Category: Satire

It was the day before the Midterm Mayhem. You could cut the tension with a jagged-edged dinosaur bone. The Tyrumposaurus paced the Oval Dwelling, racking his walnut brain for the impossible dream. That is, the perfect divisional diatribe. The Stephenmillerus, the Briankemp and the Chickenpurdue watched him nervously, staying well out of tail-whipping distance.

“I told them we could lose the Kongrus Kave,” said the T-Rump. “If that doesn’t get them out to support me, I don’t know what will.”

“My bad,” said the Stephenmillerus. ”I forgot to tell you it’s not a good idea to admit defeat  before the battle. Our base will think we’re weak.”

“Weak!? I could be impeached tomorrow! Do you know what the Muellersavus is up to?”

“My focus is on racism, remember?”

“Well, I’ll tell you. He’s busy scheming with all his little Langleyops minions, ready to pounce on me like he did the Rickyprisongates, the Manaforta and the Michaelcohen. As if I had anything to do with those dinos.”

“We’re doing our best, boss,” said the Briankemp. I tried stopping 50,000 dinos from joining up in the Georgia Orchard but that damn Staceyabrams ruined it. So I’m launching an investigation into their stealing secrets. I don’t have any evidence of course …”

“Hey, that’s never stopped us before,” said the T-Rump. Great. I like it. Sonny?”

The Chickenpurdue struck his rooster pose, trying to look dignified.

“I dropped the cotton-pickin’ line with the Mediacircustops.”

“No, monkey-it-up?”

“That’s the Rondesantos territory. I’ve got my career to think about.”

The Stephenmillerus would normally smirk at such patently racist comments but today his sour puss was practically squeezing lemons. The T-Rump finally took notice.

“Stephen, relax. So what if we lose the Kongrus Kave? We still have the Sin Hut.”

The Stephenmillerus’ response froze his audience cold.

“We may lose the Sin Hut.”

“But how?” snapped the T-Rump. “How is that even possible?”

This, coming from a dino who bragged about never having read a footprint in the sand.

“We have 42 Grandoldparty dinos in the Sin Hut that can’t be touched tomorrow.”

“Okay. I’m with you so far. Just go slowly now.”

“And we have four very safe dinos with the Rogerwicker in the Big Muddy Delta.”

“Check.”

“The Debfischer in the Cornhusker Esker.”

“Okay.”

“The old, scaly Orrinhatch in the Extra-Salt Lake Beds.”

“I warned him about those salt deposits.”

“And the Johnbarrasso in the Wyoming Mound.”

“Where?”

“Wyoming? It’s part of the Milkanhoney Preservation.”

“Oh, sure. If you say so. Anyway, where were we?”

“Those four give us 46 dinos in the Sin Hut. We still need four more.”

The T-Rump lowered his gaze, then looked up ever so hopefully at the Stephenmillerus.

“Help me … help myself.”

“Okay. We may steal North Fargo from Heidiheitkamp and the Cindyhydesmith may be our second dino in the Big Muddy Delta.”

The T-Rump counted on his claws.

“That’s um …”

“48,” said the Stephenmillerus.

“And?”

“And … that’s it.”

“What do you mean, ‘that’s it’?”

“The Donkeykongrus are killing us in recruitment. Our base can only yell and scream so loud and for so long. Pretty soon the independent dinos tell them to shut up or they’re going to join the other side.”

“So what’s wrong with yelling and screaming?”

The other three dinos pawed the ground. Awkward moment.

“Okay,” said the T-Rump. “So we need another master plan, another conspiracy theory, another dinosaur period that the Obamarus was born in. Any advice? … I’m listening.”

The three dinos looked at each other, nodded and turned to their master, exclaiming together …

“Run, T-Rump, Run!”

“Run? I thought you said my next battle was two years away.”

“No,” said the Stephenmillerus. “The jig is up! Run for the hills!”

All was quiet on the Puhl-DePlugg front. Only because the Tyrumposaurus, the Stephenmillerus and the Mitchgetbacktowork busied themselves stuffing their gobs with the low-hanging, fruity blossoms of a large Sweet Patooty tree. This rare moment of peace, solace and nothing remotely circumspect couldn’t last long. An out-of-breath Paulryan stomped onto the scene.

“What are you doing here?” demanded the T-Rump. “You don’t even know how dinosaurs give birth. You call yourself a citizen. You don’t know anything!”

