Categories
Satire The Trump Dig

T-Rump’s Practical Joke …

“Can I come out now?” It was the Spicerophus. He was hiding in a bush.

“The game’s not over,” said the Tyrumposaurus, languishing nearby over a fresh kill of Caviaraptor.

“But I’ve been in here for weeks!”

“The game’s called hide and seek. I’ll look for you when I’m ready.”

The T-Rump lifted his nose to the air.

“Marinegunkelly.”

The T-Rump’s right-hand dino stepped smartly to the fore.

“I told you I’m not hiding, T-Rump.”

“No, no. I smell a Crookadillary.”

The Marinegunkelly rolled his eyes. The T-Rump clapped him on the back.

“Let’s go.”

The T-Rump and the Marinegunkelly set off across the wide savannah, the marshy wetlands and a vast grassland that had a colony of 11-year-old herbivores mowing their way through it. A winded Marinegunkelly finally stopped.

“T-Rump, it’s been 8 hours. We must’ve gone 100 miles.”

“Hah! I’d go 200 miles to play a joke on the Crookadillary. Quit complaining. And you call yourself a Marinegunkelly?”

They ventured on. An hour later they found the Crookadillary in a clearing beside shrubs. She was munching on a potpourri of herbs and spices, reminiscing of her salad days back in Arkansas Whitewater Development.

The T-Rump snuck up behind her. He tapped her on the right shoulder and ducked to the left. She turned to her right and saw nothing. The T-Rump tapped her on the left shoulder and ducked to the right. She turned to her left and saw nothing.

“T-Rump!”

“It’s not me.”

She spun on her heels and glared at him.

“How far did you travel this time?”

“Just a mile,” he lied. He extended his arm. “Here, pull my claw.”

“No.”

“Aw, c’mon, Crookadillary.”

“No, I am not going to pull your claw!”

The T-Rump turned to the Marinegunkelly.

“Will you pull my claw?”

The Marinegunkelly frowned and turned his back to him.

“T-Rump,” said the Crookadillary. “I just received news from the Kimjongadon.”

“Oh, the Rocketmanosaurus.”

“Thats right, he wanted me to thank you for calling him that.”

“He’s an idiot. I meant it as an insult.”

“Oh, he’s far from an idiot. You made him a big hit with the ladies now.”

“I did?”

The Crookadillary turned to leave.

“You can always thank him yourself. He’s speaking from the Bullee-Tar Pit tonight at sunset. Oh, T-Rump, that’s when the lady dinosaurs are most romantic.”

“I know that!”

The Crookadillary disappeared in the bush, leaving the T-Rump fuming. He got in the Marinegunkelly’s face.

“How could you let her do that to me?”

The Marinegunkelly had no idea what the T-Rump was talking about. He would remain stoic and steadfast even if his tail was on fire. T-Rump could stew in his juices. It was a treat to watch.

The T-Rump roared in anger.

“Nobody speaks from the Bullee-Tar Pit but me.”

He thought about the lady dinosaurs that would also be there. He and the T-Melania had been on the outs lately. She’d taken to wearing dark brunette snakeroot leaves over her eyes when they were out together. She was embarrassed to be seen with him. But he was the T-Rump, the law of the land. He could do what he wanted.

Meanwhile, the Crookadillary beat him and the Marinegunkelly back to the Bullee-Tar Pit where she had a surprise waiting for him.

It was dusk when the T-Rump arrived at the Bullee-Tar Pit. Alone. The Marinegunkelly cramped his style. In the darkness, the T-Rump could barely make out a short, squat figure standing at the edge of the cliff.

“So, we finally meet,” said the T-Rump, stepping toward the figure.

“I am the Rocketman.” Only it was the disguised voice of the Crookadillary. She was hiding on a ledge just below the edge of the cliff.

“You don’t sound too well,” said the T-Rump. “Is that a frog in your throat?”

“No, it’s a toad.”

