Tag: Belisle

The Francisrooney smacked his lips and sank his teeth into a succulent paleo-bartlett pear. The Citrondental or “Fruity Tooth” dino from the Neverglades spit out the core and reached for another. Lining up with the Tyrumposaurus as a member of the Grandoldparty dinosaurs had its perks, including the first pick of the tree. He tugged the pear-laden branch down and looked straight into the grave face of the Saveyourenergyrex, who always looked to be suffering from a massive headache.

“What can I do for you?” asked the Francisrooney. “A pear perhaps?” He offered a branch.

The Saveyourenergyrex shook his head, his low brow furrowing deeper into his scaly scalp.

“There’s been a purge.”

“They’re called pears.”

“Not the fruit. I’m talking about your family. We purged your family.”

The Francisrooney’s pear hit the ground with a thud.

“You what?”

The Saveyourenergyrex frowned at having to repeat himself.

“We purged them. Your brothers, the Patrickrooney, the Timothyrooney, the Jamesrooney … and your sisters, the Lucyrooney and the Rebeccarooney. Gone. All gone. Purged with a capital ‘P’.”

“But …”

“Please, I’m not done yet. We also purged your wife, the Kathleenrooney and your mother, the Lucyturnerrooney. We didn’t have to purge your father, the Laurencerooney, because he was already extinct. But rest assured, we did manage to purge your immediate family.”

“My wife?”

“Oh, yes,” nodded the Saveyourenegyrex. “The Kathleenrooney, your sons, the Larryrooney and the Michaelrooney. Let’s not forget your daughter, the Kathleendalyrooney.

The Saveyourenergyrex looked at the Francisrooney standing there with his mouth gaping open, his drool pooling on the ground.

“You look surprised.”

“But why?”

“Francis, these are tough political times we live in. The Strzokpeter made a wisecrack about the T-Rump and you in turn wanted a purge of the Langleytips.”

“But I’m not maybe the most nuanced political dinosaur in the world.”

“Do you even know what ‘nuance’ means?”

“A subtle difference?”

“And you call yourself a political dinosaur. How can you use subtle and purge in the same sentence? Why, that’s like political lifeblood and herpes.”

“It’s been done?”

“Unfortunately. Francis, have you already forgotten the Shanghai Disaster … or the Night of the Long Tails? Good god, dino, you do recall the Great Purge?”

“I’m not maybe the most historical dinosaur in the world.”

“Then allow me to fill in some blanks. The Stalinator wiped out a million of his own dinosaurs. Do you know how many dino bones that is?”

“I’m not maybe the most mathematical dinosaur in the world.”

“Be that as it may, we still have some numbers to crunch.”

“Such as?”

“Your extended family,” said the Saveyourenergyrex. “A purge is after all, top to bottom.”

“You want to kill every dino I know?”

“I was just thinking family, but you’ve raised a fair point. Sure, give me what you’ve got. I’m sure at least one of them must have made one tiny, little, sniggling remark about the Crookadillary.”

“But she’s not even the leader!”

“Tell that to the Foxsquawkbox.”

The Saveyourenergyrex turned away, leaving the Francisrooney to stare down dejectedly at his discarded pear on the ground. His fruity tooth didn’t feel so fruity any more. The Saveyourenergyrex paused and turned around.

“Oh, Francis?”

“Yes?”

“I was just kidding about the purge.”

A look of horror hit the Francisrooney’s face.

“How could you?”

“Well, I had one of my rare meetings with the Mediacircustops today … and it struck me that maybe they think I don’t have a sense of humor.”

The Tyrumposaurus stepped to the waist-high, makeshift Bullee-Tar Pit. He looked over the multitude of Mediacircustops before him at the exclusive Flogging Grounds at Mar-a-Guano. He would’ve liked to have got another round in today, but he couldn’t pass up the chance to boast just one more time about his one lone-but-stunning achievement. Apart, that is, from moving the Neilgorsuch to the esteemed Dino-Judge neighborhood and into a small two-storey brownstone on Supreme Court. No, the T-Rump was here to crow about his Grandoldparty’s brand new, massive mytaxes returnus plan which would change the lives of every dinosaur in the Milkanhoney Preservation.

The mytaxes returnus was the green layer of skin every dinosaur — except the T-Rump of course — shed each spring. It was a painful yet necessary process. While the moolah-moolah leaves were the true currency of the land, this extra green skin was a status symbol of sorts, marking one’s place in the dinosaur hierarchy. The more mytaxes returnis they could line their nest with, the better. After all, it was their skin.

