Satire The Trump Dig

Home Alone …

Inside. Alone. And angry. It was just that dangerous, toxic combination that caused many dinosaurs to throw the ‘F’ word, then the ‘E’ word around. Extinction. …

Inside. Alone. And angry. It was just that dangerous, toxic combination that caused many dinosaurs to throw the ‘F’ word, then the ‘E’ word around. Extinction.

Of course, the Tyrumposaurus hadn’t thought that far ahead. No, he lived in the moment, waiting for the next tasty transaction to present itself. One that benefited himself, his family, his vanity once, twice, thrice, then perhaps, finally then the starved-for-leadership dinos of the Milkanhoney Preservation.

“Nancypelosi! Cryingchuck! Come on over!”

Hmph. No response. The T-Rump withdrew from the doorway and squatted in his favorite stewing corner of the Oval Dwelling.

He stared at the wall and the vast array of tail lashings he’d inflicted upon it. Over 700 deep grooves of gratuitous violence masquerading as pity-seeking petulance. One malevolent mark for every day he’d spent in this hell hole. And now four days left. Four days he could be out flogging. Had it already been two years? That’s it. The Donkeykongrus was now eliminating time itself.

He was a leader looking to rewrite the definition of mutiny. To drive his Isolation Nation into the ground. A new stone age with their fossils just another stain on a rock. Because the Putinodon would want it that way.

The T-Rump shuddered. The Donkeykongrus were soon taking control of the Kongrus Kave, leaving only the Sin Hut in his control. His long-tailed, short-minded base was growing restless. 

The government shutdown was ten days old with no end in sight. Blame it on the Donkeykongrus. Damn them all. He’d show them. Except he couldn’t send out his fleet of Trollertweeties. Not just yet. Too many were complaining of wing fatigue after this morning’s latest besmirch-and-destroy missions. Eight of them. Desperate times called for desperate measures. He sighed. Why did pop leave me so soon? I could sure use another 400 million moolah-moolah leaves.

He rose and hobbled back to the doorway. He’d yell his lungs out. That’s what he’d do. Because that’s what delusional dinosaurs did when the cave walls were closing in.

“Nancy! Chuck! I know you’re out there. Because I’m in here. All alone. Poor me! I said, POOR ME! I’m cold. It’s freezing in here!”

He paused, his wee walnut struggling, finally sparking a brief synapse connection.

“I’ll freeze you. I mean, I’ll freeze the workers’ wages. No raises! You hear me? We just don’t have the moolah-moolah. And the dinos in the Middle Eastlands? I’m bringing them home. Tomorrow. All of them. Oh, sure, the Lindseygraham got me to back down. But that was yesterday. And this is tomorrow!”

“You want more?! I’ll give you more. I have all the time in the world. It may seem like four days but you don’t have the leverage on me. Oh, no. I have the leverage on YOU. The most leverage that four days has ever seen!

“I’m not going anywhere until I get my Great Tex-Mex Divide. Any deaths at the southern border are the pathetic Donkeykongrus fault! And although you are pathetic, I know we can still make a deal if you can just find it in your cold heart to agree to everything I say. Is that so difficult? I win. You lose. It’s my way or doomsday. There is no middle ground to a shut-down!”

Another trickle down sparking of a synapse.

“Shut-down! I will shut the border down. No migration. This will be MY shut-down, with ownership passed to you at MY convenience. There will be moolah-moolah lost. You hear that?! Moolah-moolah lost on your account!”

He paused. One final synapse. One final thought he fought to pull together. Moolah-moolah. Account. Mine. Got it. Look, dad. No Stephenmillerus.

“Okay, I’m backing off my complete southern border shut-down and my original travel ban. I will proceed with a partial shutdown of the border. I will only allow in Mexicodinos who will then stay a minimum of one month in any one of my many luxury caves. I’ll get the Kirstjennielsen right on it. She can set up a program where moolah-moolah is provided to the migrant dinos which then goes directly to me. Trust me, my daughter will charge the fair, market rate. It’s not catch and release. It’s catch and recline.”

“Nancy! Chuck! Do we have a deal?!”

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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