The T-Rump sized up the silhouette before him in the darkness.

“Y’know, I thought you’d be bigger.”

“I’m grown up. Unlike you.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, I don’t see any ladies, Rocketman.”

“They saw you coming.”

“Why, you little … I’ll show you who’s the real Rocketmanosaurus! You give me no choice but to totally destroy you!”

The T-Rump lunged forward with his little arms and grabbed what he thought was the Kimjongadon. Only it was a bunch of flat rocks piled on top of one another, covered in tar.

“What the …?

The T-Rump rolled around, trying to get loose but he couldn’t. He only made matters worse in the oozing, gooey, sticky tar. His face was stuck to a rock and he could smell the stench of the thick, black tar oozing down the top of the rock toward …

“My hair. Not the hair. No! Not the hair! … A-a-a-a-a-a-g-g-g-h-h-h!”

The Crookadillary stole away in the night, laughing her little girly laugh.

Categories
Satire The Trump Dig

T-Rump’s Weekly Address …

The Tyrumposaurus stood atop the Bullee-Tar Pit. It was time for his weekly address. He gazed smugly at the gathering of Mediacircustops below.

“Greetings! While I was having breakfast this morning, I decided — on my own — that I will be changing the main message of the Trumpassic Period. No more ‘make Milkanhoney Preservation great again.’ That was a loser of a slogan. From now on … We must cut off and use better!”

“Does this mean,” asked a Mediacircustops, “that you’ve changed your mind on the environment? Again?”

“Er, wait a minute. Wrong slogan. I got it. I got it now. … We must be proactive and nasty!”

“On what exactly?” asked the Mediacircustops.

“Everything. And by the way, I’ve accomplished more in 8 days than the Obamarus did in 8 decades. 8 days. 8 decades. NOT fake news.”

Another Mediacircustops piped up.

“How did your latest meal go with the Cryingchuck and the Nancypelosionyx?”

“Great. Just great. We had a chocolate moose. That’s right, a four-legged chocolate moose. GREAT moose. I hadn’t even finished my first bite before we agreed on two MAJOR pieces of business. We did away with Chain Migration AND that ridiculous Filibuster Rule. Now we can get some work done without that stupid political correctness.”

Another Mediacircustops joined the fray.

“But that’s free speech.”

“No, that’s paying a really BIG PRICE for politics.”

“T-Rump, how are you going to get along with the new Trollertweety restrictions?”

“Restrictions? What restrictions?”

The Marinegunkelly stuck his nose in the T-Rump’s ear.

“I was trying to tell you, T-Rump, but you had me eating with the kiddy Koreaceratops.”

Another Mediacircustops raised his tail to speak.

“Killing the Filibuster Rule means you can’t send out your Trollertweety more than 140 times per day.”

The T-Rump stamped his foot, causing the Bullee-Tar Pit to shake.

“That ENDS NOW! Apologize for that untruth! Apologize!”

“T-Rump,” said the Marinegunkelly, “you made it the law.”

“Oh. Well, I — I’ll get another Trollertweety then.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible. They’re from Socialbuzz-Medialand. You just put an end to Chain Migration. You complained alien dinosaurs were entering the Milkanhoney Preservation in RECORD numbers. Your capital letters. Sorry, T-Rump, but you need to control your Trollertweety.”

“Control my Trollertweety?”

He sounded like a little girly dinosaur. The T-Rump’s stomach fell hard. So hard and so fast, the acid reflux was heard across the land. He gritted his teeth and glared at the Mediacircustops below.

“We must be proactive and nasty!  … I have an idea. I will give back the T-Melania!”

The Mediacircustops jaws hit the ground in a collective, choking cloud of dust.

“T-Rump?” asked the Marinegunkelly.

“Yes, take my wife, please. I will send T-Melania back to the Slovenia-Siberian Salt Flats for my Trollertweety. Do we have a deal? Do we have a DEAL?!”

