Tag: Donald Trump

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Satire The Trump Dig

Ethics with the Richardpainter …

“Trump?! I know you’re in there. Come on out!”

A groggy-eyed Tyrumposaurus rose from his mid-morning nap. He’d sent out his fleet of Trollertweeties on a tweeting foray against those damned Donkeykongrus who kept him from ruling the Trumpassic World carte blanche. Fire and fury was a tough road to hoe. He was exhausted. The T-Rump turned to the T-Rump Jr., squatting at the foot of his king-sized, moolah-moolah-lined nest.

“Who is it?”

“That crazy nut the Richardpainter, from DREGS.”

DREGS was the committee Dinos for Responsibilities and Ethics in Grandoldparty Shenanigans of which the Richardpainter was a veteran member.

“Ethics,” snorted the T-Rump. “At this time of day.”

He rose from his nest and trudged down to the entrance of his sprawling dinosaur tenement, the T-Rump Dumps, where the Richardpainter stood.

“The jig is up, T-Rump!”

“What jig? Your committee has no standing. I dissolved it six weeks ago.”

“That’s why I’m standing here. I’ve begun a new committee.”

“Oh, yeah? Knock yourself out.”

“It’s called the Investigative Motion Promoting Ethics And Clearing House. IMPEACH for short.”

“News flash on the fake news front. I don’t know any Kayjeebeeops.” The T-Rump turned on his fake bone spur heel.

“What about the Davidbogatin?” snapped the Richardpainter. “Do you know that knuckle-dragging dinosaur?”

The T-Rump stopped in his tracks, causing the Richardpainter to sneer.

“Of course you do. 34 years ago he bought five of your run-down rockpiles here for six million moolah-moolah leaves. Do you remember that?”

“No. Why should I?”

“Because you were there when he moved in, grinning like a juiced-up jackal. Because that’s when the Russomafia moved in.”

The Russomafia was a large, bellicose, ruthless raptor from the other side of the fault line, a shady, dangerous haunt known as The Underground.

“He was Russomafia?” said the T-Rump. “Well, I don’t know about that.”

The Richardpainter saw through the false bravado in the T-Rump’s voice unconsciously spewing lie number 2,178.

“You don’t know a lot of things but you know damn well who the Davidbogatin was. He pleaded guilty to working with the Russomafia. His no-good brother was in cahoots with the Semionmogilevich, another nice dino you’d like to bring home to meet mama.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Oh, but you have. You know him better than that prancing pornodactyl, the Stormydaniels. The Semionmogilevich is the head honcho. The big cheese. The dino with the vino. And he can think a coherent thought, which is more than I can say for your numbskull noggin.”

“Your point?”

“The Russomafia used you and your failing T-Rump Dumps to wash millions of their moolah-moolah leaves on the banks of the Shell-Kompaneez.”

“I’ve never put a toe in that river. So it must not exist.”

“Exist? It runs right through your decrepit, downgraded soul!”

“Hah! I don’t have that either,” said the T-Rump.

“Why is it the T-Rump Dumps are one of only two dino accommodations — and I use that word lightly — that allow anonymous purchases?”

“My dinos enjoy their privacy.”

“Privacy, my battle-scarred butt. It’s so your Russomafia bunkmates can wash their moolah-moolah here and hide!”

“Where’s your proof?” scoffed the T-Rump.

“Proof? Thirty years ago you couldn’t rub two rocks together. Where’d you get the moolah-moolah for the T-Rump Dumps? … Thirteen! No less than thirteen dinos with links to the Russomafia have owned, lived in or run criminal activities out of your properties. They saved your bacon, buddy boy.”

“I’m waiting,” the T-Rump said, throwing in a yawn.

“Two years ago your T-Rump Taco Mall was fined ten million because you were washing so much Moscovian Bluffs moolah-moolah. It’s thanks to your gawd-awful performance as the perfect patsy that allowed their biggest reptiles — the Vyacheslavivankov, the Felixsater, the Tokhtakhounov — to slither on over here and call the T-Rump Dumps home.”

“Are you done yet?”

“I’ll be done when you’re sittin’ in the Solitary Sinkhole sipping on week-old skunk water.”

“Okay, then. Well, good luck with that. I’ve got to go now. I have a Great Tex-Mex Divide to build so I can put an end to this migration mess.”

“And you can tell your buddy the Putinodon to keep his Russomafia.”

Categories
Book News Satire

The Trumpassic Period — Year One!

My latest satire collection hits the Amazon Kindle eShelves, Tuesday, January 30, 2018.

