Satire The Trump Dig

Neutering the Nitwit …

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.”


“The Debfischer in the Cornhusker Esker.”


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

“I warned him about those salt deposits.”

“And the Johnbarrasso in the Wyoming Mound.”


“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 … 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!”