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.
David Belisle 