In early July last year, I began “The Trump Dig,” a blog that lambasted, er … lampooned the Trump presidency, if we can we still call it that. 73 episodes later, the Tyrumposaurus’ first year is in the books. At least this one. Yes, Martha, the whole kit’n kaboodle under one cover.

For most, this politico-paleontological saga will be cathartic. You’ll be able to relive — at a safe distance — the goings-on and gang warfare that predominated the first year of a period falling somewhere between Triassic and Jurassic. It’s a fun-filled, ample dessert to Michael Wolff’s “Fire and Fury.” Tis better to laugh than cry.

You may order your copy at Amazon.

Thank you for your smileys, kind comments and support.

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’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?

Categories
Satire The Trump Dig

Charlottesville Divide Aftermath …

Today’s bones point to a closed oval dwelling meeting between the T-Rump and his closest followers. This included the Bannonesia, a bird-like theropod that had escaped mention until now. He tended to avoid the Mediacircustops. The Bannonesia’s scientific name is Bannonesia Bibe, which translates literally to “Banana Daiquiri.” It’s also possible that the Bannonesia is really just an Ornerysourpuss.

This meeting came on heels of the disaster at the Charlottesville Divide and, based on recent improvements in Psycho-Osteo Brainstem-Stammering, the gathering went something like this.

“We need to send a clear message that will not alienate our dinosaur base,” said the Bannonesia.

“I’m sorry,” said the T-Rump. “Are we talking about the Psychonazisaurs and the Peacepicnix?”

“We should refer to them as the Sub Family Altrightraptors. Oh, and T-Rump?

“Yes?”

“The Peacepicnix aren’t in a Sub Family even close to us.”

“Oh.”

There was knock outside the oval dwelling. This would be a dinosaur banging his tail against the side of the cave.

The T-Rump Jr. went to check it out. He returned shortly.

“Who is it?” asked the T-Rump.

“The Gayblackinus.”

“Not again,” said the Bannonesia.

The Gayblackinus was an ostrich-like theropod wanting to take part in the daily oval dwelling meetings. The Gayblackinus was also the main prey of the Altrightraptors.

“I told him he could mention my name,” said the T-Rump.

“And that is all,” said the Bannonesia. “I mean, look at him. He’s got a small head, a beak with no teeth and his neck is too long. His eyes are too large and they’re on the side of his head. So, no, he doesn’t have binocular vision. C’mon, dinosaurs, he’s got short arms.”

The Merckeus turned to the Intellidon.

“But we all have short arms.”

The Bannonesia continued.

“Did I say he has small hands too?”

“That’s it,” said the Merckeus. “I’ve had enough of this. My family has been roaming these parts for 20 millions years and I’ve never heard of such nonsense. A dinosaur is a dinosaur is a dinosaur. I will take the Vow of Herbivoreum before I listen to one more syllable from this banana split.”

“Daiquiri,” said the Bannonesia.

The Merckeus headed for the exit.

“Me too,” said the Intellidon.

“Me three, said the Underarmourhorna.

“Call me the quorum,” said the Alliansaurus.

“What’s that?” asked the T-Rump.

“That was half our Sub Family Manufactrus,” said the frowning Bannonesia.

The four Manufactrus left the meeting with their snouts held high. Their void was quickly filled by a stampede of Mediacircustops. The T-Rump shook his head.

“Doesn’t anybody bang their tail any more?”

“T-Rump,” hollered one of the Mediacircustops. “What do you have to say about the Altrightraptors?”

“Are you going to mention them by name, T-Rump?” demanded another Mediacircustops. “Is the Gayblackinus safe?”

The T-Rump turned to the Bannonesia, who shook his head and gave a low, guttural grunt, the early origins of the dog whistle.

“Right,” said the T-Rump. “Gather round. Listen, the weather is great. None of those white fluffy things for I don’t know how long. This is the greatest weather the world has ever seen.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said the Mediacircustops in dismissive unison. They turned to leave.

“Wait!” said the T-Rump. “I’m seriously thinking of inviting the Sheriffjovenator for a game of flog. Remember him? From Zonapinkshortz? All hail the Sheriffjovenator! He’s a good ol’ dino. That’s news. Great news. Isn’t it?”

Categories
Satire The Trump Dig

T-Rump’s Treacherous Rhetoric …

TinyBrainMuch has been made of the dinosaur’s brain being the size of a walnut. I would suggest however, that in times of great duress, they put their tiny brains together. One such event was when the Tyrumposaurus and the Kimjongadon were on the verge of a knock-down, drag-out battle of which the world had never seen. Still at the name-calling stage, they quickly ran their walnuts dry. They thus called upon their best dinosaurs to fill the verbal void. It went something like this …

The ball was in the Kimjongadon’s court. He motioned for the Arthurianator to come forward and deliver. The one-time king theropod stepped forward to face the T-Rump.

