Categories
Satire The Trump Dig

Hannity Insanity …

“Hello, T-Rump worshippers in the Milkanhoney Preservation!”

The Seanhannity smirked, drooled and smirked again. His forked tongue took a waving lick at the dripping saliva, missing badly.

“Today we have the Geraldorivera joining us. He’s recently put out a new set of footprints in the sand titled: The Geraldo Show – A Burp in History. Heh-heh. We meet again, Geraldo.”

“My jagged bite precedes me,” the guest said with a slick, less sloppy grin of his own.

The Geraldorivera was a Jewricannewyorker dinosaur, Sub Family to the Mediacircustops. He flicked his tongue out, expertly touching his nose, a symbolic reminder of his nose-for-news superiority over his host.

“Okay,” said the Seanhannity, now that we have the introductory spittle out of the way, the gracious Lauraingraham …”

“Excuse me, aren’t we going to discuss my new footprints in the sand?”

“I just mentioned it. You don’t expect me to actually look at them too?”

“There’s only a dozen.”

“Bravo. Too much info. Let’s dive right into the insane policies of the left, shall we? … Again, I was going to have the Foxsquawkbox co-host, the Lauraingraham visit with us today but she’s away this week. Something about having to apologize to that leftist hero, the Davidhogg after she taunted him with one measly, little Trollertweety. Apparently the Nestlebeastie, the Huluhullabaloo and nine other Sponsaurus’ — Nine! — abandoned the Lauraingraham. Oh well, their loss. It’s getting so we have to actually watch what we say around here. You know what I mean?”

“It’s called common sense.”

“Hey, don’t peddle that left-wing lunacy around here. This is my show. My bias. Speaking of which, we have more bias and corruption at the height of the Langleytips dinos. The Destroy T-Rump Press is spinning in circles! We’ve uncovered another secret between the Peterstrzok and the Lisapage. They were referring to a derogatory comment about the T-Rump. The Lisapage said, and we’re bringing it to you — yes, this is a Foxsquawkbox exclusive, live here today. The Lisapage said, Ha. The first line made me smile. Quote. Unquote. Can you believe it, Geraldo? She is smiling at the T-Rump. Pure, unadulterated, hate-fueled ridicule. What alternative reality are these democratic, dead-beat dinosaurs from?”

“Well …”

“Don’t stop me, I’m on a roll. I knew I should’ve had the Lauraingraham on instead.”

“But she was suspended.”

“Geraldo, you’re not in the Alcaponus cave anymore. We have the T-Rump on our team. We can do anything.”

“They did tell you to cease and desist with the Sethrich conspiracy.”

“And I told them I would shelve it for a future date of my choosing. I’m just waiting for the T-Rump to tell me to make it so.”

The Geraldorivera yawned.

“Any other half-baked conspiracies you want me to weigh in on?”

“Don’t be coy with me. Your leftist fragile narrative is crumbling before your eyes. I’ve told you journalism is dead and buried. The left’s so-called journalists. Hah! This Muellersavus investigation is pure madness. You want a modicum of truth? I’ll give you a modicum of truth. I don’t know what modicum means … but three syllables screams intellectual. I’ll show you three rocks turned over that will lead to an avalanche of conspiracies exposing the deepest of states. They will turn your crooked neck inside out.”

The Geraldorivera cracked his neck.

“I’m listening.”

“The T-Rump called back 60 Diplomaticus’ from the Moscovian Bluffs and the Putinodon follows with the same action.”

“Meaning?”

“Don’t you see it? It’s in plain sight. The Putinodon is doing the exact same thing as the T-Rump. THIS the scrambling, anti-T-Rump Mediacircustops will very soon thrust on the Milkanhoney Preservation dinos as collusion with the Russodinos. Believe it.”

“You’re predicting conspiracies now?”

“Oh, I have to stay ahead of this. Second, the Andrewmccabe and the Comeyonus.”

“Okay, so their versions of events tend to differ.”