A chuckle escaped the Mitchgetbacktowork.

“What are you laughing at?” the T-Rump snapped. “Where were you when I went to visit the Synagoglodytes? And don’t get me started about those two maniac dinosaurs. My momentum gone. All gone! What a downer. … Well? Where were you?”

“I, uh … had a scheduling conflict.”

“Scheduling conflict? Who wants to see you?”

Big sigh from the Mitchgetbacktowork.

“Okay. I admit it. I lied.”

“Great.”

“I’m sorry, I …”

“Mitch, Mitch, Mitch. The more you lie, the better you’ll feel. Trust me. 5000 lies later, look where we are. Remember, when I can, I tell the truth. When I can’t, I lie.”

He tossed a Sweet Patooty in the air and caught it in his open mouth, the morose, muddled Mitchgetbacktowork looking on.

“You make it sound so easy. I — I once had morals.”

“No idea what you’re talking about.”

The T-Rump turned, noticing the Paulryan.

“You’re still here? Don’t you have something to say … somewhere else?”

“Actually, I bring news of the early returns in advance of the Midterm Mayhem.”

“They’re the best early returns in the history of early returns, aren’t they?”

“Uh, not exactly. There are many, many more dinosaurs coming out of the woods than the last Midterms.”

“That’s great. How much more?”

“50 percent more in the Zona Canyon and the Neverglades. Twice as many in the Georgia Orchard and Vegas Valley. Three times as many in the Land of Longhorns …”

“That’s outstanding.”

“Wait, I’m not done. Dino turnout is six times higher in the Memphis Honky-Tonk and there are ten times more dinos coming out in the Montana Savanna.”

“And this is a bad thing because?”

“Because you’re not running, T-Rump,” said the Mitchgetbacktowork. “You’re not in the fight.”

“I’m not?”

“Not for another, ahem … two years.”

“If you last that long,” muttered the Paulryan.

“What was that?”

“I said you’re fast and strong.”

“And the greatest. You forgot the greatest.”

“T-Rump,” said the Mitchgetbacktowork, “this is bad. Disaster bad.”

“Nonsense. Every dino loves me. I say migration and the lady dinos migrate to me.”

“That’s one gathering we can’t fudge the numbers on. This is a massive, large scale protest. I must warn you, you’re looking down the throat of the Bluewave Beast.”

“I’m sorry. I thought you were on my team. Do I really have to grab another dino from the Foxsquawkbox? … I keep going out to all these one-platypus towns giving it my all. Because it’s still and always will be about me. I say I should visit the Zona Canyon and the Vegas Valley.”

“No!” the Mitchgetbacktowork and Paulryan blurted out together.

The T-Rump frowned, crossing his short arms in protest. He kicked his diabolical walnut into gear, tapping a claw against his chin. It helped him to focus.

“I have to do something to gin up the base, anger souls and divide the dinos. I know, this migrant caravan. I know it’s still 900 miles away and poses no imminent threat, but … get me some time with the Mediacircustops, that Jaketapper whipper-snapper. Have the Oval Dwelling tell him I’m going to have a new policy on granting asylum. Then I’ll just blather on about how the Latinonachos migration is killing the Milkanhoney Preservation. That should convince those undecided dinos how the wind really blows around here. Time for them to move over to this side of the reservoir.”

The Stephenmillerus had spent the past five minutes picking Sweet Patooty remnants from between his teeth. He finally spit it out and raised a claw.

“T-Rump, you just tell them you’re sending 10,000 — no, 15,000! — dinos down there to stop those murdering monsters and if anyone so much as kicks one rock in their face, they’re dead. Dead. Dead.”

“Wow,” marveled the T-Rump. “Three deads. See what I’m talking about, Mitch? Now that’s fear.” He turned back to the Stephenmillerus. “You’re sure you’ve never been with the Foxsquawkbox?”

Billyjoe and Billybob, a pair of Red Neck Nukkledraggerz from the very hilly Billy Blue Bayou, settled into their side-by-side squats for the upcoming Tyrumposaurus rally at the Carolinas’ Charred Flats. The two cousins were hard-core T-Rump followers, part of his rock solid base that would just as soon bite the head off a Donkeykongrus dino as look at them.

“Billybob?”

“What is it, Billyjoe?”

“Do yuh think the T-Rump is gonna come out and roar like a wounded Wartyhogdog?”