“You are the greatest wickedness of a wicked species. You are so wicked that you must not be allowed.”

“Hah!” said the T-Rump, “Is that the best you got? Bring on the Dubyabushemus.”

The near-sighted sauropod stepped before the Kimjongadon and cleared his throat.

“One of the hardest parts of my job is to connect Iraq to the war on terror.”

“Aw, c’mon, Dubya,” said the T-Rump. “That didn’t sound Trumpassic. I need Trumpassic, everyone. Go, get back to work.”

The Kimjongadon called upon the Clarecassandraptor, who addressed the T-Rump.

“I learned to play the instruments of war and how to paint in your blood.”

“How cute,” said the T-Rump. “He’s going cutesy on me, everybody! You hear that? Cutesy!”

He looked over what was left of his hard-core base of his followers. Many had left for a disturbance on the Charlottesville Divide.

“You, Pattoneon. You won’t let me down.”

The Pattoneon marched up, stopping smartly in front of the Kimjongadon.

“May God have mercy on you because I won’t.”

“Hah!” laughed the T-Rump. “That’s good. What HE said. Yeah. What he said!”

But the Kimjongadon didn’t look phased at all. It was just another day at the office for him. He pointed and out of the dino crowd came the Marktwaineon. The sour-faced sauropod looked up at the T-Rump.

“God created war so that you could learn geography.”

The Kimjongadon crowd cheered and clapped their little arms as fast as they could.

The T-Rump frowned. He didn’t like being second best. To compound matters, word came from the Charlottesville Divide that the situation there had grown worse. The Psychonazisaurs were wreaking havoc against the Peacepicnix.

Stepping back to the Bullee-Tar Pit, the T-Rump summoned the Shakespearaptor and the Jamesjoyceus. He paused to give them both the what-have-you-done-for-me-lately look. He then promptly sent them in the wrong directions.

The melee at Charlottesville needed a calming influence. It was the Shakespearaptor that arrived with the following message.

“Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war!”

Meanwhile, back at the Puhl-DePlugg Reservoir, the Jamesjoyceus strode before the Kimjongadon on the T-Rump’s behalf.

“Let my country die for me.”

Cue the dinosaur crickets. The smug T-Rump turned to the shocked Kimjongadon.

“What?” he said with his ruling Shrug of Incredulity.

Categories
Satire The Trump Dig

Cracks Where The T-Rump Lies! …

There continue to be big cracks in the T-Rump dig. Cracks from which I’m pulling bones — with more cracks — telling quite a different story from previous analyses. Cracks beget cracks. It’s the Trumpassic news cycle. I have new evidence of previous interaction between the Tyrumposaurus and the Mexicodino, the Aussiesaurus and the Scoutzhonoraptor.

I will analyze these individually of course, but we must first place this information in its proper context. The T-Rump may well be suffering from gonzofibberlips, a rare stand-alone disorder whereby it is impossible for him to remember past events. Each day is a new Paleolithic slate, where he simply rewrites the past. It’s like 50 First Dates, only this is now closing in on 200 for poor ol’ T-Rump.

Let’s go to the bones …

The T-Rump met with the Mexicodino, wanting him to look over the Great Tex-Mex Divide, an area the T-Rump viewed as being key to his survival. I’m paraphrasing here but the unhappy Mexicodino went straight to the Mediacircustops which had the T-Rump soon intervening, telling the Mediacircustops that the Great Tex-Mex Divide was safe and that the Mexicodino should put his energy to better use by cleaning up the nearby Newhampshire-Drugg Den.

The T-Rump then bumped into the Aussiesaurus, who nodded favorably to the Obamarus migration, a multi-species mass exodus. This infuriated the T-Rump, who felt it would surely kill him, the greatest dinosaur, to let so many others — about 1250 — into the Milcanhoney Preservation. The enraged T-Rump called the meeting “dino dung” preferring a previous Putinodon meeting that went “peachy keen.” Hmm …

A final note, clinching my gonzofibberlips prognosis. Thanks to a new fossil study technique called psycho-osteo brainstem-stammering, I learned that the T-Rump claimed the Scoutzhonoraptors met him to say his presence at their meeting was the greatest thing since Sliced Ted, a wise-cracking pterodactyl. In truth however, when the young Scoutzhonoraptors heard the loud, bombastic roars of the T-Rump, they dashed pell-mell over the Head-Smashed-In Dinosaur Jump to their final, fossil resting place.

We owe a great debt to the Mediacircustops and psycho-osteo brainstem-stammering for shedding light on these incredible goings-on deep in the dark depths of the Trumpassic Period.