“Differ?! They are locked in a Death Match! Cue the Destroy the T-Rump Press Trollertweeties!”

To the side, a flock of Trollertweeties tweeted their little souls out in a rather impressive, if not ominous death march of sorts.

“Hear that?!” hollered the Seanhannity. “This is what is going on down in the bowels of the Langleytips home base as we speak. A no-holds barred fight to the finish between these two left-leaning Langleytips. One dino is sure to be dead before the day is done. They will kill their own, I tell you. You heard it here. Your voice of reason. Terrible. Just terrible.”

“We’re not going to fight now, are we?” The Geraldorivera’s aged nerves still had a tingle to them.

“No, I’m saving myself for ratings week. Finally, you may have heard, the Langleytips were there to greet, meet and take in the esteemed Tedmalloch. Take him in, I tell you! The dino is a learned scholar. Not just your ordinary walnut brain.”

“I understand he’s lied several times however in the footprints in the sand he’s peddling. It’s also widely reported that he’s a follower of Luciferianism.”

“Hah! The Kennedysaurus’ were Catholics! Catholics! Maybe that’s what we all need. A little Luciferianism. Hey, don’t knock it until you’ve tried it, right?”

The Geraldorivera slowly rose from his squat.

“I think I’ll let myself out.”

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

Two Home Alone …

“And stay there!”

The Muellersavus bared his second row of teeth, causing the Manaforta and the Rickyprisongates to cower in the corners of their respective caves. A 12-foot travel ban had been slapped on the two Tyrumposaurian advisors following their charges of conspiracy and squandering moolah-moolah leaves on very undinosaur-like home renovations in the Milkanhoney Preservation. The moolah-moolah had traveled through the Cypress Spygrass, possibly tooth-marked for the T-Rump from the Putinodon.

With a swish of his wide-ranging tail, the Muellersavus stomped off. He was a dinosaur driven by the code of the Continental Drift. That is, keeping dinosaurs off it. Better the straight and narrow. One by one, he would track down other T-Rump advisors, hangers-on and Coffeeboychucks — any and all cagey Kayjeebeeops — in his investigation that had rocked the Trumpassic world.

“Is he gone, Paulie?”

‘Paulie’ was the alias Rickyprisongates had been coached to call the Manaforta.

‘Yeah. Finally. I hate that dinosaur.”

“We’re gonna be okay. Aren’t we, Paulie?”

“Of course we are. As long as we stick to our story.”

“Which one?”

“You know.”

“Uh, we’re the center of the Odessa Messa?”

“No. One more time, Ricky. We were working for the Center — capital ‘C’ — which distances us from the Odessa Messa. Remember?”

“Oh, right. So, uh … what are we gonna do now, Paulie?”

“Busting out of this dump real soon. That’s what we’re doing.”

“But how? You heard him. A 12-foot travel ban. For six months. That’s a long time, Paulie.”

“Not if I can help it. I’m going to cut a deal with him.”

“You’re not gonna turn on the T-Rump. Are you, Paulie? Where we gonna hide?”

“Woah. We’re not taking the T-Rump down. Not yet anyway. If this works, we won’t have to. I’m going to offer them the Brooklyn Brown Stones …”

“My poop?”

“No, my home! As well as Calm Leech Gardens. And the Belair Forclozhair too.”

“What about Marvin Gardens, Paulie? You gonna give’em Marvin Gardens too?”

“Sure, Paulie. We’ll give them Marvin Gardens too.”

“That’s nice.”

“Paulie?”

“What is it, Ricky?”

“How come I don’t have any nice homes?”

“Because you’re my protégé.”

“What’s that?”

“Never mind.”

They stewed in their own selective, isolated juices. The Rickyprisongates finally spoke.

“Did I do good, Paulie?”

“You did fine, Ricky. 55 different hiding places in 13 different areas. You spread the moolah-moolah around just fine.”