“Do we get our feet wet when we pee? Of course he will.”

“But these ten Pipebombasaurae an’ all.  They’re kinda like our cousins, ain’t they?”

“We got lotsa cousins, Billyjoe. What the hell are ya gittin’ at?”

“Well, we came hey-uh fo’ some hootin’ and hollerin’.”

“Ain’t no lie, Billyjoe. With any luck, we gonna crack some ol’ walnut-heads tonight.”

“So then, what if the T-Rump turns tail … and he goes soft-belly up?”

Billybob smacked Billyjoe with his long, thick tail upside the head.

“O-o-o-w-w-w!”

“That hurt me more than you, Billyjoe.”

“I don’t think so, Billybob.”

“You be wise to hush yo’ mouth about the T-Rump goin’ soft-belly up. That’s traitor talk, it is.”

There was a commotion before them as the T-Rump rally team stomped across the flat rock stage area, raising lots of dust and more fanfare as the kingpin of the Trumpassic Period approached.

“There he is,” said Billybob. “Our mighty, esteemed leader. Pipebombasaurae, my slime-leaking eye!”

The T-Rump took the stage, grinned his cheesy grin and waved his short right arm.

“Charred Flats! Great to be here!”

The T-Rump base roared their approval.

“First off, I just wanted to say we’re here because we’re winning … and that’s all that matters. The Pipebombasaurae? Please. … Okay, so there were ten of them. But they have no bite. You wanna see bite? Look at these chompers.”

He opened his mouth wide, his slobbery tongue flew out and the crowd recoiled for a second with the sporadic “E-e-e-w” … before finally applauding, albeit nervously.

“Alright then. I have it on good authority — my authority — that the Mediacircustops brought this behavior upon themselves and some — I shouldn’t say it but I know you want me to — not-so-innocent dinos because, well, what goes around comes around. Am I right? The truth hurts. Or it could hurt. I don’t know. But it’s the Mediacircustops’ fault. Their fake … negative … made-up news and views have finally crossed the line.”

Billybob nudged Billyjoe.

“See? Ain’t no holdin’ back the T-Rump. He’s the dino!”

“Lock her up!” shouted Billyjoe, bouncing in his squat.

“Or,” suggested the T-Rump, “maybe it’s all a coincidence. A koh-inky-dink. Times ten. Ten koh-inky-dinks.”

He held up both hands. The base laughed. Billyjoe turned to Billybob.

“What’s an inky dink?”

“He’s just talkin’ dirty again, Billyjoe.”

The T-Rump glared at his dino faithful.

“I’m playing nice now. … A-a-a-n-n-n-d now I’m not. I would love to bring every dino together, I really would. But then we’d have that nasty caravan of mean, rotten Latinonachos and all their mean, rotten babies. I hate babies!”

Billyjoe looked at his cousin.

“Do we hate babies, Billybob?”

“We do now, Billyjoe.”

“Need I remind you,” the T-Rump continued, “there are 11 days until Midterm Mayhem and we need every dino — every body-slammin’ dino — with us. That means you. The Mediacircustops have brought us here. You heard the Foxsquawkbox. The  Pipebombasaurae is a conspiracy theory set up by the Donkeykongrus. It’s all a false alarm, folks!”

“False alarm!” shouted Billyjoe.

“Amen,” said Billybob.

Trump raised a claw to the sky.

“Someone’s gotta say it and that someone’s gotta be …”

“YOU!” shouted the audience.

“Fake news begets violence. We need a defensive weapon, don’t we? What’s it gonna be?”

“Body slam!” shouted Billyjoe.

“I like it,” the T-Rump said with a triumphant nod. “Let’s give each other a good ol’ body slam. Practice makes perfect.”

The T-Rump acted out his signaure body slam maneuver and the crowd followed suit. Dinos of all shapes and sizes were thrown to the ground with resounding thuds all around.

“Me first,” said an excited Billyjoe.

Unfortunately, he outweighed Billybob by 450 pounds. Billyjoe threw his cousin down to the ground with such force and enthusiasm that Billybob was knocked out cold. Billyjoe looked down over his fallen cousin flat on his back.

“Your turn, Billybob. … Billybob?”

“Perfect,” said the T-Rump.

“I think it’s a winner,” said the Stephenmillerus with an extra devilish grin.

