Satire The Trump Dig

Is That a Blue Wave? …

All was quiet on the Puhl-DePlugg front. Only because the Tyrumposaurus, the Stephenmillerus and the Mitchgetbacktowork busied themselves stuffing their gobs with the low-hanging, fruity blossoms of a large Sweet Patooty tree. …

All was quiet on the Puhl-DePlugg front. Only because the Tyrumposaurus, the Stephenmillerus and the Mitchgetbacktowork busied themselves stuffing their gobs with the low-hanging, fruity blossoms of a large Sweet Patooty tree. This rare moment of peace, solace and nothing remotely circumspect couldn’t last long. An out-of-breath Paulryan stomped onto the scene.

“What are you doing here?” demanded the T-Rump. “You don’t even know how dinosaurs give birth. You call yourself a citizen. You don’t know anything!”

A chuckle escaped the Mitchgetbacktowork.

“What are you laughing at?” the T-Rump snapped. “Where were you when I went to visit the Synagoglodytes? And don’t get me started about those two maniac dinosaurs. My momentum gone. All gone! What a downer. … Well? Where were you?”

“I, uh … had a scheduling conflict.”

“Scheduling conflict? Who wants to see you?”

Big sigh from the Mitchgetbacktowork.

“Okay. I admit it. I lied.”


“I’m sorry, I …”

“Mitch, Mitch, Mitch. The more you lie, the better you’ll feel. Trust me. 5000 lies later, look where we are. Remember, when I can, I tell the truth. When I can’t, I lie.”

He tossed a Sweet Patooty in the air and caught it in his open mouth, the morose, muddled Mitchgetbacktowork looking on.

“You make it sound so easy. I — I once had morals.”

“No idea what you’re talking about.”

The T-Rump turned, noticing the Paulryan.

“You’re still here? Don’t you have something to say … somewhere else?”

“Actually, I bring news of the early returns in advance of the Midterm Mayhem.”

“They’re the best early returns in the history of early returns, aren’t they?”

“Uh, not exactly. There are many, many more dinosaurs coming out of the woods than the last Midterms.”

“That’s great. How much more?”

“50 percent more in the Zona Canyon and the Neverglades. Twice as many in the Georgia Orchard and Vegas Valley. Three times as many in the Land of Longhorns …”

“That’s outstanding.”

“Wait, I’m not done. Dino turnout is six times higher in the Memphis Honky-Tonk and there are ten times more dinos coming out in the Montana Savanna.”

“And this is a bad thing because?”

“Because you’re not running, T-Rump,” said the Mitchgetbacktowork. “You’re not in the fight.”

“I’m not?”

“Not for another, ahem … two years.”

“If you last that long,” muttered the Paulryan.

“What was that?”

“I said you’re fast and strong.”

“And the greatest. You forgot the greatest.”

“T-Rump,” said the Mitchgetbacktowork, “this is bad. Disaster bad.”

“Nonsense. Every dino loves me. I say migration and the lady dinos migrate to me.”

“That’s one gathering we can’t fudge the numbers on. This is a massive, large scale protest. I must warn you, you’re looking down the throat of the Bluewave Beast.”

“I’m sorry. I thought you were on my team. Do I really have to grab another dino from the Foxsquawkbox? … I keep going out to all these one-platypus towns giving it my all. Because it’s still and always will be about me. I say I should visit the Zona Canyon and the Vegas Valley.”

“No!” the Mitchgetbacktowork and Paulryan blurted out together.

The T-Rump frowned, crossing his short arms in protest. He kicked his diabolical walnut into gear, tapping a claw against his chin. It helped him to focus.

“I have to do something to gin up the base, anger souls and divide the dinos. I know, this migrant caravan. I know it’s still 900 miles away and poses no imminent threat, but … get me some time with the Mediacircustops, that Jaketapper whipper-snapper. Have the Oval Dwelling tell him I’m going to have a new policy on granting asylum. Then I’ll just blather on about how the Latinonachos migration is killing the Milkanhoney Preservation. That should convince those undecided dinos how the wind really blows around here. Time for them to move over to this side of the reservoir.”

The Stephenmillerus had spent the past five minutes picking Sweet Patooty remnants from between his teeth. He finally spit it out and raised a claw.

“T-Rump, you just tell them you’re sending 10,000 — no, 15,000! — dinos down there to stop those murdering monsters and if anyone so much as kicks one rock in their face, they’re dead. Dead. Dead.”

“Wow,” marveled the T-Rump. “Three deads. See what I’m talking about, Mitch? Now that’s fear.” He turned back to the Stephenmillerus. “You’re sure you’ve never been with the Foxsquawkbox?”

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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