“All I wanted was a little place in Manhattinhand. That’s all, Paulie. A place to call home.”

“Ricky?”

“Yeah?”

“I may need your little home.”

“No, Paulie. I’ll rat that tyrant T-Rump out first! I will.”

“Then what, Ricky? Do you want to be another Papadopoulus? Another Coffeeboychuck who got too close to the covfefe?”

“What–?”

“I don’t know. Just shut up, Ricky.”

The Rickyprisongates heaved a long sigh and sat back on his haunches.

“No, I guess I don’t. I mean I think I don’t.”

“Let me do the thinking. Just deny, deny, deny. Can you do that for me, Ricky?”

“Okay. … Uh, Paulie?”

“What?”

“You’re my hero.”

Categories
Satire The Trump Dig

Wacky and Totally Unhinged …

The Tyrumposaurus and the Marinegunkelly huddled over a chokecherry bush, choking down the berries three at a time. They were going over the wording for the T-Rump’s next message for his growing fleet of Trollertweeties.

“Lightweight,” said the T-Rump.

“You just used that for the Tennesseecorker.”

“Right. Incompetent, then.”

“Tennesseecorker as well.”

“Okay, okay. How ‘bout ‘liddle’”?

“With two d’s?”

“That’s the way I spell it.”

“Tennesseecorker again.”

“Damn. It’s tough leading this Milkanhoney Preservation. I got it! Wacky an totally unhinged.”

“It’s a start, I guess.”

They filled in the rest of the message. It was short because the Trollertweeties needed most of their energy for flying. Twenty minutes later, the horde of Trollertweeties lifted off and could soon be heard throughout the countryside with the following news …

“Squawk! Wacky and totally unhinged Tomsteyersaurus, who has been fighting me and my Make the Milkanhoney Preservation Great Again agenda from beginning, never wins elections! Squawk!”

The Tomsteyersaurus of course, was the Enviro-philanthropian dinosaur that had been whispering in every dino’s ear that the T-Rump should be tossed out on his tail.

The raucous Trollertweety onslaught had near immediate results, for a large shadow soon appeared at the T-Rump’s oval dwelling. The Trumpassic leader looked up from his private crystal clear vanity pond.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the talk-talk-talk Tomsteyersaurus.”

“I just wanted to stop by and say you’re right about one thing.”

“Correction, I’m right about everything.”

“But you see, I’ve never won an election because I’ve never been in one. As a dinosaur who is, ahem … comfortably-well-off, I merely support others.”

“Quit dodging the issue. An election is an election.”

“Okay then,” said the Tomsteyersaurus in a level, measured tone. “If that’s the way it’s got to be, let’s go. You and me.”

“No,” said the T-Rump, his eyes glimmering wide with glee. “Let’s have five.”

“Five? Why so many?”

“Because I like elections. Did I tell you about my win over the Crookadillary? It never gets old. Where were we? Elections, right. They’re just popularity contests. We’ll have five of them, just to show you I’m the greatest. I’ll make up the category for each and then we’ll leave it to the dinosaurs.”

A few hours later the stage was set. Dinosaurs throughout the land had gathered at the edge of the Electoral Forest, a densely wooded region with towering Dutch Elms. The 5 categories went by word-of-mouth down each row to the far end, returning with the tabulations which were then clawed into the closest elm and tabulated for the Huckabeecyclops.

She stepped to the edge of the Bullee-Tar Pit to address the audience with the results. Eyeing the crowd, she paused to focus her wandering eye.

“The first category is for the Smartest Dinosaur. The dinosaurs choose … the Tomsteyersaurus.” Her heart sank. She peeked at the T-Rump and shuddered. He looked like he might bite off her head. Instead he stepped forward.

“But I was at the top of my class!”

“Apparently not,” said the Tomsteyersaurus.

The crowd rumbled, as dinosaurs tend to when standing for long periods. The T-Rump motioned for the Huckabeecyclops to continue.

