Categories
Satire The Trump Dig

Death Penalty! …

A rogue dinosaur ambush had left several dead and wounded. The Tyrumposaurus hunkered down in the Oval Dwelling with his right-hand dino, the Marinegunkelly, the sometimes loquacious Huckabeecyclops and the Cryingchuck, leader of the Committee on Mass Migration.

“He was a Sleepercellatops from Izbackmigraine,” said the Marinegunkelly.

The T-Rump thrashed his tail.

“It’s a disaster and it’s all your fault, Cryingchuck. You and your ‘diversity dinosaur.’ That was a real Cryingchuck beauty, oh yeah. Death penalty! We need to know who these dinosaurs are!

Before we kill them?” asked the Huckabeecyclops.

The T-Rump brushed the contradiction aside.

“I want extreme vetting!”

“Petting?” she asked, feeling flushed.

“Good god, woman. Listen! Vetting.”

“I just wanted to make sure I got it right.”

“For every dinosaur,” said the T-Rump. Chain migration must end now! Some dinosaurs come in, and they bring their whole family with them, who can be truly evil. Not acceptable!”

“Excuse me, T-Rump?”

It was the Cryingchuck.

“Yes, what is it?” Questions during briefing meetings peeved the T-Rump to no end.

“I have a cousin. A second cousin, really. The, uh … Amyschumershow?”

“Yes?”

“She wants to come to the Milkanhoney Preservation. To make it her home.”

“Hmm. Sounds like migration to me. Cousins, huh? Well, that’s nice, I suppose. Where’s she from?”

“Izbackmigraine.”

“What?! Absolutely not. This is craziness!”

“But my ancestors are from there.”

“Consider yourself lucky to have beat the deadline.”

“What deadline?” asked the Huckabeecyclops.

“Whatever travel ban we’re up to. Figure it out.”

“But, T-Rump,” said the Cryingchuck. “She’s the Amyschumershow. She’s funny.”

“I’ll bet she is. A real laughing-stock. Got that, Huckabee?”

“Uh, any more details?”

That set him off. The T-Rump huffed and puffed. Huge snot bubbles blew in and out of his large nostrils.

The Huckabeecyclops grimaced.

“I’m sorry. I said the ‘D’ word, didn’t I?”

“Waste of time,” said the T-Rump. “Now then, this extreme vetting. Being politically correct is fine, but not for this!”

“T-Rump,” said the Cryingchuck. “What about the T-Melania?”

“Don’t start with that anti-bullying thing again.”

“No, no. I’m talking about where she’s from — the other side of Izbackmigraine.” The Cryingchuck swallowed a burp. “Slomovodka.”

The T-Rump growled at him.

“Your point?”

“Well, she migrated here. We all migrated here.”

“Make up your mind. Her or everyone?”

“T-Rump?” said the confused, frightened Huckabeecyclops.

The stark realization hit the T-Rump between the eyes.

“We’re done here.” He rose from his haunches and cleared his throat to bellow. “Extreme vetting! Death penalty! Mitchgetbacktowork!”

Categories
Satire The Trump Dig

Bone Spur Boot Camp …

The Tyrumposaurus and the Marinegunkelly had nibbled their way through the rose garden outside the Oval Dwelling and found themselves next to the Sin-Hut Chamber Pothole, a well-stomped-upon clearing. Fifty esteemed dinosaurs of the Trumpassic Period listened raptly as one of their member’s gave his exit speech.

“There are times when we must risk our position in favor of our principles.”

“Oh,” said the T-Rump. “It’s that flakety flake flake, the Flakenator.”

The Flakenator went on.

“Reckless, outrageous, and undignified behavior has become excused and countenanced as “telling it like it is,” when it’s actually just reckless, outrageous, and undignified.”

The T-Rump shook his head.

“Him and that Tennesseecorker, they should put a cork in it. They’re retiring. Good riddance.”

The Flakenator continued, head held high.

“Leadership knows that most often a good place to start in assigning blame is to first look somewhat closer to home. Leadership knows where the buck stops. Humility helps. Character counts. Leadership does not knowingly encourage or feed ugly and debased appetites in us.”

“Hmph,” said the T-Rump. “Who’s he talking about?”

“That would be, uh … you.” The Marinegunkelly swallowed hard.

“Well,” sneered the T-Rump, “I see it’s time to launch another fleet of Trollertweeties.”

“Perhaps you should let them rest. They just returned an hour ago.”

“What do you suggest?”

The Marinegunkelly took a deep breath.

“T-Rump, this is a bit of a stretch.” He plunged on. “Have you thought about fighting fire with fire?”

“We’re dinosaurs, idiot. How do we start a fire?”

“It’s an expression.”

“Oh.”

“I’m going to put you in touch with someone.”

“Because?”

“You do want to be a hero, don’t you?”

“The greatest.”

An hour later the T-Rump crossed the Straightforward Plains, arriving at the Sihnsere-Entegritty Principled High Roads of Zonazeal. He repeated the Marinegunkelly’s message to himself so he wouldn’t forget it.

