Category: The Trump Dig

“Bobby! Good to see you!”

The Muellersavus was taken aback. The Tyrumposaurus, drooling smirk and all, had indeed darkened his doorway.

“Ahem. Come in, T-Rump.”

The two dinosaurs soon squatted across from one another in the Muellersavus’ spartan working cave. Save for a few volcanic and other shiny rock momentos, the cave was just another hole in the wall.

“What brings you before me, T-Rump?”

“Well, at first I said I wasn’t going to answer your questions, then I said I would. I wouldn’t. Would. Wouldn’t …”

“And?”

“Then I said I was only going to read your footprints in the sand and answer them with my own footprints …”

“Correct.”

“And then I remembered … I can’t read. S-o-o-o-o, here I am. You ask. I’ll answer. Easy-peasy.”

“And your legal dinos. Where are they?”

“Pshaw! Who needs’em? I know everything!”

Except how to read thought the Muellersavus.

“Very well. Let’s start at the beginning. When you say your prayers at night, who do you say them to?”

“C’mon now, Bob. You know the Tymelania and I sleep in separate caves. I don’t want that to get out. Just when she was starting to hold my hand again.”

The Muellersavus set his hard, chiseled jaw.

“Do you pray, T-Rump?”

“What, and ruin my knees? Please.”

“Do you honour your mother and father?”

“You’ve got that all backwards. It was my father who honoured me. But like I said, it was only a loan of a million moolah-moolah leaves — which I paid back in full. Not that crazy 400 million number. Sheesh!”

“Do you keep the Sabbath Day holy?”

“Hey, these questions are pretty good. Did you just make these up?”

“Answer the question, please.”

“Look, Bob. I’m out flogging every weekend. It’s who I am. You know what they say. Happy T-Rump, Happy T-Rump.”

“I see. Did you ever commit idolatry?”

“Idolatry? You mean adultery — Aha! Perjury trap! I got you.”

“No, I was referring to idols.”

“Oh, that. Well, it’s no secret really. I moved from being a celebrity to an idol. Big idol. Really big. These things happen. Especially with me.”

“Did you use blasphemy?”

“Whatever the hell that is. Next question.”

“Did you commit murder?”

“N-o-o-o-o,” the T-Rump said, drawing the word out slowly. “But I could. Any dino, any dino path. In broad daylight even. You already knew that too. Dumb questions. Waste of time.”

“Did you commit adultery?”

“Lately?”

A stoic nod from the Muellersavus.

“On that one, I’ll take Executive Privilege. Trust me, it was. But the Stormydaniels thing? The Tymelania had a headache, okay? The worst migraine the world has ever seen. So sad. What was I to do? The Stormydaniels may have been there. I don’t know.”

“Did you ever steal?”

“Steal? Steal what?”

“Anything.”

“Everybody steals something. The Crookadillary couldn’t look after her own secrets and some dinos who I don’t know stole them. Go chase them. I bet you’ll find the Crookadillary right in the middle of it.

A puzzled look from the Muellersavus.

“Why would the Crookadillary want someone to steal her secrets?”

“I know you didn’t just fall out of the turnip tree, Bob. You worked for the Obamarus for what … 4? … 8? … 16 years? We don’t need to go into all the bad stuff that happened to the Crookadillary that guaranteed my glorious victory. It should’ve been more glorious. The most glorious. And because it wasn’t she should spend the rest of her life in the Solitary Sinkhole.”

The Muellersavus’ lunch gurgled in his stomach. A side effect of his job was major indigestion.

“T-Rump, did you bear false witness?”

“Who, me? You’ve got to be kidding. Look around. There’s the Flynnhasbeen, the Papadapolous, the Rickyprisongates, the Manaforta, the Michealcohen, the Alanweisselberg, the Davidpecker, and soon, I’m sure, that dirty trickster, the Rogerstone. All of them turning on me. It wasn’t that long ago,” he said wistfully, “they were all very, very loyal to me. Like dung beetles on dino poop.”