You could hear a dinosaur egg crack.

“Cryingchuck? Nancypelosionyx? Mitchgetbacktowork!

Categories
Satire The Trump Dig

Dinner with the T-Rump …

The Tyrumposaurus let loose a blood-curdling yell. Dinner time. A moment later the Cryingchuck and the Nancypelosionyx arrived. The Cryingchuck was a distant genus of the Humorvor Amyschumerus dinosaur and, like the Nancypelosionyx, was a Sub Family member of the Donkeykongrus. The Nancypelosionyx was a well-respected, hard-charging Rheumatoidian Arthritisan dino.

With the T-Rump, they gathered around the business at hand. The Cryingchuck couldn’t help but notice.

“Where are the Mnuchinmunchkin and the Mitchgetbacktowork?”

The prehistoric hedgehog and the Kentucky Gobbler were key advisers to the T-Rump.

“I’ve accomplished more with you two in one week than I have with them in six months. Now then, who would like to cut the Taxbeast?”  

“Cut” was a euphemism in dino-talk for gutting the kill with a quick flick of the wrist.

“Forgive me,” the T-Rump said to the Nancypelosionyx in a once-every-100-years display of Trumpassic chivalry. “Ladies first.”

“Ooh, it looks complicated.” She put her claw on the Taxbeast’s belly. “Lower?”

“Lower,” said the Cryingchuk. “That would be the popular deduction.”

“Look at the interest,” said the T-Rump. “Big interest. This is big business.”

The Nancypelosionyx stopped in mid-cut.

“I thought this was individual, like just for me.”

The T-Rump leaned forward.

“Now that the introductions are over, I’m taking the business end of the Taxbeast. Them’s the breaks. Thank you very much. ”

And with that the T-Rump hoisted most of the Taxbeast before him.

“What’s next?” he asked between mouthfuls of the savory cuts.

“Well,” said the Cryingchuck, “we need to reauthorize the F.A.A.”

“Free  Archaeopteryx Aviation? Not so fast. Not so free. They need to stop flying over the oval dwelling during my nap. What a racket!”

“And then there’s the Dacadreamers,” said the Nancypelosionyx. “T-Rump, we can’t have these poor Latinonachos building your Great Tex-Mex Divide if they want to stay in the Milkanhoney Preservation.”

The T-Rump snorted, then chewed and gnawed on his Taxbeast. He chewed and gnawed some more. He swallowed hard and cast a smart, smug, all-knowing gaze at the Cryingchuck and the Nancypelosionyx.

“You know what this means?” The T-Rump cocked his head back and roared at the top of his lungs.

“Mitchgetbacktowork!”

Categories
Satire The Trump Dig

The Trumpassic Hurricane …

Mother Nature was dealing the Trumpassic Period a nuclear blow. The Tyrumposaurus and most of his clan, T-Melania, T-Rump Jr. and T-Vankanatrix were gathered in their off-season den at Mar-a-Guano. The T-Rump turned to his cantankerous right-hand dino, the Marinegunkelly.

“What’s the latest on the funny stuff happening with the clouds?” The T-Rump refused to look up at the skies since the unfortunate solar eclipse incident.

“Well,” said Marinegunkelly, “we were in the direct path of the hurricane.”

“The greatest hurricane,” corrected the T-Rump. “Ever.”

“Excuse me, T-Rump, I said were. The pterodactyl’s are all in a snit, so it appears the storm is now headed toward the Conch Republic.”

The T-Rump started off in that direction.

“Where are you going?” the Marinegunkelly yelled above the storm.

“The Conch Republic.”

“Why on earth? You’ll be killed!”

“I have to be there. That’s where the hurricane is. Who wants to be on the outside looking in?”

“Mother? Aren’t you going to say something?” cried the T-Vankanatrix.

But the T-Melania was busy looking at the scales on her back legs. She arched her heel, admiring her instep.

“Mother!”