The two dinos were very pleased with their latest, greatest rallying cry for November’s Midterm Mayhem.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the Puhl-DePlugg Reservoir, the Cryingchuck shook his head and smirked.

“Jobs, Not Mobs? “That’s the best they can do?”

He was joined by his cousin’s daughter, the ever jovial Amyschumer.

“They left out angry and unhinged,” she said.

“That would be too many words for his deplorables to remember.”

“Well, you and the Nancypelosi did agree the Donkeykongrus would educate them.”

“Educate? All we need to do is wave shiny objects.”

“S-o-o-o-o,” she said. “You asked me here to help you with your own battle cry for the November trenches.”

“Yes, I was thinking we should try and build up the Langleyops reputation after the T-Rump has essentially destroyed it.”

“Sure. How about “Comey’s Our Homey.”

“Then there’s the Sessionsopossum, the Muellersavus and his Russodino investigation.”

“Obstruction is NOT a Virtue?”

“Or … who can forget the T-Rump ripping dino tots from the arms of their mamas at the Great Tex-Mex Divide?

“Um … Would You Let the T-Rump Baby-Sit Your Kids?”

“What about all the money the T-Rump has made from foreign dinos with his luxury caves?”

“The Oval Dwelling’s NOT for Sale!”

The Cryingchuck paused.

“We’re only just scratching the surface here, aren’t we? There’s the Rickyprisongates, the Manaforta and the Michaelcohen.”

The Amyschumer brightened.

“Support A T-Rump Flipper Today!”

“What about that Nooyorktimesian dinos and their 18-month investigative story on the T-Rump’s rise to fame and fortune?”

“Hmm … Daddy’s 400-Million Moolah-Moolah Bogus Bonus Baby?”

“Oh, he’s a baby, alright. I think I hear him crying right now. What about the Jamalkhashoggi incident?”

“B.M.S. – Mediacircustops = B.S.”

“We’re getting there. And the T-Rump’s not shedding his green skin, not sharing his mytaxes returnus?”

“Let’s see … We Showed Ours. Your Turn, T-Rump!”

“Uh, you realize he will take that the wrong way.”

The Amyschumer winked.

“Have we bottomed out on the T-Rump’s debauchery?

“Good point. Speaking of which … ”

“Way ahead of you, Uncle Chuckie. How’s this? Are You a Lady Dino, a Playmatapus or a Pornodactyl Who the T-Rump Has Paid to Shut Up? Me Too.”

“That line’s a little long.”

“Because that line is very long.”

“What about all his fake news rhetoric? There must be something.”

“All Conspiracy Theories Lead to the T-Rump.”

“You’re so quick, Amy.”

“Last dino standing, y’know.”

“Something that includes the Putinodon maybe?”

“I Left My Heart In Smelstinki.”

“And the T-Rump’s penchant for conveniently, uh … forgetting the truth?”

“5000 Lies. And He’s DOUBLING Down.”

“You’ve been a great help, Amy. It’s been a jaw-dropping 20 months.”

“But I’ve only just begun.”

“I see that. What I’m getting at here is that we need a well-thought out, serious, to-the-point slogan that will resonate with every decent dino with a lick of sense. Something every Donkeykongrus dino will want to be shouting from the mountaintops.”

“O-o-o-o-o-h. Well, why didn’t you say so?”

The Amyschumer and the Cryingchuck cocked their heads and sang out long and hard three words that would echo throughout the Puhl-DePlugg Reservoir …

“DUMP THE T-RUMP!”

“Kelly! Get in here!”

The gnarled, downtrodden, hollow-eyed Chief of Dino Staff entered the Oval Dwelling where the Tyrumposaurus and security bigwig, the Johnbolton, squatted together. Squatting a little too close together, the Marinegunkelly noted. Something was up.

“Did you see my Trollertweety message?” asked the T-Rump.

“The one you fired back at the Stormydaniels following her comment about the size of your–”

“No! Not that one. I’m talking about this crazy caravan of … how many dinos, Bolton?”

“Four thousand.”

“Four thousand Latinonachos! Who do they think they are? The nerve. Poor, persecuted — Hey, let me tell you about having a bad day. They can’t come to the Milkanhoney Preservation. Not while my Great Tex-Mex Divide is still a pipe dream. Bolton here says it’s all your fault, Kelly. What do you have say to that?”

