Satire The Trump Dig

Husband in Hell …

The Sigmundfreudus blinked his eyes and leaned back, raking his claws over his scaly head as he did so.
“Not in my wildest dreams and — woah! — I’ve had some wild ones — did I ever think I’d have the T-Rump’s leading public advocate and leading public critic …

The Sigmundfreudus blinked his eyes and leaned back, raking his claws over his scaly head as he did so.

“Not in my wildest dreams and — woah! — I’ve had some wild ones — did I ever think I’d have the T-Rump’s leading public advocate and leading public critic living in the same cave, married to one another, as patients. I should’ve brought snacks!”

The Georgeconvixway leaned forward.

“Uh, what’s your initial diagnosis, doc?”

“I’m glad you’re both squatting. I believe you and your wife are suffering from an acute case of BLAH.”

“Excuse me?” said the Kellyanneconvixway.

“B-L-A-H. … Boss-Lambasting Apoplectic Husband. Very rare indeed.”

“Now, Ziggy, can I call you Ziggy? Let’s not blow this out of proportion. I’m sure I can come up with some alternative facts.”

The dino doc nodded, busying himself making some footprint notes in the sand.

“What are you saying there?” snapped Kellyanne. “Whatever it is, you can’t say that.”

“Sweetheart,” said the Georgeconvixway. “Let him do his job.”

The Sigmundfreudus turned back to them.

“Alrighty then, shall we begin? I’m sure you two must have some questions.”

“I do,” said George. “Like what the hell is he doing here?”

He pointed to the remaining dinosaur in the cave. The Tyrumposaurus.

“Oh, well. It’s my new approach to these therapy sessions. Instead of just talking about the problem, why not invite the problem? You know, hear what they have to say?”

“Who are you calling a problem?” said the T-Rump. “I got 306 votes. How many did you get? Not one. Right?”

“I wasn’t running,” the Sigmundfreudus calmly replied.

“That’s it. Take the easy way out.”

“Now then,” continued the dino doc. “Let’s unpackage this so we can wrap our walnut brains around it. George, you said that T-Rump is suffering from narcissistic personality disorder and antisocial personality disorder.”

“Can I add mysoginist, racist boob?”

“Heh-heh. One disorder at a time, please.” The Sigmundfreudus turned to the T-Rump. “This narcissism …”

“What about it?”

“You did get upset when no one thanked you for the Johnmccainus funeral.”

“I had to do it. And I didn’t even go!”

“Hmm. You didn’t, did you? Let me make a note of that. Anti-social. Two birds with one stone. Winning!”

A smiling George reached over with his short arm, exchanging a high-five with the dino doc.

A horrified Kellyanne looked on.

“Tell me you didn’t just do that. You gave the doctor a high-five — at the expense of my boss?”

“Sweetheart, the good doctor’s second opinion confirmed my diagnosis. We should celebrate.”

“No! He’s wrong!” shouted the T-Rump. “Fake news.”

“I beg your pardon,” said the Sigmundfreudus. “You are confusing me with the Mediacircustops. Classic dissociative identity disorder.”

“Quit analyzing my boss!”

“That’s what we’re here for, Kellyanne!”

She stared down her husband. They both looked to the Sigmundfreudus, then all eyes turned to the T-Rump. He grinned his cheesy grin.

“No, we’re not.” Confused looks from the other three. “Okay, maybe.”

The dino doc studied the T-Rump carefully.

“Why do you feel it so necessary to lie? Did your mother ignore you?”

“Stop right there, Ziggy. I won’t let you call my boss a liar.”

“I want to hear about his mother.”

“That’s enough, George.”

“What? He called me a stone cold loser.”

“And wack-job,” said the T-Rump. “Don’t forget wack-job.”

The Kellyanneconvixway smiled sweetly at her husband.

“What did you expect him to say after you said he had a mental disorder?”

She turned to the Sigmundfreudus.

“Just to be clear, my husband is a non-medical professional.”

“You say that like I’m not even here.”

Now we’re getting somewhere,” said the dino doc.

“I was alerting the Dino Nation, sweetheart. Who’s side are you on anyway?”

The T-Rump grinned at her.

“You are such a wonderful wife.”

“Stop saying that!” shouted George. “She’s my wife! Not yours. Don’t you have another pornodactyl to hush up?”

“George! That’s not fair. Why can’t you just respect me for working for the greatest dino leader in the Milkanhoney Preservation. Ever.


“Don’t start with me. I know where this is going. But the last time I checked there have been 199 indictments from the Muellersavus. Does one of them have the T-Rump’s name on it? Just one. Well? I’m waiting.”

“No. But dear, you’re forgetting the Muellersavus Report. Those footprints in the sand are coming out any minute.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

George’s shoulders slumped.

“We? Is that you and me … or you and …”

He looked toward the T-Rump, who mouthed the word ‘me’ back at them.

A panicked George clutched his wife’s short arm.

“How can you believe anything that comes out of his mouth? He’s lied 8000 times.”

“9000,” corrected the T-Rump.

George shook his head.

“Sweetheart, you really need to stop telling our children his lies are simply a problem with his memory.”

The T-Rump frowned.

“Memory problem?”

“I told them it was temporary.”

George glared at the T-Rump.

“I’m glad we’re here, because you. Are. Nuts.”

“Dinos, dinos, dinos! Let me step in here,” said the Sigmundfreudus.

“But I didn’t get to double-down,” whined the T-Rump.

“That’s another session entirely. Now then, Kellyanne, it appears you have a difficult decision to make. Do you stay in your wonderful 18-year marriage with George, don’t forget the four little dino tots … or do you continue defending the T-Rump in the face of a psychological pandemic that quite frankly, has increased my patient-load ten-fold. I thank you, Kellyanne, but must remind you that dinosaurs have jumped off cliffs for less. Save yourself. Please. Your marriage or your job. What’ll it be?”

All eyes turned to her. She gritted her teeth, staring straight back at the dino doc with eyes that had pierced the sunny disposition of a thousand Mediacircustops. She spoke slowly.

“I choose hell.”

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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