“I’m going to Zonazeal, but not to see the Flakenator. I’m going to Zonazeal …”

He looked up and saw …

“The McCainus?”

“In the leather-skinned flesh.”

“But I’m supposed to meet a hero, a decorated war veteran.”

The McCainus took a cursory glance around. As did the T-Rump. They were alone.

“But you’re no hero,” the T-Rump fumed. “You were captured.”

The McCainus stared almost wistfully at the T-Rump.

“You had a deferment. For bone spurs?”

“Yes, the heel. Big heel. A great heel.”

“Which one?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You had four more deferments …”

“Oh, sure. The four R’s.”

“Excuse me?”

“Reading, ‘Riting, ‘Rithmetic … and Recess.”

The McCainus nodded silently and the lesson began.

“I spent six years in a hole.”

“Hah!” said the T-Rump. “Can you say three marriages?” 

“You need to make sacrifices,” offered the McCainus.

“You want sacrifices? I’ll give you sacrifices. I haven’t had Caviaraptor Legs in a month,” the T-Rump lied. “And when I arrived here, I was expecting a square room. I am coping — just barely — with the Oval Dwelling. And three? I’ll give you three and four. My two ex-wives. I’m sure they’re barely coping without me. That must be some kind of sacrifice.”

“For who?”

“Are you going to make me a hero or not?”

The McCainus sighed.

“Here are some tips that will hopefully put you on your way. First off, don’t pump up the vets and then jump on members of the Goldstarfamilus.

“She started it.”

The McCainus continued.

“There is no ‘I’ in team.”

“According to your spelling.”

“And finally, T-Rump, do you have to go flogging every weekend?”

“I need to unwind. It’s hard work telling everyone to get to work — Mitchgetbacktowork!  Sorry, force of habit. I find myself just sitting around waiting for them to do it. Okay, that’s 10 minutes.”

“No, that’s two.”

“More than enough time to be considered a hero.”

The T-Rump turned on his bone-spur-less heel and headed for home, but not before firing a parting shot.

“And I never got caught!”

“Yet,” muttered the McCainus.

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

Bye-Bye, Priebusunderbus …

Today I ventured into the west side of the oval dwelling and was able to trace more of the Priebusunderbus, you guessed it, from the Trump Dump. The technology is so good these days, we can go back 70 million years to a particular day. Which enables me to recreate the last meeting between the Tyrumposaurus and the Priebusunderbus. It went something like this …

“You’re always at the door,” said the T-Rump. “I wanted to talk to you. Come on in.”

“Uh, yeah. Sure. That Scaramunchkin got the drop on me yesterday, but I’m okay. I still have my family.”

The T-Rump ignored him. He nodded to the water trickling down the dwelling’s walls. I still see leaks around here. Leaks!

“A dinosaur can only do so much.”

“How many times do I have to say it? I want to make this oval dwelling great again.”

“Of course. That’s great. Right on.”

The T-Rump yawned.

“Without you.”

The Priebusunerbus was visibly shaken, quaking the earth.

“Oh. You want me to leave? But I just got here. The family’s still at Cheesehead Formation.”

The T-Rump nodded to the leaks. The Priebusunderbus bowed his parrot-like beak.

“Okay. Right. I, I just wanted to thank you for everything. I’m still your number one dino. I’ll be off now. Any particular direction you want me to go?

“That’s a good idea.”

“Glad I could help. Er, … whatever it was I said.”

“Different direction. What do you think about the Marinegunkelly?”

Marinegunkelly? He’ll be extinct before me. You don’t want to hit that reset button. Believe me.

“Answer the question!”

The Priebusunderbus was dying inside but he wouldn’t let the T-Rump see it.

“He’s great. Just great. Any reset button is fine. Any time. Any place. Any dinosaur.

“Are you done?”

“Yeah, sure. But before I go though, I just wanted to share my favorite moment. It was right here on the west side of the oval dwelling. The majesty of this place. The smell of your first kill, that single-billed Orderexecutivus. You did it all on your own, no help needed from the other Tyrumposaurae or Donkeycongrus. That, that was special.

The T-Rump flashed his toothy grin.

“That was a big one. A great one!”

The only one, thought the Priebusunderbus as he slowly turned and slogged away to greener flatlands.

Categories
Satire

King Crushing Republican Congress …

Seven years ago, the Republican Party promised a new health care package to replace Obamacare the minute they were elected.

During that time, Stephen King has written 9 novels totaling 4,823 pages. All by himself.

 

Categories
Satire

Revised Yardbirds Lineup Now Available!

They’re all here. The front page faces, the hard-to-spell names and the incredible Russian-American comradery on the day most say “it all came together.” Relive all the drama from June 9, 2016.

Soon to be available in a 24” x 36” authentic regulation welcome mat. You’ll be the envy of your neighborhood as you arrive home every day to wipe your feet on your favorite Yardbirds!