Jimacosta gathered his news-gathering gumption, finally stealing a peek at her Cyclops  eye. The effect was stunning, hypnotizing. He promptly keeled over, curled into the fetal position and passed out.

She glared at the remaining Mediacircustops.

“Follow-up questions, anyone?”

You could hear healthy drops of drool and saliva hitting the ground.

“I thought not. That’s better. You are the reason I only speak here once a month. Remember that. It’s on you guys.”

Fifteen minutes later, the Huckabeecyclops stood before the T-Rump.

“Nothing can stop my rally,” he said. “Nothing.”

“I did my patriotic best, T-Rump.”

“I suppose. I wish you would stop with the peyote though. I like it when smoke’s coming out your ears.”

“Uh … there’s one final note to report.”

“What is it?”

“As I left, the Wolfblitzer told me that effective immediately, the Mediacircustops were imposing a 24-hour moratorium on you.”

She bit her lip. The T-Rump frowned.

“Can they do that?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Wow. This IS bad. A day without me. What a disaster. What will those poor dinos do? They need me, dammit!”

The Huckabeecyclops cowered before him, worried that any second he may go berserk and pull her limb from limb. She considered the T-Rump and his die-hard dino base. There was no question as to who needed who more. The T-Rump steeled himself and — incredibly — found calm reserve.

“I’m going ahead with this anyway, because I need to hear myself. I need to hear myself tell myself that … I. Am. Winning.

Two hours later the T-Rump stood off to the side of the flat rock stage in the Smurf-Free Burrow. He smiled smugly, emerged from the shadows and gazed out beyond the stage at … nothing. His smile vanished. The venue was empty. Not one dino. Not even crickets. Even to them his message had long since become nothing to chirp about.

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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