The T-Melania turned her dark, foreboding lashes upon the T-Vankanatrix. Mixed dinosaur marriages were such a bore.

“Father’s going to be in the path of the storm. Say something!”

The T-Melania dropped her eyes. The T-Rump and her no longer held hands … or went out for a late night Brachiosaurus snack any more.

“When will you be home?” she asked, hoping he’d  be washed away.

“I’ll return when the Trollertweety is tweeting the loudest. Triumphant. Winning.”

“Dad!” shouted the T-Rump Jr., rushing over to him. “What am I going to do without you?”

“You have my name, son. That’s all you’ll need. Don’t wear it out.”

The T-Rump turned to leave once more. He was about to plunge into the howling wind and rain when another dinosaur staggered in. It was the Schillersaurus, an Uberguardian dinosaur from the T-Rump’s days of yore.

“Schillersaurus,” said the T-Rump. “You’re too late. I’ve made up my mind.”

“No, I’ve come to collect for previous work.”

“Oh. Well, help yourself to some Caviaraptor legs.”

The Schillersaurus scurried over to the dinosaur delicacy. The T-Rump stood there, looking back.

“It’s not too late to protect me.”

“I’m good,” said the Schillersaurus, waving him off between nibbles.  

The T-Rump set his jaw and traipsed off in the tail-deep flood waters.

In the few hours that followed, his would be a carefree journey, for the hurricane changed its path. It made a catastrophic direct hit upon Mar-a-Guano. The T-Rump arrived home the following day after the flood waters had receded.

“Dad!” screamed the T-Vankanatrix, “You left us for the — the … Conch Republic! How could you? You were drinking from the dirty end of the swamp, weren’t you?”

“I — I …”

“Look at me!” shrieked the normally placid T-Melania. “Just look at my scales! They’re ruined!”

She bounded off, sobbing uncontrollably, to hide behind what was left of a bush. The T-Rump turned to the T-Rump Jr.

“Son?”

“You … weren’t here. I didn’t know what to do.”

“Come here, son.” He put his arm around the T-Rump Jr. “Now, before you run and get Sukelowphus and Futerfasphus, we need to let them know … one … that this was the biggest hurricane and …”

“You were here, dad.”

“That’s my boy.”

Categories
Satire The Trump Dig

T-Rump Coaches T-Rump Jr. …

“I can’t do it. I won’t do it!”

The Tyrumposaurus Junior lashed out his tail, striking the wall of the oval dwelling, narrowly missing the T-Rump, the Sukelowphus and the smaller Futerfasphus. The latter two dinosaurs were always close at hand, Sub Family to the Pantsonfire Solisitaur.

“Now, now,” said the T-Rump, patting his son on the head. “Everything’s going to be fine. It’s just the Cynette-Judy-Sherry Committee. Those three? C’mon. What could possibly happen?”

“That’s what you said the last time before you had me tell the Mediacircustops I was talking with three Kayjeebeeops about baby dinos.”

“That could play in the dirt beside the Crookadillary,” added the Futerfasphus.

The T-Rump looked from the Futerfasphus to his son.

“That’s why he’s your Solisitaur.”

“T-Rump,” said the Sukelowphus, “just so we’re straight, you’re not having this conversation with T-Rump Jr. right now.”

“Listen to you,” said the T-Rump, “Just so we’re straight. You crack me up. Listen to me, clarity is not good. Believe me, not good.”

“What about me,” said the Futerfasphus, “Am I here?”

A prehistoric cricket chirped. The Sukelowphus turned to T-Rump Junior.

“If you don’t go, they’ll send the Suppeenaraptors after you.”

“Dad, you’ve got to help me!”

“Stop that. You’re scaring him,” said the T-Rump. He tapped his chin with a gnarly claw. “Now then, what would the Putinodon want me to do? I know. What if the baby dinos were from the Crookadillary?”

“The Crookadillary is ancient history,” said the Sukelowphus.