“Ahem, for the dinosaur who is the Best Fact Checker.” She blinked, staggered and righted herself. “It’s the Tomsteyersaurus.” She looked visibly wounded.

“Wait a minute,” said the T-Rump. “I waited for the details. Once.” He grimaced. “C’mon Huckabeecyclops, make me a winner. Do something.”

She timidly stepped before the crowd. Her eyeball swirled crazily, bringing nausea to dinos in the front row. Her vision finally cleared.

“The third category … for the dinosaur who received the Most Standing Ovations from dinosaurs who weren’t required to stand … oh, my dinosaur patootie … it’s the Tomsteyersaurus.”

The Tomsteyersaurus waved to the cheering crowd while the Huckabeecyclops wiped streaming tears from her face. The T-Rump helped her back to the edge of the Bullee-Tar Pit.

“Pull it together,” he hissed. “I’m not going to lose this. Winner, Huckabee. Think winner.”

The poor Huckabeecyclops stepped back to the Bullee-Tar Pit, her eyes wielded shut in some Piscopilian dino prayer. The T-Rump was tempted to push her off the cliff. He shook his head. Too many witnesses.

“The fourth category, everyone. Please, calm down. Let’s not get crazy here. Okay, the dinosaur you would most anxiously wait for them to announce their every waking decision … No-no-no-no! … The Tomsteyersaurus.”

The gritting of the T-Rump’s molars could be heard a mile away. He grabbed the Huckabeecyclops by the arm.

“Look, this is a disaster. I don’t even want to hear the last category.” He paused. “Just look and see if I won.”

The Huckabeecyclops looked at the final category result. She was emotionally drained. Her lone eyeball looked ready to fall out.

“Well?” demanded the T-Rump.

“Yes, but …”

“I won?” That winning feeling had finally returned. “I won!” he shouted from atop the Bullee-Tar Pit. “Quick, fire up the Trollertweeties. The dinosaurs need to be told.”

“But, T-Rump.”

“Hush, Huckabee, you know the drill. Whisper in their ear the message and they’ll do the rest.”

A minute later, the word-of-mouth, Trollertweety-to-Trollertweety launch prepartion was complete. They swooped off the Bullee-Tar Pit and carried their message throughout the land …

“Squawk! The dinosaur who is the most wacky and totally unhinged? It’s the T-Rump! Squawk!”

The crestfallen T-Rump fell to his knobby knees. The Huckabeecyclops had fled the scene to hide behind a Dutch Elm in the Electoral Forest, hoping the Spicerophus wouldn’t see her. The Tomseyersaurus smiled and sighed at his sweet victory. He noticed another dinosaur had joined them.

“T-Rump, you have a visitor.”

The weary T-Rump gazed up into the eyes of …

“The Muellersavus,” he gasped.

The arch-enemy of the T-Rump had that “I’ve got something to say but it’ll have to wait until Monday” look in his eyes.

Categories
Satire The Trump Dig

57 Lies and Nothing Wrong …

The Tyrumposaurus and Sheriffjovenator were drinking from the dirty end of the Puhl-DePlugg Reservoir. The Sheriffjovenator paused between loud slurps, belching out a bull frog.

“T-Rump, you’re sure you’re going to get me off? Is that the straight-shootin’ truth?”

The Sheriffjovenator had been in trouble with the other dinosaurs for attacking more than his quota of slow-running Latinonachos.

“Sheriff Joe. Would I lie to you?”

“Well, the Mediacircustops said you lied 57 times in 77 minutes last night at the Phoenix Drop-Off.”

“You had to bring that up,” said the T-Rump, noticeably rumpled.

“I’m sorry.”

“I was trying to break my record of one lie per minute.”

“That’s, uh … nice,” stammered the Sheriffjovenator.

“Do you have any ideas how many times I’ve lied since I’ve taken control around here?”

“Well, I’m gonna go with … a lot.”

“One thousand. Say it with me.”

