Satire The Trump Dig

The Drooling 37% …

“Pass the trailsnack, ma.”
Trailsnack was Trumpassic Period parlance for roadkill. Another unidentifiable, stomped-upon mess of intestines and entrails that tasted surprisingly like chicken.

“Pass the trailsnack, ma.”

Trailsnack was Trumpassic Period parlance for roadkill. Another unidentifiable, stomped-upon mess of intestines and entrails that tasted surprisingly like chicken.

It was supper time in the Red Neck Nukkledraggerz home in the very hilly Billy Blue Bayou. Ma  passed an extra-crushed breastplate to Billyjoe as her other son Billybob and her husband gnashed away. Billyjoe and Billybob, both in their mid-30s, lived in their parents’ subterranean cavern.

“I wonder what them workin’ dinos is doin’ today,” Billyjoe said with a chuckle. “Or ain’t doin’. How many days that shutdown been now? 17?”

“16,” said Billybob. “And a bunch o’ hours.”

“That means 17.”


Ma spit out a bone.

“Would you two cut it out! Ya got nothin’ better to do than argue over the time o’ day? Honestly. You’re gonna be the death o’ me.”

“Sorry, ma,” said Billyjoe. “We’re jus’ jacked up over the T-Rump hullabaloo, his Great Text-Mex Divide and all. The dino world is finally gettin’ tuh see how the other half lives.”

“Well, I don’t rightly know what all the fuss is about. All them dinos outta work right now. They could round’em up and build that wall in no time. Ain’t that right, pa?”

“Huh, what’s that? Is you talkin’ tuh me?”

Pa’s hearing had been haywire ever since the rabid raptor incident.

“Never mind,” she said. “I just think it’s nice that the T-Rump is finally takin’ a big squat for the little guy.”

“Both haunches, damn straight,” said Billyjoe. “First he said it was his shutdown, then he said you can call it the Pelosi shutdown or the Cryingchuck shutdown. He’s one-smart dino, coverin’ all them bases like that. Hah! He’s even callin’ it a strike.”

Billybob puzzled while munching.

“What’s a strike, Billyjoe?”

“That’s when ya don’t work cuz ya don’t want to.”

“Kinda like us, huh? Didn’t know we wuz on strike.”

I’m the dino who should go on strike,” said ma. “Feedin’ you two and keepin’ your tails clean. You been squattin’ downstairs, no jobs fer so long, it’s a calamity, a national emergency!”

Billybob slapped his tail on the ground.

“Well, drag my knuckles til they’re bloody’n raw, that’s what the T-Rump said, ma! He’s gonna soon declare a national emergency.  He plum said they’re havin’ meetin’s this week … an’ nuthin’s gonna happen at them. That T-Rump is a psycho.”

“You mean psychic,” said Billyjoe. “Psycho is what you is at a T-Rump rally. Or when the Rashidatlaib said she was gonna impeach the mother-.”

“Billyjoe!” His mother threw a bone at him, bonking him on the beak. “No cussin’ durin’ supper!”

“Cussin’?” It was pappy piping up. “Is they cussin’ again? I loves a good cussin’! Only thing better than the T-Rump cussin’ is a lady dino cussin’. Is a lady cussin’?”

“Hush up, you ol’ fossil, before I gives you a cussin’ upside the head!”  Ma threw a bone at him, missing him on purpose because his eyes were worse than his ears, thanks to the older brother of said rabid raptor.

Billyjoe chewed with his mouth more open than the others.

“I hear the Donkeykongrus is askin’ for official justification for the Great Tex-Mex Divide.”

“What’s that?” asked Billybob.

“A wall, ya idjit.”

“No, the oh-fish-ull just-uh-fih-kay-shun. … Whew. That was a long one.”

“Oh. Just details is all. Who needs’em? The T-Rump sure don’t. That all just takes up more time. Look at us, ya think we gotta lotta spare time on our hands?”

Billybob stopped chewing.

“Gee, Billyjoe. I don’t rightly know. Ma? What say you?”

“Well, the T-Rump done said this shutdown could last for months, years even.”

Billybob slapped his knee.

“Hot Wartyhotdog! That means we gots ext-tree time on our hands. The T-Rump is my hee-ro.”

“Ayup,” said Billyjoe. “Done got a very, very large brain, he does. The biggest in these parts.”

“Naw,” said Billybob. “That his gut be talkin’.”



Ma threw bones at both of them. Direct hits.

“Billyjoe! Billybob! Don’t make me spit out this trailsnack and come over there!”

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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