Categories
Satire The Trump Dig

Business as Usual …

“Why are you always picking on me?”

Beside the T-Rump Jr. and the Huckabeecyclops, the Kushneratops squatted, his bottom lip tucked over his top lip. It was his extra-pouty look he saved for times like this.

“I run a tight ship here, you greenfoot gremlin,” growled the Marinegunkelly. “After the Robporter fiasco — damn, there went a fine reptile — I’m afraid I have to amend your interim security clearance. Now drop and give me twenty.”

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry, force of habit.” Of course the Marinegunkelly secretly wished he could mold the puny dino before him — hang nail by dreaded hang nail — into a fighting machine.

“But, but,” stammered the Kushneratops, “I’ll still be able to read the T-Rump’s daily briefs, right?”

“Over my dead body.”

“But I need the daily brief. It makes me look … important.”

“Frankly, greenhorn, I don’t give a damn. Consider yourself lucky your new clearance allows you to see the breakfast menu.”

Mock horror from the Kushneratops.

“What about me?” asked the T-Rump Jr. “Do I carry as much of your so-called ‘significant derogatory’ information?”

“Well, it’s close, but …”

“Yes!” The T-Rump Jr. did a silly twirl and stuck his tongue out at his brother-in-law. “Winning!”

“But,” the Marinegunkelly cut in, “I’m not happy with your trip to New Delly-Dally to sell T-Rump Bombasement Suites.”

“You want one? For 38,000 moolah-moolah leaves you get a meeting and dinner with me.”

“I’m meeting with you right now.”

“Dinner?”

The Marinegunkelly turned to the mildly amused Huckabeecyclops.

“Do you believe this?”

“Well, I can make the average dino believe anything.”

An eye roll from the chief of staff. He turned back to the T-Rump Jr.

“No dinner. Unless it’s you.”

“O-k-a-a-a-y … So, how many Bombasement Suites can I put you down for then?”

“You can’t profit from the T-Rump name while your father leads the free-run dinosaur world.”

“That’s totally unfair!”

“Why’s that?”

“This Bombasement Suites deal began w-a-a-a-a-y in advance of pop conquering the Crookadillary. It’s a crying shame!”

The Kushneratops took this as his cue to pout and whimper anew.

“Wait, not yet.” The T-Rump Jr. turned back to the Marinegunkelly. “We get no credit. We put these huge impositions on ourselves. We’re making big sacrifices by not doing new deals.”

The chief of staff stiffened.

“It’s an opportunity for corruption. You can be compromised.”

“Oh, no. We’re getting the best deal.”

“It’s unethical!”

It was the Kushneratops’ turn to stick out his tongue at the T-Rump Jr.

“Stop that!” Spittle flew freely from the Marinegunkelly’s mouth. “Our foreign policy is NOT for sale.”

The two brothers-in-law shared a look. The T-Rump Jr. pointed to the Marinegunkelly.

“He’s gotta go.”

The Kushneratops smirked.

“Ah, he’s still new. He doesn’t realize everything’s for sale.”

He is still here,” the Marinegunkelly shot back. “And now I’m not.”

With that, he turned smartly on his gnarly heels to leave.

“Wait a minute,” said the Kushneratops. “I have a buyer. For the Oval Dwelling.”

The chief of staff stopped dead in his tracks.

“You what?”

“Oh, don’t worry. He’s good for it. The Putinodon. You know, 200 billion?”

A stern look from the Marinegunkelly wiped the grins off the Kushneratops and the T-Rump Jr.’s faces. The two looked hopefully at the Huckabeecyclops.

“Don’t worry boys,” she said. “I’ll just say that out of the pure goodness of his Russo-heartland heart, the Putinodon is happily, truly invested in the Milkanhoney Preservation.”

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?”