“Welcome,” the T-Rump said, puffing out his chest. “I want to begin by saying that, while the loss of your mytaxes returnus has down through history appeared to be a natural biological process, I’m here today to blame it on the Obamarus and the Crookadillary. Just saying … Fortunately, while you may think of it as the skin off your back, let me assure you, I’m not making any moolah-moolah from the skin off your back. No. Never. No way.”

“T-Rump!” shouted the nearest Mediacircustops. “What does your new plan do for the average dinosaur family of four?”

Off to the side, the Marinegunkelly could be seen cringing, hiding his face in his claws.

“I’ll tell you what it means,” said the T-Rump. “This is the largest one-time reduction in the mytaxes returnus rate for the Really Big Dinosaurs, from 35 percent down to 21 percent. We need to get on the right side of nature. Call it our inherent right — as the biggest dinos on the block. We will provide for you. Trust me. Oh, if I could only tell you the pain we have suffered to get where we are today. I’ve only flogged 100 times in 300 days so far. Can you stand it?”

“You smaller dinos, fear not. For most of you, it will just be a small cut for the next eight years. Then you’re pretty much on your own. But why worry about then? I’m here now.”

“I know we hurried through some last minute changes on this. It came to our attention that the Really Big Dinosaurs needed more, but I can happily say to the Middleclass dinos, if you’re still educating your walnut as you lay in a broken heap at the bottom of Loophole, the sinkhole of all sinkholes, you can get a little mytaxes returnus back. Just a little, mind you. Let’s not get crazy.”

“And just last Friday, I met with the small hands dino, the Marcorubio, and we agreed to change the child dino credit. So, to relieve stress, we’ll be moving one child from each family of four to a dino family with no kids. It’s basically one less mouth to feed. That’s right. Why didn’t we think of this before? It’s a fantastic idea. Simply wonderful for the Workingclass dinos.”

“T-Rump!” came a shout from the Mediacircustops. “Does this plan benefit you or not?”

“I know I’ve said countless times that this new mytaxes returnus does not help me. But, at the end of the day, when you’ve lied over 1600 times, I ask you … what is one more? Insignificant. Infini-TIZZ-mal. Really, it is. Anything else you hear is fake news.”

“T-Rump! What about the moolah-moolah leaves? What about the bottom line?”

“Yes, we will owe another one trillion moolah-moolah leaves, but that’s why I have my best dinos on this. Moolah-moolah trees are very, very scarce these days, so if you see one, let them know. This will of course be on you.”

“Just a reminder, but those of you who want to deduct 10,000 moolah-moolah leaves, the rampaging Propertyvalue predators could fall right into your dwelling. A scary thought. But now you know. You’ve been warned.”

“I know I said the average dino family would save 2,000 moolah-moolah leaves, but that really depends on what kind of situation you’re in … as far as saving my skin in next year’s battle with the Donkeykongrus.”

“But what about the individual mandate?”

“To always eat slower-running species?”

“No, for the mytaxes returnus.”

“Oh. Well, you won’t have to worry about giving any more moolah-moolah leaves if you don’t fall off a cliff or get caught in a stegosaurus stampede. But for some of you, 13 million to be exact, that won’t matter. You’re just going to be extinct before the rest of us, that’s all.”

“Speaking of the dead, we were going to waive the mytaxes returnus on any moolah-moolah leaves left by a deceased dinosaur … but the Really Big Dinosaurs, they’re so gracious, they decided to give a tiny, little strip of their green skin back. But we doubled the threshold, which means a Really Big Dinosaur couple won’t have to pay back any green skin unless they have more than 22 million moolah-moolah leaves.”

He looked at the stunned audience.

“What, you don’t have 22 million moolah-moolah? … I do. But it’s good to see the Really Big Dinosaurs paying their fair share.”

“So,” ventured another Mediacircustops, “your new plan basically makes the Middleclass dinosaur a Secondclass dinosaur.”

“For eight years. Call it a little gain for future pain. I’m only here for eight years so I had to … I mean, we have to make the most of it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I can squeeze in another game of flog, while I’m working of course.”  

Thousands of anxious dinosaurs jostled for jawing position. Crawling atop larger dinosaurs for a better view, the smaller, rabid, reptilian creatures licked their lips. Rabid fans, that is. Only a few actually had rabies. Foaming at the mouth was rampant however, as dinosaurs young and old held their jowls ajar, drooling with anticipation at the Puhl-DePlugg Reservoir’s latest search for Trumpassic Truth. Or, as the more bloodthirsty locals called it, War of the Words. It beat devouring each other.