“Okay, just a shot in the dark. How about an adjustment to the Kayjeebeeops migration pattern … because of the anticipated Biblical Flood Belt.”

“The timeline is a little sketchy but, like you said …”

“Who needs clarity?”

The T-Rump Jr. hugged his father.

“Gee, thanks, dad. You’re a lifesaver.”

Categories
Satire The Trump Dig

Today’s Menu: Nuclearballisticus …

It was once again feeding time at the Puhl-DePlugg Reservoir. It seemed like it always was what with the Tyrumposaurus keen on maintaining his svelte, 9-ton figure. This required he devour upwards of 285,000 calories daily. There would be no counting calories today however. The catered dinosaur was a special one. Freshly killed Nuclearballisticus.

The T-Rump had invited several special guests to the oval dwelling to gnaw bones and chew the fat with him. They included the Kimjongadon, the Seoulkoreasaur, the Chungkingosaurus and the smaller Tokyohiroshima. The T-Rump eyed his favorite part of the Nuclearballisticus. He knew the hard shell would explode in his stomach later. He was salivating already and would have to stake his claim.

“Okay, everyone. We need to set some ground rules first.”

He stared down the Kimjongadon, who gleefully clapped his little hands together at the sudden attention.

“Kimjongadon, I’m sorry, but there will be no Nuclearballisticus for you.”

The Kimjongadon stopped in mid-clap.

“You invite me to dinner and you’re not going to feed me? Are you crazy!”

“Here we go again. You wanna see crazy?”

The other dinosaurs ducked their heads into their hands. Even the Kimjongadon blinked. The T-Rump was firm.

“You’ve got to stop playing with your food, Kimjongadon. You make the Seoulkoreasaur here nervous and last week you almost hit the poor Tokyohiroshima.”

“Don’t be too harsh with him,” said the Chungkingosaurus. “He just wants to eat with us at the big table.”

“Yeah,” said the Seoulkoreasaur, “he can’t help it if he’s a Kimjongadon.”

The Seoulkoreasaur reached for a side of Tradebaitor, the ornithopod appetizer of the day, only to see the T-Rump snatch it away.

“Hey! I wasn’t done with that yet.”

“You are now,” said the T-Rump. He turned to the Chungkingosaurus. “You may help yourself to some Tradebaitor … I said SOME,” and to the Kimjongadon, “Oh, I’m sorry, definitely none for you.”

A perplexed Kimjongadon looked to the Chungkingosaurus for support.

“Sorry, he has a point. Behave yourself and we’ll stop for some Petrodactyl on the way home.”

“That’s what I’m talking about,” the T-Rump scolded the Chungkingosaurus. “You shouldn’t encourage the little rogue.”

The Kimjongadon turned four shades of purple.

“I have to live too, you know!” he sputtered, saliva flying.

“Not on Nuclearballisticus, you don’t,” said the T-Rump. “You know what they say, too much of a good thing is bad for you. No, Kimjongadon, it’s become quite clear you only understand one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Next time, for you … it’s a happy meal.”

Categories
Satire The Trump Dig

The T-Rump’s Drafted Etchings …

The Muellersavus was out for one of his long walks, puzzling his puzzler over his investigation into the Tyrumposaurus’ dealings with the Putinodon, sworn enemy to the Milkanhoney Preservation. Apart from eating and sleeping, this was the Muellersavus’ raison d’etre since the T-Rump had taken over the Puhl-DePlugg Reservoir. Munching on the remnants of a prehistoric mulberry bush, something caught the Muellersavus’ eye.  

Fast forward an hour later. The Muellersavus tossed his discovery at the feet of the T-Rump in the oval dwelling. It was a two-foot by one-foot piece of slate with the smooth side carrying a message. The Stephenmillersaurus was also present.

“What’s that?” said the T-Rump.

“It’s a draft of an etching you were going to give to the Comeyonus before you sent him to Elba.”

