The dino dust had settled. For an hour at least. The Midterm Mayhem had left a tale of heart break and home-wrecking not seen since the Great Brachiosaurus Bronchitis Outbreak of the late Justkiddin Gestation Period. The Grandoldparty dinos had held onto the Sin Hut but the Donkeykongrus had turned more than thirty dinos into midterm mincemeat in capturing the Kongrus Kave.
Now the dino world awaited the reaction from the almighty Tyrumposaurus. Would he lend an ear to Donkeykongrus discussions? Perhaps harken to a better tomorrow for the average dino? Swallow his pride for the first time in his life? Hardly.
A horde of Mediacircustops elbowed for position as the T-Rump strode to the flat rock lectern.
“Dinos! Correction. Grandoldparty Dinos! Wasn’t that the greatest victory? The greatest, even though there were a few dinos who decided that they would rather venture down their own path without my fantastic fanfare.”
He wrinkled his nose.
“And they lost. Like the Mialove from the Extra-Salt Lake Beds. No Love. Too bad. So sad. And the Carloscurbelo in the Neverglades. Never say never, Carlos. Or the Mikecoffman in the Baked Denver. Cough, cough, Mike. … Sick man. And how about the Barbaracomstock in the Virgin-Yall Forest. Lost in the forest. Lost for good. No one’s gonna come looking for you, Barb.”
“I could go on about my great win when I wasn’t even on the ballot, but now I’d like to introduce my new acting attorney general dino, the Mattwhitaker.”
There was a buzz among the Mediacircustops. The Stephenmillerus slunk up beside the T-Rump and casually whispered into his ear. The T-Rump smirked.
“Oh. Heh-heh. Right. I almost forgot. The Sessionsopossum. Where’s Jeff?”
“Right here, your holy dino demigod,” the Sessionsopossum said, stepping forward from the sidelines.
“You know what comes next.” The T-Rump raised his short arm and flung out an accusing claw at the veteran legal dino. “You’re fired!”
The Sessionsopossum blinked twice and tried to smile, his rosy cheeks unable to contain the embarrassment. He cleared his throat.
“But you said my footprint in the sand would say that you asked for my resignation.”
“What can I say? I can’t help myself. I love firing dinos. Don’t forget to shake the hand of your replacement. And smile like you mean it.”
The Sessionsopossum shook the Mattwhitaker’s hand, slapping him on the shoulder for good measure.
“That’s it,” said the T-Rump. “Okay, now beat it. And don’t forget to tell the Rodrosenstein that he won’t be getting any sleep for the next few days.”
The T-Rump turned to the Mattwhitaker.
“Look me in the eye, Matt, and tell me you swear on your dear, departed mother’s carcass that you won’t recuse yourself from anything, however illegal or immoral?”
The Mattwhitaker raised his right claw.
“I would take a razor-sharp incisor bite to the throat for you, T-Rump.”
“Hmm. That sounds familiar. But I’ll take that as a yes. Anything you’d like to add?”
The Mattwhitaker stepped to the lectern.
“I just want to say that my earlier visits here to chat with the Mediacircustops have paid off big-time. You finally noticed me. Sure, I was part of a sham organization that promised dinos if they invented the wheel we’d get the word out for them. Of course we didn’t, robbing them blind of their moolah-moolah leaves. But those nasty footprints in the sand I left for former customers? That was just me telling them I was the best damn legal dino in the Des Moines Dust Belt.”
“The best,” echoed the T-Rump.
“I was laying the groundwork,” the Mattwhitaker continued, “for how I intend to treat that Langleyops low-life, I mean, the Muellersavus. Not that any of my past criticisms of his investigation will cloud my judgement of this farce. I mean, investigation.”
“Of course not,” said the T-Rump. “Very good. I’ll take some questions now. By the way, I’m itching for a good fight.”
The T-Rump nodded to a Peebeeyass dino with her claw raised.
“T-Rump, you called yourself a nationalist. Do you even know what the word means?”
“That is such a racist question!”
His dander was up. His glare scoured the scrum.
“Where’s that bozo, Jimbo? Where’s the Jimacosta, dammit!”
“Right in front of you, T-Rump.”
“Oh, right. I couldn’t see through my rage. … Go ahead. Ask me a question. Ask me anything.”
“Alright. Could you, uh … promise not to take away my access privilege?”
“You are a rude and terrible dino! I don’t know how you wake up each day and put one foot in front of the other. The day you were hatched was the worst fake news.”
“Since I’m squatting here today, I guess that makes you a liar, T-Rump.”
“Excuse me, I’m going to turn away from the lectern for a few awkward seconds and — hopefully — a big, burly security dino will escort the Jimacosta off the premises. And it is I who will decide when he gets to open his mouth again.”
A big, burly security dino quickly arrived and deposited the Jimacosta off-site.
“Bye-bye, fake news,” said the T-Rump. “Where were we? Oh, yes, my next campaign rally? I thought you’d never ask. I’m off to the Montana Savanna.”
A young Mediacircustops raised a claw.
“But you went there four times last month. The Midterm Mayhem is over.”
“Listen to me. As long as the Johntester is there it is never over. What he did to the Ronnyjackson is unforgivable. That was my doctor. Treason. Pure treason, I tell you.”
David Belisle 