“One thousand,” they said in unison, the Sheriffjovenator with somewhat less conviction.

“Yes, I forgot to bring it up last night.  I’ll have to cull someone from the herd for not reminding me. But tell me, be honest now, which do you think was my best lie? No, my greatest lie.”

The Sheriffjovenator was in an awkward position. He didn’t want to pick a lie from the T-Rump’s repetoire that was less than his best for fear of upsetting him.

“Uh … when you never mentioned ‘many sides’ when referring to the Charlottesville Divide?”

“Nope.”

“When you claimed to have invented ‘extreme vetting’?”

“Nope. Wrong again. C’mon, Sheriff Joe.”

“Well, there were so many.”

“That’s no excuse.”

“Um … you said the Mediacircustops does not care about the Milkanhoney Preservation. That was pretty low.”

“Yes and no,” said the T-Rump. “It was low but it wasn’t the lowest. The best lie was the totality of it. Think of it, Sheriff Joe. I can rewrite history.”

The Sheriffjovenator scratched his nether regions.

“Now why would you want to go and do that?”

“I will go down as the leader that told the most lies — the Stalinator still has a huge lead — AND I will be able to mold my legacy as I see fit. That, Sheriff Joe, is the art of the deal.”

“You mentioned legacy? Don’t you have to do something first?”

“Pardon!”

“I was just asking…”

“And I’m telling you. Your pardon IS the first step of my legacy.”

“I don’t know what to say, T-Rump. I’m humbled, but, uh  …”

“Speak up, Sheriff Joe.”

“I don’t mean to pester you with this but … are you lying again?

Categories
Book News

Newfie, Come Home! … Now Available

My latest novella, a laugh-out-loud satirical farce, recently hit eReaders, November 1.

The synopsis …

Most of the men in Gord McDougall’s family had run into a bad whack o’ hassle. His father wasn’t immune, attempting to end it all with a shot of Screech and a handful of pills and Flintstone vitamins. Fortunately he survived, seeing the error of his ways. His fatherly advice to Gord is to live large and go out big if he wants to leave a mark. Gord’s doubtful at first, but father knows best. The young man leaves the hospital believing if he wants to be somebody he must kill himself.

But Gord’s no dummy. In order to provide for his family, he meets with an agent to discuss life insurance.  He meets Donna, a mental health worker who suffers from Florence Nightingale Syndrome. She falls for him but Gord refuses to be deterred from his death quest. His prayers appear to be answered when, on a boat to the mainland, he meets Saudi terrorist kingpin Atakan Kihlall. Can Gord kill himself or is all this a waste of time?

You may order your copy at Amazon. If you would like a free copy in exchange for an honest review, let me know.

Categories
Satire The Trump Dig

Trumpassic Apocalypse? …

The Trumpassic Period we know was very much a dino-eat-dino world. Some of the grander bone-munching battles had an almost cataclysmic feel to them. One such event I unearthed today was the much anticipated bout between the T-Rump and the Kimjongadon, the Crocodilian crackpot. The Kimjongadon had been on a collision course with the T-Rump for some time. The T-Rump made it a point not to venture into Ping Pong Valley because of the low number of reflecting pools.

But push came to shove as the Kimjongadon was within striking distance. The battle would be in the Kimjongadon’s back yard. The dinosaurs gathered. What would the T-Rump do? The Blumenthaleon, a Nonvietnamesean prosauropod said, “guessing what’s in the T-Rump’s head is a dangerous occupation.”

From atop the Bullee-Tar Pit, the T-Rump declared, “you realize of course, this means war.” There would be sumo wrestling.

The Bufferator, a rooster-sized Squawkbellow theropod with small teeth, stepped between the two, took a deep breath and held one wing in the air.

“ARE YOU READY TO R-U-M-B-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-L-E!”

The Kimjongadon stepped forward, glaring at the T-Rump.

“I am taking physical action.”

The T-Rump smirked.