Today’s main event featured a who’s who among the Mediacircustops in a tag-team match-up between the conspiracy theorists and the mainstream media. It would be the Deep State Schemers vs. the Main Street Morals.  A fleet of the Tyrumposaurus’ Trollertweeties flew overhead, flapping wings and beaks, announcing their verdict prematurely.

“SQUAWK! Fake News! Schemers Win! Rigged System! SQUAWK!”

Representing the conspiracy theorists were the Seanhannity and the Jeaninepirro. The Seanhannity was a ham-handed Sauropod dinosaur unambiguously referred to as the Sour Palooka. The Jeaninepirro was a Troodontid, dino-speak for a truly dented Theropod. With her telltale enlarged claw on her short second toe, she was the queen of the Weiss Crack Bedrock with her deep throaty threat of, “Cuff’em. Claw’em. Kill’em.”

The Main Street Morals were represented by the darting mouth, ivy-tongued Jaketapper, a fine, upstanding triple-O threat. That is, an Omniscient Ornithopod Omnivore able to chew up and spit out both plants and animals. Beside him was the Andersoncooper, an egg-headed Keensaurid, Sub Family of the Vanderbiltgloria.

The stage was set. The dino announcer, the Bufferator, stepped between the four verbal combatants.

“Are you ready to MUMBLE!?”

The Deep State Schemer fans leaned forward. This was jargon they knew. The Jeaninepirro flexed her small wings and stepped into the fray.

“The T-Rump says the Langleytips are in tatters!”

“He’s already fired the Comeyonus,” said the Jaketapper. “If he fires the Muellersavus that’s obstruction of justice not once, but twice.”

“Cuff him. Claw him. Kill him.” She looked like she meant it.

“Excuse me, Jeanine” said the Andersoncooper. “You’re moving very fast through the judicial process here. Kind of like you speeding down the Herbivore Hybrid Way last month. I believe that was a 65 steps per minute zone. Exactly how fast were you going?”

She glared at him, her feathers fully ruffled.

“One hundred and nineteen,” her little body growled.

“A friggin’ roadrunner. And you were in a hurry because … I mean, you were a judge, right?”

“I don’t have to answer to you. I’m not on trial here.”

“You have to answer to some higher power,” said the Jaketapper. “The law perhaps? Innocent until proven guilty. But Seanhannity, isn’t there a shred of truth when 14 female dinos allege sexual abuse against the T-Rump? This movement, you know, is gaining momentum.”

The Seanhannity shook his head.

“Heck, the Kingdavidsaurus had 500 concubines.”

The Andersoncooper eyed him carefully.

“You’re not really a journalist, are you?”

“Never said I was. I’m just in it for the crowd size. And say, wasn’t the crowd at the T-Rump’s inauguration bigger than for the Obamarus?

“No,” said the Jaketapper, “but overestimating power is the sign of a tyrant.”

“You mean like the Crookadillary … or the Obamarus,” said the Seanhannity, puffing out his chest. “We’re still not sure where he was born.”

“Yes we are,” said Jaketapper, “right here in the good ol’ Milkanhoney Preservation. That’s not fake news. It’s ancient. How about some news from today. Real news.”

He eyed the Jeaninepirro.

“Don’t look at me,” she said. “I’m not in the news.”

“Oh, but you are. Again. You claimed the Mckessonderay dino directed others at a Gayblackinus dinosaur rally to injure a security dino, this coming after the judge had already dismissed the case.”

“That’s free speech.”

“No, that’s called defamation of a dinosaur’s character, which is why the Mckessonderay is suing you and your Foxsquawkbox friends.”

The Seanhannity stepped forward, looking to swing momentum back the Deep State’s way.

“I speak with the T-Rump all the time.”

“To pat him on the back … or ask him tough questions the public wants to know?” asked the Andersoncooper. “Why does the T-Rump play nice with the Putinondon instead of putting in the moolah-moolah leaf sanctions against the Moscovian Bluffs he signed into law more than four months ago?

The Jeaninepirro hopped about, beak swinging to and fro.

“Are you questioning the T-Rump?!”

“That’s my job. To keep the dinosaurs informed.”

“How dare you,” she squawked. “Fake news! Cuff’im! Claw’im! Kill’im!”

“Who are you talking to?” asked the Andersoncooper.

“Our D.W. Base,” said the Seanhannity.

“D.W.?”

The Seanhannity and Jeaninepirro shared a look of guilt. Had he spilled the beans? The Jaketapper mulled it over.

“D.W. … Could that be Dog Whistle?”

Embarrassed looks from the Deep State Schemers confirmed it.