Elba was short for Elba-Elbowroom, a distant desert for the exiled dinosaur.

“Never seen it.”

“Take a good look, T-Rump. You signed it with your crooked claw. That’s your trademark tremoring earthquake scrawl.”

“Okay, so that’s my signature. It’s a beautiful signature, isn’t it? But it doesn’t prove a thing.”

“Read it,” said the Muellersavus.

“Dear Comeyonus. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out. You may look like a boy scout but you couldn’t start a fire with a lake full of fossil fuel.”

“I must say, I find that very tacky for a dinosaur of your stature,” said the Muellersavus.

“I was just warming up.”

“So am I.”

The Muellersavus motioned to a long line of Langleytips, nose-to-the-ground sauropods, who came forward to lay down dozens of similar-sized slate etchings before the T-Rump, who turned angrily to the Stephenmillersaurus.

“I thought I told you to get rid of these!”

“I did! I took them all the way to the Land-Before-Time Lowlands. I almost broke my back. Oh, wow. Look at me, everyone. Now that was something to see.”

“Ahem,” said the T-Rump indignantly. “You do know the rules about oval dwelling hyperbole.”

“Sorry. Your terrain.”

“Well, well,” said the T-Rump, turning his frown to the Muellersavus. “I see a whole lot of fake news here.”

“News with your name on it.”

“I’ve got nothing to hide. I don’t know a Putinodon from a Platypus.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Here, read this one.”

“Dear Comeyonus,” said the T-Rump. “If I see your Platypus face around here again, I’m going to stuff an apple in it and serve you to the Putinodon.” The T-Rump snorted. “It’s just another coincidence inside a coincidence wrapped inside a coincidence by the lying Mediacircustops. What else you got? C’mon, I haven’t got all day.”

The Muellersavus shuffled through several slates. He paused at one etching.

“This should have you off to Elba.”

The T-Rump poured over the slate.

“Dear Comeyonus, I have asked you morning, noon and night if you’re investigating me. I lay awake every night wondering if you are. This has caused such confusion in the oval dwelling. The Huckabeecyclops is cross-eyed trying to keep our stories straight. This is all your fault. So long, loser.”

“Or this one,” said the Muellersavus.

“Dear Comeyonus, you back-stabbing, bipedal theropod. I AM obstructing justice. Because I CAN.” The T-Rump looked at the Stephenmillersaurus. “We forgot to kick him out in this one.”

“I think it was implied.”

“And finally, this one,” said the Muellersavus.

“Dear Comeyonus, I’m at the end of my claws and I’m still mad at you. My handlers tell me the Rosensteinoton is going to do the final etching with some fake story about the Crookadillary. This may be my last draft but it is my first truth. I hate you! Be gone! Elba is too good for you!”

“You kicked him out good there, boss,” said the Stephenmillersaurus.

“Why didn’t we go with that one? I’ll always wonder. Why not?”

Categories
Satire The Trump Dig

T-Rump and the Dying Magazineplex …

The Tyrumposaurus retreated from the Biblical Flood Belt back to the dry safety of his oval dwelling. He stumbled across an old, bedraggled Magazineplex in the throes of old age. The glossy, Biweeklian herbivore was a close, working associate of the Mediacircustops.

“Help, I’ve fallen and I can’t get up” came his weakened cry.

The T-Rump leaned over for a closer look.

“Why, you’re a dying Magazineplex. That’s who you are!”

“You wouldn’t understand a deadline if it bit you,” the herbivore said in a dry raspy voice.

“So that’s what happened. Wait a minute. I know you. You’re the one who’s been false reporting. You’re fake news, pal.” He poked him repeatedly in the stomach. “Fake. Fake. Fake.”

“I beg your pardon.” The Magazineplex coughed into his paw. “I’m the Fifth Estate.”

“Oh, yeah?” The T-Rump looked around. “Looks like your four buddies have left. Where’s your ferocious anger now? I’ll tell you where. Dying. D-uh-Y-I-N-G.”

