Category: The Trump Dig

The two Langleytips dinosaur investigators, the Jayedgarhoofinmouth and the Blesselliotness, looked at each other and frowned. Their good cop-bad cop routine with the Carterpagealpha had run its course. So confused, they’d forgotten who was playing which cop.  

The supposed bad cop, Jayedgarhoofinmouth, paused to reconsider the Carterpagealpha’s profile. The quadrupedal carnivore was a mega-scavenger, an early forerunner of the Hyena Hystericale. He could laugh and cry at the same time and voice the odd maniacal roar, all instinctive defense mechanisms. But while the Carterpagealpha might appear jovial, he was deeply neurotic. His wide, panicky eyes constantly searched the surroundings for low-lying, predatory Kayjeebeeops. It was the age-old dinosaur survival issue of C’mere-Oh-no!-Get-away! and it manifested itself daily, from bad dreams to simple conversation.

As a young dino, while playing games with the other dino tots, the Carterpagealpha always wanted to be “it.” When confronted on this, he would explain, “Thank you for playing. You did however, choose to play with me. Now, try to follow my eyes because I’m one kuh-ray-zee dino — and I’m IT.” It became most hypnotizing. The Carterpagealpha’s circle of friends gradually diminished as they migrated elsewhere, complaining of nausea and headaches.

The same headaches now heaped upon the two Langleytips dinos. They would soldier on. The well-being of the Milkanhoney Preservation demanded it.

“One more time, Carter,” the Jayedgarhoofinmouth snarled. “Did you meet with the Dvorovichnich?”

“Define meeting,” said Carter, pausing to look cross-eyed at an ant on his snout. “Actually, I would categorize it as something between a seating, a greeting and a fleeting glimpse … like I once had of spending more time in the Harvard Highlands, talking about future dinosaur energy.”

“Right,” said the Blesselliotness, with the eye roll of eye rolls. “What about your status with the T-Rump gathering. Were you a volunteer, unpaid, informal, unofficial? What was your role?”

“That’s a tough one.”

The two investigators groaned, each wheezing heavily.

“You see, while I’ve been to the Moscovian Bluffs and know dinosaurs who know other dinosaurs who know the Putinodon, I am only a lowly Ankylosaurus advisor to the T-Rump.”

“Aha!” exclaimed the Jayedgarhoofinmouth. “You’re no ankylosaurus. That’s an armored dinosaur. Where’s your armor?”

“Right here.” The Carterpagealpha pointed unabashedly to his heart. He could tell by the looks on the Langleytips dinos’ faces however, they weren’t buying it. “I’m sorry, did I say Ankylosaurus? I meant to say the Ankle-high Gargoyle. He feigned a couple of snaps. There was no such dinosaur.

This was too much for the Jayedgar G-dino.

“Enough of this hoof-in-mouth diarrhea!”

“Goodness, me,” said Carter. “But that does remind me of when I was visiting the Manaforta at his Brooklyn Brown Stones.”

The Langleytips dinos locked eyes briefly. Could this be their big break? Should they venture down this path of inquiry? … They shook their heads. It wasn’t worth it. Better to continue with the missing link before them. The Carterpagealpha continued.

“It was last year or the year before. I can vouch for one but not the other. I don’t want to say something I can’t remember. It was all part of my Frequent Wanderlust Miles …”

“Stop. Just stop,” said the Blesselliotness. “We’re not going down that road. You can’t take us there …”

“I was giving speeches,” said Carter. “Thought provoking, very meaningful. I had a standing ovation. I mean, invitation. That still made me feel warm and fuzzy inside. I almost forgot the Kayjeebeeops were there. Did I tell you that I told every T-Rump reptile, snake and ne’er-do-well about these meetings?”

“Standing invitation, huh?” said the Jayedgarhoofinmouth. “Who invited you?”

“I was just invited.”

“That does it. We could let you roam through the T-Rump’s typical haunts but the Blessedelliotness and I want to enjoy our remaining years. No, Carter, we’re going to release you into the Whackadoodle Wilds where you can frolic with other like-minded, loose-witted dinosaurs.”

“Like-minded dinosaurs? Like me? But that’s impossible. Look, I’m here of my own free will to tell you about my days … in the Cambridge Sage. Yes, let’s go there.”

“No, let’s–” The Jayedgarhoofinmouth stopped in mid-sentence. The opening to the interrogation cavern had been darkened by another dinosaur. It was the Tyrumposaurus, clearing his throat, exhaling an impressive puddle of saliva.