“Oh, sure,” said the Seanhannity, “the Judgeroymoore may have lost the Sin Hut Chamber Pothole seat with the good Bamahama dinos of Crimson Creek, because dinos there preferred a Donkeykongrus dinosaur to an alleged child molester — if you can wrap your head around that one. But let’s not talk about that when there are big, juicy conspiracy theories everywhere you look.”

“The Uranium One Deposits!” squawked the Jeaninepirro.

“The mysterious death of the Sethrichstaffer,” piped in the Seanhannity.

“Collusion? What collusion?” they said together.

“Stop, just stop,” the Jaketapper said, holding up one short arm. “The echoes of your deflections are deafening. You two and your 33% following scheme to blame others while those with Main Street Morals do the right thing. They throw tribalism aside, they verify the sources and simply connect the dots.”

The two Deep State Schemers stood there in a stupor. Turning to the Jaketapper, the Andersoncooper finally broke the silence.

“They’re looking for a shiny object.” He scanned the ground nearby, ultimately spotting a  medium-sized gypsum rock glinting in the sun. “I wonder what’s underneath that?”

The Seanhannity and the Jeaninepirro stole a look at each other and raced pell-mell for the rock.

“CONSPIRACY!”

“Okay, I’m trying to think. Really, I am.”

Squatting before his father, the Tyrumposaurus Jr. held his head low between his knees, his claws trying to squeeze the information he needed from it. The frowning, brow-beating T-Rump stood over him. Did his son really have amnesia or was he simply a moron? Kids these days …

“So,” the T-Rump Jr. continued, “there was you, um … your lawyer … and me … and my lawyer.”

“And?”

“And that makes four. Then I made an executive decision …”

“There’s your first mistake. You’re no executive. You’re lucky to be a senior staff member.”

“So, I … I made a senior staff member decision to use attorney-client privilege. I did good. Right, dad?”

“No. I didn’t know this until after the fact but I’m still putting the blame squarely on you. You can’t say that to protect a father-son conversation. And you had to be my son. I blame your mother for that.”

The T-Rump threw his short arms up in the air.

“Now they’re going to send the Subpoenaraptor after you. We’ll have to go through the whole damn thing all over again. You’ve made this a disaster! How do you think I feel when you’re in there getting grilled for eight hours?”

“Tired?”

“Tired? It’s exhausting! How many times have I told you? Deny, deny, deny.” He poked his son on the noggin with each word. “Or at least pretend you have amnesia like the Sessionsopussum.”

“Nobody’s that good.”

“That’s how he got where he is,” said the T-Rump. “That forgetful little opossum is the top law official in the land, thanks to me.”

“I was just trying to think on my own. You know I have trouble keeping it straight. Which came first again — was it the baby dinos or the Crookadillary dirt?

“The baby dinosaurs! Those damn little orphans. Stick to the story. What is the Putinodon going to think of us?”

“He may be a little upset, but hasn’t every senior dinosaur here already spoken with every Kayjeebeeops here and there. Surely he must appreciate that.”

“For someone who knows so much, you know so little. Let me do the thinking.”

“Sure, I guess that’s why there are so few dinosaurs in the Oval Dwelling, right?”

“For a reason. No dino can keep up with me.”

“Does that, uh … include me?” The T-Rump Jr. looked up at his father, hoping for a single, if fleeting bonding moment.

“Son … I can still call you that … I taught you everything you know, but not everything I know.”

The T-Rump Jr. was on the verge of tearing up. He shivered, wiped his nose and shivered some more.

“But you let the Kushneratops have the Middle Eastlands,” he said in a snively, whiny voice.

“Of course, for him it’s just a homework assignment. I’m sure he can wrap it up in a few days. Moving Jerusalem’s Lot will make it that much easier. I don’t need you starting a war over there. I can do that myself.”

“What about the Tyvankanatrix? She said that accused child molester Judgeroymoore would go to hell.”

“Son, the Sin Hut Chamber Pothole? It too can be hell at times. Cheer up, dammit. You can’t help it if your sister is prettier than you.”

The T-Rump Jr. rubbed his red, post-tantrum eyes. He set his jaw and dino’d up.

“Speaking of that accused child molester Judgeroymoore, I see the Alfrankenstein, the Johnconyers and the Trentfrankfurter … they’re all having to leave the pack and you’re still standing. How do you do it, dad?”

“Ha! No shame. No fear. … Say, that could be my next campaign slogan. It just needs that something little extra …”

“Now you can thank me?”

“That’s it! … Well, son, I’ll be keeping you another week.”