Satire The Trump Dig

State of the Disunion …

“That’s a winner, boss.”
The Stephenmillerus kicked one heel against the other and backed away from his latest footprints in the sand. It was a speech to commemorate the Tyrumposaurus’ second year in power. The T-Rump sniffed at it. …

“That’s a winner, boss.”

The Stephenmillerus kicked one heel against the other and backed away from his latest footprints in the sand. It was a speech to commemorate the Tyrumposaurus’ second year in power. The T-Rump sniffed at it.

“Are you going to run through it?” asked the Stephenmillerus. “Maybe once?” 

“I never have before. Why should I now?”

“Just thought I’d ask.”

As a charter member of the sycophant sideshow, it always came down to what far-right fiasco had he done lately. The goal was to stay off the T-Rump’s dreaded Enemies List, the bottom-feeders of his own followers. The Stephenmillerus would live to smirk another day.

The T-Rump nodded approvingly.

“I know what you’re capable of, Stephen. You’re the most despised, the most despicable speech writer I have. That’s why you’re here.”

“Thank you.” The Stephenmillerus’ cheeks turned bright red. The Huckabeecylops snickered at the sight of him blushing.

The government shutdown was 31 days old, the longest in dinosaur history. There had been no moolah-moolah leaves for 800,000 dinos for too long. Some were beginning to rethink their once lofty position on the prehistoric food chain.

“You’d better not mention anything about starving dinos in here,” the T-Rump warned.

“You mean I have to take out ‘let them eat bark?’”

A smirk from the Huckabeecyclops told the T-Rump that the Stephenmillerus was indeed kidding.

Within the hour, the clearing had filled up with dinosaurs of all stripes, the dignified, the undignified and those who just loved to dig. Many Grandoldparty dinos kept their heads down, having swallowed their pride for so long, now hoping to simply be swallowed up in the crowd as faceless, nondescript swamp creatures. The sharp eyes of the Mediacircustops however, would pick them out. It was a genetic trait of their species.

The T-Rump stepped forward to address the crowd.

“Four scandals and two years ago, I brought my family into this Oval Dwelling — a step down from my usual digs … conceived in limestone and dedicated to the proposition that all dinos are not created equal. At least not while I’m here.”

“Now we are engaged in a great shutdown, testing whether the Nancypelosi, or the Cryingchuck — so radically right — can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield, greater than any the Obamarus ever saw. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, just enough to extend the Great Tex-Mex Divide as far as I can get away with, so that the dino nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that I should be the dino to do this.”

“But, in a larger sense, I’m talking about myself again, we cannot dedicate — we cannot consecrate — we cannot hallow — this ground to the Latinonachos. No. Absolutely not. 11 million dinos have already illegally migrated. Blame the Donkeykongrus on their poor power to detract.”

“Dinos throughout the land will take note, though they may not have a personal stake in what happened here, they can never forget that I was here. Because I won’t let them. It is for them to remember that I was here to dedicate the unfinished work that the Nancypelosi and the Cryingchuck screwed up. It now falls into my lap to get the job done because I’m the only one, the only stable genius who knows how.”

“It is rather for you to be here to appreciate the great task remaining before me — that from these Latinonachos stopped dead in their tracks, we take increased devotion to that cause for which they tried to sneak past us, the slithering reptiles they are. We here highly resolve that isolationism and nationalism shall not have died in vain — that this dino nation, under my leadership, shall have a new birth of T-Rumpism — and that government of the dinos, by the T-Rump, for the T-Rump, shall not perish from the Milkanhoney Preservation. Ahem. You may thank me now.”

The Bushfortythree turned to his wife.

“That was some weirder shit.”

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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