Satire The Trump Dig

Three Days of the Candor …

The Kongrus Kave Overbite Committee had been in session for hours. It was a public display of gnashing teeth, missing molars and political pandemonium not seen since the Watergate Strait when the Trickydickosaurus flashed a pair of two-claw victory salutes …

The Kongrus Kave Overbite Committee had been in session for hours. It was a public display of gnashing teeth, missing molars and political pandemonium not seen since the Watergate Strait when the Trickydickosaurus flashed a pair of two-claw victory salutes before retiring into his cave a defeated, disgraced dino crook.

After being the Tyrumposaurus’ legal dino and face-chewing fixer for a decade, the Michaelcohen was finally coming clean. There would be no more blind loyalty or lying for him, not if he wanted to spend more than the three years already due him in the Solitary Sinkhole.

“They’re calling you a pathological liar, Cohen,” said the dino chair, the Elijahcummings. “But that’s not why you’re here, is it?”

“Oh, no, dino chair. I have proof. Lots of it. The Mediacircustops called it a treasure trove. A treasure for the Donkeykongrus, I suspect.”

“We’re waiting.”

The Michaelcohen held up a handful of leafy dino currency. Moolah-moolah.

“This moolah-moolah has the T-Rump’s footprints all over it. Here, see?”

There were oohs and aahs from the crowd at the unmistakable three-letter mark his claws left for all to see. I. O. U.

“Black Bamahama Dino!”

The shout came from the other side of the meeting. The Markmeadows pointed behind him. Indeed there was a female Black Bamahama Dino squatting right behind him.

“This rare sighting,” the Markmeadows said, “goes to show you that the T-Rump is not racist. Now, some dinos may think this act alone is racist, but I just want to remind everyone that I no longer support all those times I said the Obamasaurus ought to head back to Kuntay-Kenya. We’re still good ol’ buddy dinos, aren’t we, Elijah?”

The Elijahcummings scrunched his eyes and sniffed his sniffer. Political pollution. That’s what this was.

“I was saving my ‘we can be better this speech’ for later, so I’ll just say this, Mark. I know you can be better.” He turned to the Michaelcohen. “What else do you have to shed that baked-in, lyin’ skin look?”

“I remember it like yesterday. The T-Rump talking with the Rogerstone who was in contact with the Julianassange and the dreaded Wikileakibeak. I don’t know about collusion but let’s not forget the golden rule.”

“The Muellersavus knows more than all of us,” the Elijahcummings said with a sigh.

“I’ve got it! Hold it! Hold it right there!”

It was the Jimjordan. He was an albino dino with predominantly white skin who stood out in the crowd, his raucous rhetoric notwithstanding.

“The Michaelcohen has perjured himself! Perjured himself in plain sight before us. And on something that is so important, so consequential that surely it must’ve impacted the reign of the Obamasaurus.”

“And what would that be?” asked the Elijahcummings.

“Before this meeting, the Mediacircustops reported that the Michaelcohen was upset about not getting a job inside the Oval Dwelling. Well, it just occurred to me, perhaps because of my albino temperament, that half an hour ago the Michaelcohen said he didn’t want to be in the Oval Dwelling. I mean, come on! This is incredible. 20 years, next case!”

Some day we’ll get back the Sin Hut, thought the Elijahcummings. Some day soon.

“Cohen, who’s the next dino in the T-Rump circle for whom we’ll be setting up the latest greatest investigation? What are we up to now? 18?”

Again I request a brief moment to make a fool of myself,” said the Markmeadows. “Anything to monkey-up this charade. Oops, did I say that?”


“Can I give my time to the Mattgaetz?”

“No. Go ahead, Cohen.”

“Thank you, dino chair. I just thought it worth noting that the Felixsater, a dino who was up to his little elbows in Russodinos and Mafiasaurae, had a cave on the same level as the T-Rump in the T-Rump Dump. There’s a good place to start.”

“Before we do that, my good dino friend.” It was the Clayhiggins, a morose Nawlins dino who was known to snap. “When the Langleyops went through your three caves looking for evidence, they took it and later gave it back to you. Is that right, my good dino?”

“Uh … yes.”

“And then you found some moolah-moolah with the T-Rump’s mark. Isn’t that right?”

“His I-O-U’s are everywhere.”

“Don’t humor me. I can only be coy. I find it highly irregular you didn’t give it back.”

“Because they already had it?”

“Yours is a feeble attempt at interrupting my five minutes here. Five minutes I’ve spent weeks preparing for just to disrupt your testimony, my good dino.”

“No, Clay. You’re the feeble dino.”

The Michaelcohen rose from his squat and pointed at the combative trio of Grandoldparty dinos. “I did the same thing that you’re doing now for 10 years. I protected the Tyrumposaurus for 10 years. I can only warn you — the more dinos that follow the T-Rump, as I did blindly, are going to suffer the same consequences that I’m suffering.”

Meanwhile, down the path, around the corner and on the other side of Patagonia, the T-Rump and the Kimjongadon squatted beside each other in Hoo-boy, Vietqualm. They were alone, the Mediacircustops having left long ago, detecting it was nothing more than Meet’n Greet II.

“Yoo-hoo!” said the T-Rump. “Mediacircustops! Look, I’m shaking the hand of the Kimjongadon. Again! Watch us. You can tell your children about it. About me.”

The Kimjongadon pulled his hand back.

“Uh, what exactly are we accomplishing here?”

“I don’t know. I was just waiting for something to, you know … happen.”

The Kimjongadon looked around. One of his dinos sprinted across the yard for show.

“Nothing’s happening. Except in the Puhl-DePlugg Reservoir.”

“Oh,” said the T-Rump. “Did the Putinodon tell you?”

“Well, we both know.”

“Of course. Even before me. Great. Uh, what is it?”

“The Donkeykongrus are investigating your family. Your Tyvanka.”


The T-Rump jumped from his squat.

“Gotta go. Keep in touch.”

He broke into a run, crying over his shoulder.

“I still love you.”

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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