“I am pardoning the Carterpagealpha. Because I can. So there.”

“Already?” said the Blesselliotness. “But why?”

“It’s a surprise. Now make like a moolah-moolah tree and leave.”

The Langleytips dinos sullenly raised their tails to the T-Rump and exited the cavern, leaving the leader of the walnut-brained world with the nervous Carterpagealpha. The hyena-like dino couldn’t believe his good fortune, snickering into his paws, his eyes still frantically searching the corners for Kaygeebeeops. He finally put a paw in his mouth to stop. He opened his mouth again, sans paw.

“It’s a — it’s a pleasure to finally meet you. What would you like me to say?”

“Hold that thought, Pageboy. Here’s what you’re going to do for me. I’m most impressed with your gift for obscu– …. oscbu– …

“Obfuscation.”

“What you said, yes. Great word. Just great. Now, my followers believe — mistakenly or not — that some of my Trollertweety messages may prove to be troublesome later. I want you to read my messages before I send them. You know, to give them that, uh …”

“Obfuscative tweak?”

“Great word. The public will never know what they’re hearing. Nor should they.”

“So you want me to muddle things.”

“Muddle? Oh, yes. Meddle? Never.”

The Podestaphusses, a once notable family of swift-footed lizards, gathered around a fresh kill of the rare Panoplosaurus. It was the Shanks Given celebration, a day of charity where dinosaurs donated their excess red meat to the less swift. Squatting at the head of the spicy species laid open before them was the Marypodestaphus, a very spry dino for 95. On either side of her were her two sons, the Johnpodestaphus, 68, and his older brother, the Tonypodestaphus, 74.

The Marypodestaphus watched her youngest son nibbling slowly around the studded plates covering the back of the Panoplosaurus.

“Johnny, Panoplosaurus is your favorite nodosaurid and you haven’t even touched your lizard gizzards. Is there something wrong?”

“Leave him alone, ma,” said the Tonypodestaphus. “He’s had a tough week.”

“No thanks to you,” snapped his brother.

“Boys, boys, boys. I’ve slaved over this nice corpse of Panoplosaurus. Let’s not spoil the dripping blood. What’s going on here? Tony? Johnny?”

“He stole my secrets!” roared Johnny.

“Secrets?” asked his mother. Her walnut brain played catch-up. Until recently, eating, drinking and sleeping was all she knew. “What secrets?”

They paused while Johnny regurgitated a bone. Tony slapped him on the back for good measure, a true sign of a close-knit family.

“I was down at the Babylon Babbling Brook,” began Johnny. “Sure it’s a public meeting place, but every dino babbles. In one ear and out the other.” He looked directly at Tony and seethed. “What’s said at the Brook stays at the Brook.”

Tony turned sideways to spit out some gristle.

“How was I supposed to know? I was only there to help the Manaforta and the Rickyprisongates.”

Their mother’s lower double-hinged jaw dropped low, wide open. She was too shocked to hear the contents of her mouth hit the sand with a ‘plop, plop … plop.’

“You were in cohoots with those two louts — those co-louts — in c-c-c-collusion? You do know I have to show my face in the Cretaceous Square. Your father, rest his friendly fossil, would be spinning his grave like greased lightning. How could you, Tony? Especially after all your shenanigans with that Rusky no-good-nick, the Yanukovychnick. ”

“Ma, I was just listening for information on the Donkeykongrus …”

“And he got my secrets!” Johnny shouted. He turned to Tony with a sneer. “I used to look up to you.”

“Tony,” she said with a stern look. “You’re just going to have to give those secrets back.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not. He’s your brother.”

“I – I don’t know where they are.”

Johnny spit up his food.

“You lost my secrets?”

“Say it ain’t so, Tony.” She held her nine-inch nails to her face.

“You know how it is, Ma.”

“I sure do. That’s what the problem is with these Trumpassic times. In one ear and out the other.”

“But the moolah-moolah is good. Here, have some.”

Tony produced a thick wad of green moolah-moolah. It was the leafy, tender currency of the dinosaur diet, going well with anything.

“Don’t bring that moolah-moolah around my meal,” snapped their mother. “I will not eat T-Rumped up moolah-moolah.”

Tony raised a claw.

“But we don’t know–”

“Ah. Stop right there. What did I say about repeating that Huckabeecyclops mumbo-jumbo in my home? What did I say?”

Tony swallowed hard, waiting for his stomach to settle.

“She only has half a walnut,” he said under his breath. He slowly turned to her. “What am I going to do, ma?”