The Marinegunkelly frowned. Not again. This always happened when mother nature called. You step away from the Oval Dwelling for five seconds and some dino dufus was diving in to make you look bad.

He growled at the Johnbolton. But the T-Rump mistook the growl for him and fell over himself getting behind the Johnbolton. The T-Rump peeked out from behind his security dino.

“Ahem, I detect some animosity. I have my great face and not-so-great bone spurs to look out for. Deal with it, Bolton.

The Johnbolton scratched his whiskers.

“I don’t know, boss. I was making some good moolah-moolah with the Foxsquawkbox — over half a billion last year. I took a pay cut coming here because you promised — which I’ll take as a maybe — that I would someday be Secretary of State. Even if you hate the hair on my face.”

Incredibly, the Johnbolton was the first dino in 50 million years to sport a moustache.

The Marinegunkelly sensed the fight had already left his opponent, if this weekend warrior ever had any in him in the first place.

“You’re in charge of security for the Milkanhoney Preservation,” barked the Marinegunkelly. “What are you gonna do with 4,000 Latinonachos rolling up on your doorstep?”

“Did someone order out?” asked the T-Rump.

“Oh, yeah,” countered the Johnbolton. “Well, you’re the Chief of Staff.”

“Alright already with the chain of command,” said the T-Rump. It only confused him. “I already said you don’t answer to Kelly.”

The Johnbolton nodded and turned to the Chief of Staff. “Listen, swamp chief, the Latinonachos caravan is your problem.”

“Don’t forget the Kirstjennielsen,” hissed the T-Rump, grinning at his latest, callous salvo.

“Right.”

“What about the Kirstjennielsen?” the Marinegunkelly said through clenched teeth.

“For starters, she might just try to do her job. But o-o-o-o-h, no. We have a conspiracy theory that you’ve been leaving lovey-dovey footprints in the sand for her. You know, the ones that make her eyes water.”

“Why, you little …”

The Marinegunkelly charged the Johnbolton and held the dino’s head in a semi-headlock. Semi, because that’s as far as his short arms would go.

“Let me go, you old warhorse-face.”

I like it, mused the T-Rump.

“Why are you even here?” snapped the Marinegunkelly. “You’re a hawk without feathers. And c’mon, tell the world. That’s a fake moustache. Isn’t it?

The Johnbolton quickly simmered to a boil. No dino made fun of his pride and joy. Or penance, since every meal tasted the same.

“Fu-… -oo!”

The words came muffled inside the semi-headlock. The Marinegunkelly feigned surprise.

“Did you just drop the F-bomb? At me? Inside the Oval Dwelling?”

The head in the semi-headlock nodded.

All bets were off. Dropping the F-bomb at another dino spelt extinction for one. But first they would curse. And how. The Marinegunkelly released his grip and the ensuing swear words between them covered everything from ancestry to appendages. It was a spectacular spat. The spittle flew, drenching both dinos.

Even the T-Rump was impressed. He wanted to stay for the body slam but violence was in the air and an angry dino just may turn on their master. Time to clear out. Tail between his legs, he scurried out of the Oval Dwelling, bumping smack-dab into the blushing Huckabeecyclops.

“T-Rump, what do I tell the Mediacircustops? For a normal bad day, this is bad.”

“Relax. Blame it on the Donkeykongrus.”

“Uh, the argument?”

“Everything. It doesn’t matter what you tell the Mediacircustops. We’re gonna win. Because that’s all that matters. Damn the migration! Zero tolerance is zero tolerance. And quit giving me those damn lost baby dino updates. As if I care.”

Grade three was in session at the little red rock school in the Sandy Harmonica Stratified District. The Missusfiske held court with a dozen little 8-year-old dinos, all eagerly attacking their latest lesson, making footprints of different shapes in the sand. All except the young Stephenmillerus. He squatted nearby, off to the side in the cozy shade of the Krazyglue tree. He scoffed at today’s activity. When he was sure the Missusfiske wasn’t looking, he carefully wiped his arm against the tree, coming away with a healthy smear of the gooey, gluey, hallucinogenic sap.

He looked down at his arm and reveled in the sticky mess he’d made. The rest of the class didn’t know what they were missing. Would he tell them? Never. This was his tree. His  Krazyglue. He patiently waited for the gooey gunk to dry. It tasted better that way. Easier to get down. He blew on it.