The Muellersavus struggled shaking the image from his mind. The T-Rump continued.

“Now they’re saying bad things about me, making things up. If you add up all their lies, I’m sure they’re approaching my mark of 6000. Approaching, I said. All these dinos against one. Obviously I’m the victim here.”

A key part of the Muellersavus’ resilient steadfastness was his ability to never roll his eyes.

“Last question, T-Rump. Do you covet your neighbour’s property?”

“Again with the perjury trap. Just say it. You mean my neighbour’s wife, don’t you? Well, newsflash for you. I haven’t even asked you about yours — though I’m sure she must be a very beautiful dino. By the way, Bob, are you married?”

The Tymelania sipped from a quiet pond beneath the requisite Gucci-Gucci tree in the Congobongo region of Africana. This was her latest get-away from the politics of the Puhl-DePlugg Reservoir, from the shock and awe, or more precisely, the “awe, shucks” mentality it perpetuated. Then there was that despicable dino whose cruelest con was they day they mated. The Tyrumposaurus. He, her husband; she, his hostage.

She didn’t travel light. She’d dragged her entire entourage with her — from head shrink to tail masseuse — just to remind every dino within her best profile-viewing distance, the higher the standing the higher the maintenance. Uber supreme maintenance. That was the look she modeled these days. Sadly, she admitted it was a look that usually came across as somewhat perturbed, mildly petulant and dare she say, pissed off? Who was she kidding? She’d never wanted any of this. Being the First Lady Dino meant being chased onto the global dino scene for all to see. For the Mediacircustops to pick her life apart, regurgitate the meaty parts and spit out the bones that would lodge in the public’s craw. She swallowed hard. It was too much. All the time. She felt exposed, naked. A dino’s normal, natural state to be sure. She made a mental note. More daily dips in Lagoon de Mudde for her scaly skin.

The Mediacircustops breathed down her neck constantly. There weren’t enough trees in the forest for her to hide behind, lest one find her and ask how it felt having a husband who was bungling in the jungle with the Karenmcdougal, the Stormydaniels and — insert dino here. Playmatapae and Pornadactyls. Mere days after her she laid her last egg for him. His egg. Her shell. Cracked. To. Hell. Oh, the pain.

Why couldn’t they be like the Obamarus’? There was a couple whose love was genuine and joyful, not celebrated in separate caves. The Obamarus’ words were like music while the T-Rump spewed lies, vitriol and the bitter backwash of deflection upon deflection. The Tymelania felt bad she didn’t have a bestselling footprint in the sand like the Michelleobamarus. No, the T-Rump’s wife could only achieve a partial footprint. Be best. Instead of hope, it screamed ‘Help!’

Mainstream scuttlebutt called the T-Rump the worst dino leader ever. Did that make her the worst First Lady ever? She never asked to be First Lady. Those damned Russodinos. It was all their fault. The fix was in from the Manaforta to the Rogerstone to that turncoat, the Michaelcohen. The T-Rump couldn’t lie his way to the top without help. And now the Muellersavus was closing in, indictment by indictment. It was a tale of two pities. One, that she was married to the T-Rump, the second that she couldn’t testify against him.

The T-Rump. That orange-lumped bump on a stump. How could he? He was hitting it off so well with the Emmanuelmacron. Together, they were dancing dino dudes. And then the T-Rump had to go and ruin it. Blaming his own dinos for not telling him that skipping the dino war memorial would a huge public backlash. But then he took his nonsense nationalist agenda and threw it in Emmanuel’s face. Of course Emmanuel had to defend himself on his home turf. And of course my idiot husband proceeded to do what he does best. Double down on his most insane idea of the day. So, no more Weeweegayparis for me. I could just scream. I don’t care if I crack a nail. I am this close to completely losing it.

“Excuse me, is this seat taken?”

That was the last time any dino saw or heard of the security dino, the Mirarickardel. 

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!”