“What is that, the prevent offense? I will show you a real preventative war.”

The Kimjongadon bristled.

“I will teach you severe lesson!”

“You’re going to teach me? That is intolerable, Kimjong-a-ding-dong. Intolerable with a capital I!”

“You crazy capitalist carnivore, you will pay 1000-fold!”

The T-Rump shook his head.

“Kimjongadon, you obviously don’t know me. When you reach a million, let’s talk. Until then, if you think you can play with the big dinos, you will see fire and fury like the world has never seen!”

That was the straw that stuck in the Kimjongadon’s nose. He charged at the T-Rump, bowling over the Tyrumposaurus. The T-Rump bounced to his feet and slugged the Kimjongadon with a short, quick right to the stomach.

“How’s that for a gut punch? Huh? That was a great gut punch! Wait.”

He walked to the edge of the Bullee-Tar Pit. The dinosaurs below looked like ants.

“Do you want to see my right upper-cut?!” he shouted to the masses. “You should see my–”

He never finished. The Kimjongadon lashed out with his long tail, knocking the T-Rump over the edge of the cliff.

The Kimjongadon slithered triumphantly to the edge.

“And now … I will now crush you with my famous Atomic Bomb cliff dive.”

“Ooh. Aah,” came the dinosaur cries from below.

The Kimjongadon took a step forward … and stopped. He looked down at the beaten T-Rump. There was a large crater from the T-Rump’s great fall. Small streams of water were slowly filling the deep depression.

“Leaks!” the T-Rump cried. “All these leaks!”

The T-Rump slowly dragged himself out of the water. The Kimjongadon admired himself in his brand new pond. So this is a reflecting pond. It had to be bigger than anything the T-Rump had. He smiled. It would be a monument to his crocodilian brethren. The dinosaurs below put their short arms together. Again and again.

Gradually realizing the applause was not for him, the T-Rump began the journey home to his oval dwelling.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be okay. I’m playing flog with the Putinodon tomorrow. It’s my turn to carry the Maralago palm.* Again.”

 

*See previous Day 199 report.

Categories
Satire The Trump Dig

Putinodon Flogs with T-Rump! …

Today’s bone hints at the sporting life of dinosaurs. I came across a skull bone from the Tyrumposaurus with many dents in it. Thanks to nanometric calcium dating, I found the dents were in groupings of nine and inflicted over a 17-day period. This is irrefutable proof of the little-known dinosaur game of “Flog” that the T-Rump played with the Putinodon. I will let the bone tell the story …

The Putinodon pointed to the lone Maralago palm tree. The T-Rump promptly pulled it out of  the ground and, with a grunt, hoisted it onto his back. They were off.

At the first sinkhole, the T-Rump handed the Putinodon the Maralago palm.

“You have to guess what I’m thinking of,” the Putinodon reminded him.

“Or I get flogged,” the T-Rump said wincing. “Okay. Here goes the greatest guess. Adoptions?”

WHOMP!

“Nyet. Sanctions.”

They traveled to the second sinkhole. They could have played the game at the same sinkhole but the T-Rump insisted on showing the Putinodon around the Bedminster Sand Dunes. This also allowed the bump on the T-Rump’s head to ease its swelling as he dragged the Maralago palm behind him.

At the second sinkhole, the T-Rump sized up the Putinodon.

“I know exactly what you’re thinking. Flynn.”

WHOMP!

“Nyet. Manafort.”

“Very impressive,” said the T-Rump, rubbing his noggin. “You’re always one step ahead of me.”

The game continued to the third sinkhole.

“Ukraine.”

WHOMP!

“Nyet. Crimea. You are so close, comrade.”

And close is how the T-Rump would remain, getting whomped four times over the next four sinkholes for incorrect guesses of Syria, oil, hacking and the KGB when the Putinodon’s correct answers were Asaad, real estate, RussianBrides.com and the CIA.