As the other young dinos excitedly stamped out their cute little footprints, the Stephenmillerus anxiously awaited his next high. He hummed a few bars of his “Waiting for You, Krazyglue” song, then tapped the smear with a claw. It was dry. Perfect. He stole a look at the Missusfiske. Her back was turned. He licked at the Krazyglue. His lips puckered and he stuck out his tongue. Sour. Repugnant. Just the way he liked it. He peeled the dried Krazyglue off his arm and nibbled at it. Who was he kidding. He loved the stuff. Down the hatch. The effect was immediate. It cracked his walnut in half. Euphoric, he rose from his squat. The Stephenmillerus was taking charge of grade three.  

He put on his best sneer and trudged over to the young Cindylulu. He hated the Cindylulu. She was always asking for extra food for her neighbour, some migrant dino. The Stephenmillerus stopped beside her. He pointed a claw at her footprint in the sand.

“I am shocked at your footprint. It reveals your dino culture bias to a shocking degree.”

“But–”

The Missusfiske arrived on the scene. It only excited the Stephenmillerus.

“No, this is an amazing moment. An amazing moment, Cindy. This is one of the most outrageous, insulting, ignorant and foolish things you’ve ever done.” He looked up at the Missusfiske. “It’s racial paranoia.”

“It’s a circle, Stephen. Have you made your footprint in the sand yet?”

He snorted in disgust. He’d make a footprint alright. On somebody’s back. The Stephenmillerus eyed an easy prey, the Maotsetsemaomao, as his head buzzed with Krazyglue. His eyes narrowed and his neck twitched, giving rise to three of the smallest hackles. Time to kick some more grade three butt.

The Maotsetsemaomao looked down, admiring his footprint in the sand. The Stephenmillerus kicked sand on the footprint.

“You’re a garbage author of a garbage footprint. Your footprint is contrary to reality.”

“What’s con-treh-ree mean, Stephen? Where’s your footprint?”

“Don’t be condescending. This is tragic and unfortunate. You’re obviously an angry, vindictive dino.”

“Missusfiske …”

“Oh, no you don’t. You have your 24 hours of Missusfiske coverage. That … that’s a grotesque comment.”

The subject of the grotesque comment, the Missusfiske, once more plodded up to her latest dilemma. The Stephenmillerus leaned into the face of the little Maotsetsemaomao.

“This is spectacularly embarrassing. There is a crisis of legitimacy to your even being here. Tell me, your mom and dad are spies, aren’t they?”

“Stephenmillerus! Need I remind you that this is a bully-free zone! You’re not making good choices, Stephen. Move it on out. Now.”

The Stephenmillerus dragged himself away, but not before giving a look over his shoulder to the Maotsetsemaomao, a look saying the playground travel ban was on.

The Krazyglue high emboldened the Stephenmillerus. The Missusfiske can’t stop me he thought. Not by the scraggly hair on her triple chin. I hope she stays awake all night thinking of ways to break me. This so-called academic bedrock is my playground. My battleground.

There was hell to pay and he sized up the next recipients. A trio of Latinonachos. He loved getting them riled up.

The three dinos squatted nearby, pointing at their footprints in the sand, laughing with each other and chatting in their native tongue. The Krazyglue coarsing through the Stephenmillerus’ walnut told him they were talking about him, running down his every insecurity and physical blemish.

He stormed over to them.

“Stop it! Stop talking about me!”

The closest Latinonachos turned to him.

“No one is talking about you, amigo.”

“Amigo!? You’re speaking Spanish? Now I’m really mad. This is the Milkanhoney Preservation where we speak English!”

Fortunately the Missusfiske was nearby. Grade three teachers have that sixth sense of coming to a student’s aid seconds before being pummeled. The Latinonachos would have left the Stephenmillerus a bloody mess.

“That’s it, Stephen. You refuse to play nice, you’ve earned yourself a time-out. Back to your tree. Five minutes. And stay put.”

She watched him trudge back to the Krazyglue tree. She felt a pang of guilt that lasted two nanoseconds. She continued watching him as he stopped immediately before the tree. He rubbed his arm against it. He was looking at something on his arm. He blew on it. She heard music. Was he humming? She watched him tap his arm, then lower his head. Was he licking his arm? Her jaw dropped. No. Not again. That little turd.

“Stephenmillerus!  How many times do I have to tell you? That Krazyglue is going to rot your brain!”