“Now you ask me.”

She turned to her other son. Johnny’s lower lip tightened over a double-row of razor-sharp teeth. He glared at his older sibling.

“Leave.”

“What? Where?”

“You know where.”

“No, not the Valley of Long Lost Brothers.”

“Get lost,” hissed Johnny.

Their mother’s large, droopy eyes welled up with tears. How had it come to this? The Tyrumposaurus, once seemingly the answer, had now ripped her family apart. She watched as Tony wiped the blood and loose entrails from his chin. He rose from the Panoplosaurus … the fine feast now a hollow memory.

She watched the departing Tonypodestaphus and couldn’t help from calling out after her oldest son.

“How much moolah-moolah is enough, Tony? How much is enough?”

The Tyrumposaurus looked up from counting his pooka shells, noticed the shadows creeping in and groaned. It was time. He had to put in an appearance at the Healing Grounds. It was a peaceful, shady place where dinosaurs went to convalesce after battles, domestic spats and third-degree trench foot.

It had been twelve days since the dust-up in Chadniger’s Dustiest Dustbowl. There were three badly wounded Platooncorps dinosaurs for which the Mediacircustops had been hounding the T-Rump to pay a visit.

Following a three-minute stroll, the T-Rump stood over the first Platooncorps. The dinosaur was missing the bottom half of his right leg. How he hadn’t bled to death was a paleontological miracle. The T-Rump tapped his chin with a claw.

“Lost a leg, did you? Well, you did get to see a lot of the Trumpassic Kingdom. Say, you haven’t been to T-Rump Lagoon, have you?

“I can’t walk!”

“Okay, no need to get upset. I can come back later to tell you how my name wound up on it.”

The T-Rump moved on to the second Platooncorps. The injured dinosaur held his short arms up, covering his face with his trembling claws. The T-Rump tapped his foot impatiently. This dino didn’t even look like he was hurt.

“Well?”

The Platooncorps slowly lowered his claws. His face had been ravaged by a mammoth set of razor-sharp chompers. T-Rump stepped back on his heels.

“Wow! That’s gotta hurt. … What’s the other guy look like?”

“I can’t see!” sobbed the dino.

The T-Rump quickly stepped aside to the third Platooncorps. The dinosaur was holding the claws of one arm to his throat in a choking motion.

“Now, now,” said the T-Rump, “I know it’s been 12 days, but if you’re not going to appreciate my being here …”

The wounded dinosaur shook his head. He took his claws away from his neck and pointed to a deep slash across the jugular.

“Oh,” said the T-Rump. “You can’t talk. Why didn’t you say so?”

Exasperated, the Platooncorps collapsed on his back.

“Okay,” said the T-Rump, “I guess I’m done here. I hope you’re all happy.”

He returned home. Half an hour later a pair of Donkeykongrus dinosaurs paid him a visit.

“Cryingchuck and Nancypelosionyx, what a surprise!” The T-Rump took a peek around them. “What? No Chinese chocolate? How are we going to make a deal without Chinese chocolate?”

“No, no,” said the Cryingchuck, “we’re here because we wanted to bring your attention to something none of your, um … handlers are willing to talk to you about.”

“What? You mean the fake news or news from my favorite Foxsquawkbox?”

The near-sighted Cryingchuck looked down his nose at the Nancypelosionyx, who smiled sweetly and forged ahead.

“T-Rump, we’re talking about empathy.”

“What’s that?”

The Cryingchuck and the Nancypelosionyx shared a look, then nodded a silent ‘I told you so.’ The Nancypelosionyx turned to the T-Rump.

“Look, they’re having a benefit tonight for the survivors of the hurricanes in Samhouston Hills, the Neverglades and Puerto Rikiricardo.”

“That windy, rainy thing?”

“Right, T-Rump,” said the Cryingchuck. “We pulled some strings and you’re going to be there, seeing empathy in action.”

Two hours later the T-Rump plodded down the path toward the benefit. It was dusk and he almost tripped over her. It was the Sanjuanmayaurus.

“You again,” said the T-Rump. “What are you doing here?”

“Uh, this is a benefit?”

“For Samhouston Hills and the Neverglades.”

“And Puerto Rikiricardo. I treaded water for ten days, remember?”

The T-Rump shrugged.

“Uh, well, you knew what you were signing up for, but when it happens it hurts.” I suppose, he said to himself.

“I can’t believe you just said that.”

The T-Rump looked around.

“I didn’t.”