They arrived at the eighth hole, the T-Rump understandably woozy. He handed the Putinodon the Maralago palm. The T-Rump blinked his eyes twice and steadied himself.

“Crookadillary!”

WHOMP!

“Nyet. Monicalewinsky.”

“What’s a Monicalewinsky?”

“That would be the Jezebelian dinosaur with a breakaway girdle bone.”

The two dinosaurs tromped to the last sinkhole. The T-Rump decided that for the final sinkhole he would keep things simple. His ringing headache demanded it.

“How smart I am.”

WHOMP!

“Nyet. How smart I am.”

The Putinodon handed the Maralago palm to the T-Rump, who slung it back over his shoulder. As they turned to leave, the T-Rump patted the Putinodon on the back with his tail.

“Same time next week?”

“Instead … why don’t we go fishing for Barechested Barracuda.”

“I’d like that.”

Categories
Satire The Trump Dig

Scaramunchkin Munched! …

Today’s dig was right out of a monster movie. Scaramunchkin vs. Marinegunkelly, a battle royale between the small, yappy Minnymeesaurid and the Super Salamander. A classic David and Goliath struggle gone horribly wrong. Marinegunkelly is the newcomer to the oval dwelling. The tale of the tape — he’s a six-foot-long primitive amphibian with hundreds of sharp teeth in his big, flat, toilet-seat-like head.

GiantSalamander_02From day one, this dig has seen one power struggle after another. This is the nature of the Tyrumposaurus neighborhood. This latest skirmish however was one for the Mesozoic Era — the Scaramunchkin’s bones were that munched. I’ve retraced the bones to the accident scene and it apparently went down like this …

Nanometric carbon dating shows it was Marinegunkelly’s first day in the Puhl-DePlugg Reservoir. He was holding court in the morning, telling old marshland security stories to the other dinosaurs, amphibious and non-swimmers alike.

“There’s a new super salamander in this oval dwelling and if you want to spend any time with the T-Rump, you have to go through me.”

The Scaramunchkin stepped forward from the crowd, waving his small arms.

“Just what we need, another freaking paranoid schizophrenic.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me, you’re not going to stop-block me from seeing the T-Rump. The Munchkin — that’s me — I showed up a week-and-a-half ago. I’m getting the T-Rump back on track so we can clean up this reservoir.”

The Marinegunkelly eyed him with steely reserve.

“Come closer, my little munchkin.”

“Why?” The Scaramunchkin eyed the Marinegunkelly warily.

“I think you have a leak in your ear,” said the car-sized salamander.

“Leak!? Where?” He turned to look around.

It was a trick. The toilet-seat head clamped down on the Scaramunchkin’s scrawny tail.

“A-a-a-a-g-g-g-h! Let go! What are you doing?!”

“If you want to eat an eritherium* you have to eat it one bite at a time.”

“Get off me, you stupid #$?!% salamander! You freaking frog! You #$?!% numbskull newt!”

The late-arriving Priebusunderbus stepped forward for a better view. The Scaramunchkin saw him and went Diplodocus dippy.

“Get out of here, you #$?!% Cain and Abel Cheesehead! … Before I leak your #$?!% blood!”

The Priebusunderbus kept his cool, turning to the Marinegunkelly.

Make him say, “tweet, tweet, twitter, tweet, tweet.”

This of course was the height of dinosaur insults, referring to one as a Trollertweety, or flying chicken.

The front-stabbing shot hit its mark. The Scaramunchkin’s small brain spasmed and his body went limp. He was alive but just barely, feebly mouthing the words “stop-block” over and over.

Sensing there must be something wrong with his food, the Marinegunkelly stopped chewing and released the Minnymeesaurid onto the mud. Plop.

A pair of burly Tyrumposaurae stepped forward and escorted the Scaramunchkin away from the oval dwelling to the nearby Neverland of Birthingexmates.

Game, set, oval dwelling, Marinegunkelly.

* prehistoric ancestor to the African bush elephant