The Magazineplex motioned for the T-Rump to come closer. The T-Rump kneeled over him.

“What is it? This volcanic sand doesn’t agree with my knees.”

The herbivore motioned for the T-Rump to come closer still. The T-Rump put his ear close to the Magazineplex’ mouth.

“DACA–” whispered the herbivore, barely audible.

“The Dacadreamers?” said the T-Rump. The Magazineplex slowly nodded. The Dacadreamer was a Sub Family of the Latinonachos dinosaur encroaching on the Milkanhoney Preservation.

“Oh, they’re dreamers all right. How am I ever going to get the Great Tex-Mex Divide done if I have to worry about the Dacadreamers? All I’m trying to do here is make the Milkanhoney Preservation great again.”

“Eight hundred thousand.” The herbivore struggled to get the words out.

“Don’t remind me. This looks like a job for the Sheriffjovenator.” The T-Rump rose to his feet. He stamped his right foot impatiently, kicking dust in the face of the dying Magazineplex. The T-Rump slapped his two-fingered hands together.

“That’s it! I will get the Dacadreamers to build the Great Tex-Mex Divide. If they do a good job I may — I said MAY — let them stay.”

The Magazineplex slowly blinked his eyes, unbelieving of the T-Rump’s words.

The T-Rump looked down at him.

“Aren’t you dead yet?”

Categories
Satire The Trump Dig

T-Rump’s Natural Disaster …

Having quickly passed the Phrydaynoos Dump, the Tyrumposaurus was briefly touring the Biblical Flood Belt with the Femasaurus and Montenegrossus. The Femasaurus was a well-meaning stegosaur with four posterior dorsal vertebrae — great for pushing mud around. The Montenegrossus was a small, sharp-beaked Zonaguvrep herbivore by way of sunny Salvador-Junta.

“Wow,” said the T-Rump. “Now that’s a flood. We just arrived but I think it’s bigger since I got here.”

“In the past hour,” said the grim-faced Femasaurus, “it has displaced a giant herd of Hesperosaurus.” 

“Santa Ana!” exclaimed the Montenegrossus.

“You know,” said the T-Rump, “this is pretty close, yes, we’re almost on top of the site for the Great Tex-Mex Divide.”

The Femasaurus pointed off in the distance.

“Looks like another gang of Gigantosaurus floating away.”

“Great swimmers,” said the T-Rump. “Great swimmers.”

“San Miguel!” exclaimed the Montenegrossus.

“Incredible, isn’t it?” said the Femasaurus.

“Oh, sure,” said the Montenegrossus. “But I was just homesick for my old home, sunny Salvador-Junta.”

“Don’t get too sunny,” said the T-Rump. “We still have to build the Great Tex-Mex Divide.”

“There goes a pack of Pamparaptors,” said the Femasaurus.

“You do realize,” the T-Rump said to the Montenegrossus, “that you’ll have to leave your Salvador-Junta behind.”

“Oh, well. What’s another coup?”

“You’re a good dinosaur. Don’t worry, I’m going to build the Great Tex-Mex Divide if I have to stop the Nafta Trade Winds!”

“You can do that? … I mean, of course you can.”

The Femasaurus pointed out a flailing Fendusaurus in the raging floodwaters.

“I think that’s the last of their species.”

“Tell me about the Leftwing Narrativedactyl,” said the T-Rump.

“I – I haven’t seen any yet,” said the Femasaurus.

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

The Montenegrossus brightened.

“Yes, of course. The Leftwing Narrativedactyl. It flies in circles for the Donkeykongrus. It would like to make a case for the meaningless Thuggasaurus when the larger, more important Sheriffjovenators of our period — and all their sweeping powers — need all our attention to keep them active.  That is Trumpassic justice.”

“Indeed it is,” said the T-Rump. “You’re going to go far in my Milkanhoney Preservation. Where’d you say you were from again?