“Oh, yes you did. I heard it all.”

It was the Fredericawilson, a Packapunchian dinosaur with two large bumps on her head that resembled a 10-gallon cowboy hat. She stepped out of the bushes.

“What are you doing here?” asked the T-Rump. “Sheesh. Hold a benefit and everybody comes.”

“I used to babysit for her cousin’s cousin. I’m always there for them.”

“Obviously. I still didn’t say it though.”

“We heard it too,” came several other voices from the thick shrubs. Five former legendary leaders of the dinosaur world stepped out onto the path. There was the Carterpeanutshells, the Bushfortyone, the Bushfortythree, the Clinton Duckbill and the Obamarus.

The T-Rump scoffed at them.

“I’m doubling, no, tripling down because losing is for … losers. I’ll be sending out a fresh flock of Trollertweeties within the hour. Lies, fake news, lies, fake news. You know the drill.”

But no one was listening. The five former leaders had filed down the path into the benefit, leaving the Sanjuanmayaurus and the T-Rump looking after them.

The Sanjuanmayaurus sighed.

“There go some real dinosaurs.”

“Hey!” the T-Rump hollered. “I should be in there.”

The last dinosaur in the line, the staggering Bushfortyone, turned to him and said croakingly, “You’ve been uninvited, sonny.”

“What?! I deserve to be in there. Hey, look at Santadomingo, here.”

“Sanjuanmayaurus,” she corrected.

“Whatever. I give myself a big fat 10 on how I helped her out.”

“And I give you a one.”

The Sanjuanmayaurus raised her nose and left for the benefit.

“Hey!” shouted the T-Rump louder. “Did you hear that? She just said I’m number one. I’m the best! The best!” His voice softened. “So how come … why am I here … all … alone?”

“Quiet on the steppes!”

It was the raspy voice of the incorrigible Bannoncanon. He was the director of the Trumpassic Period’s end of the year play. From atop the Bullee-Tar Pit he gazed over the Puhl-DePlugg Reservoir with the Tyrumposaurus, the Mitchgetbacktowork and the Tennesseecorker.

“Now, then,” continued the Bannoncanon, “I’m calling this the Season of War.”

“Why are we always at war?” asked the Mitchgetbacktowork.

“What did I say about cutting off your oxygen?”

The Mitchgetbacktowork took a deep breath in case he was serious.

The Bannoncanon raised a claw in the air.

“The opening scene will be like the Ides of Marching Together.”

“Oh,” said the T-Rump, “like we did with the Putinodon.”

“Quiet. T-Rump, you’re going to be the Caesarsaurus.”

“But of course.”

The Bannoncanon tapped his bottom lip as he stared down the Mitchgetbacktowork and the Tennesseecorker.

“Which one of you is going to play the Brutusbackstabus?”

The Tennesseecorker tapped the Mitchgetbacktowork on the shoulder.

“It’s all yours. I want to be the Nerofiddler. We need some laughs.”

“This is my play,” roared the Bannoncanon. There is NO Nerofiddler.”

“What’s that?” asked the T-Rump.

“No Post-Roast Rome Remains?” ventured the Tennesseecorker.

“No,” said the Bannoncanon.

“You’re losing me,” said the T-Rump. I think it’s time to send out a nasty Trollertweety about that son-of-a-brontosaurus Kaepernickelback.”

“Stay right there. I need more of you.”

“Well, that’s impossible.”

The Bannoncanon shook his head.

“I’m talking authentic candidates. That’s the most important thing.”

“For what?” The T-Rump was remarkably still on task.

The Bannoncanon spotted a rare teaching moment and seized it.

“T-Rump, what do we need if we’re going to win a war?”

“Um, a plan?”

“I’ve got the plan. It’s right here in my walnut brain! We need warriors. Lots of warriors!”

“Well,” said the T-Rump with a sniff. “I almost got you one. Remember the Lutherstrangia?”

“Yes, except it was the Judgeroymoore we needed — and who I helped win, thank you very much.”

“Wait a minute,” said the T-Rump. “You should be thanking me.”

“But you didn’t do anything.”

“Your point?” The T-Rump fidgeted nervously. “Look, I really, really need my Trollertweety fix. Just tell me how this things’s going to end.”

“Madness,” said the Tennesseecorker.

The Bannoncanon gave him the hairy eyeball.

“We’ll be overthrowing the Grandoldpartysaurus.”

“Can we do that?” asked the T-Rump.

The hairy eyeball swerved his way.

“Relax, this is just the dress rehearsal.”