Tag: Political Humor

Categories
Satire The Trump Dig

The Pregnant Playmatapus …

“No-BELL! No-BELL! No-BELL!”

The crowd of dinosaur deplorables at Faux Washington Falls chanted as one, stamping their feet and punching the air with their short arms. The chant was in honor of the Nobelpeacepiper, a high-flying Pterodactyl known for dive-bombing into potential dinosaur warfare and incessantly pecking the instigators on the nose, the Achilles Heel of all dinosaurs.

The chanting continued for the T-Rump, who had threatened the Kimjongadon with annihilation unless he released all his captive Nuclearballisticus. It was the absolute threat of fire and fury, a suicidal game plan the T-Rump’s dino base reveled in.

“No-BELL! No-BELL! No-BELL!”

“Thank you, thank you,” said the T-Rump. “That’s right. No Bull. No collusion. No Russodinos and — you said it — No Bull!”

The next day, the Stormydaniels lawyer Michaelavenatti squatted alongside the Jaketapper on Tapper’s Sunday morning caveside chat.

“So, Michael, did you predict that the Huckabeecyclops and Kellyanneconvixway would be sitting together at last night’s Mediacircustops T-Rump Roast?”

“No, they probably drew the short sticks.  But it’s hard to have a roast when the host fails to show up. He can run away from the laughs but not from the law.”

The legal dino grinned mischievously.

“You’re grinning mischievously, Michael,” said the Jaketapper. “Moreso even than my trademark Goofy Chuckle. Where’s that grin coming from? Could it be your glee at the Michaelcohen’s predicament … or perhaps from your recent claim that the disgraced former moolah-moolah director of the Grandoldparty, the Elliottbroidy, had nothing to do with the T-Rump’s legal dino, the Michaelcohen?”

“That information comes from an impeccable dino source.”

“Well, you haven’t been wrong yet. Are you suggesting that the T-Rump got this third dino, a Playmatapus pregnant? That would be number two on the Out-of-Wedlock Pregnancy Scoreboard for the T-Rump.”

“No predictions. Yet.”

“Let’s kick this latest T-Rump rumour around the room, shall we?”

“You kick. I’ll litigate,” the Michaelavenatti said smugly.

“The Michaelcohen,” the Jaketapper began, “is the T-Rump’s legal dino. Why would the T-Rump loan him out? What’s in it for the T-Rump? And why on earth would the Elliottbroidy take the fall for the T-Rump?”

“Notice that the names in the sand never changed, just the dinosaurs. One of them anyways.”

The Jaketapper tapped the flat rock.

“There was the Middle Eastlands kerfuffle the Elliottbroidy started against the Qatartatertots. Then his measly mea culpa to the Mediacircustops, apologizing to his wife and little dinos, saying the hanky panky was between two consenting dinos. Who says that?”

“All my clients, actually.”

“But … and here’s the dark underbelly, the potential tyrant-toppling news … the Playmatapus had an abortion? What the heck is that?”

“An abortion? I don’t know, Jake.”

“It – it just sounds wrong. Maybe that’s what we should be talking about.”

“It sets a dangerous precedent, whatever it is.”

“A dinosaur abortion. How does the Plodding Church of Blue Hair Dino Immaculate Mercy roll past that one? Can they?”

“My client has no comment.”

“What’s next? The T-Rump abandoning the Great Tex-Mex Divide? No wonder this, this …”

“Abortion, Jake.”

“It’s an abortion of our senses, that’s what it is … worth 1.6 million moolah-moolah leaves evidently. And the Michaelcohen made 250 thousand off that. His newfound hobby. Dino Belly Watching. I can’t believe we’re talking about dinosaur gestation periods. How did we  get here, Michael?”

“Well, it appears that if you’re a Pornadactyl or a Playmatapus, it’s only a matter of time before the T-Rump is going to knock you … I mean, come knocking. Following that, a meeting with the Michaelcohen-Keithdavidson conspiracy combo to put your signature footprint in the sand, thereby buying your silence.”

“I’m sorry, did you say conspiracy, Michael?”

“Conspiracy-collusion, Pornodactyl-Playmatapus. They’re all the same to the T-Rump and the Michaelcohen. The latter being of course, a Pursepuppy without a bone.”

Categories
Satire The Trump Dig

My French Bromance …

The Tyrumposaurus sighed and stared down at his scaly, arthritic right hand. He flexed it, marveling at the ghosts of gallivanting goosebumps. He could swear his hand still tingled, he still tingled from the day’s events.

My own wife won’t hold my hand. But Emmanuel will. My Emmanuel. Just an hour ago. I miss already the feel of his warm grasp, his soft, supple flesh pressing mine. And when he let go, it felt like my heart being wrenched from his. The pain. Worse than bone spurs. Hugely.

Because dinosaur leaders can only hold hands for so long. Then tongues wag and tails droop. That’s the world we live in. These are the constraints I’m under. The rules I yearn to break. I remember staring at his hand. His immaculate, finely manicured claws. Their touch so close, yet so far. My starving vanity crying out for his clean cut attention, my limp wrist failing miserably, resigning itself, seeking instead the sloppy second, the cold, bland hand of the T-Melania. So sad.

Great days with her are of course long gone. It was the Stormydaniel’s fault. The Karenmcdougal’s fault. The fault of all those female accusers, those heartless, lying temptress dinos eager to knock me down a notch. They all spurned my well-meaning advances. How dare they. I was just being me, a sucker for a pretty Pornodactyl.

But Emmanuel didn’t abandon me. No, Emmanuel was there for me when I needed him most — to show the world I am a somebody … a dino able to attract another dino and hold onto their attention span for more than five minutes.

Emmanuel clutched my hand. It felt good. Then my arm, my shoulder, with strength bordering on malice. His pat on the back. No one has ever pat me on the back. Not even my father. Am I mothering Emmanuel because my mother didn’t mother me? I shuddered, craving yet one more affectionate assault from him. Emmanuel is the hand with the French accent.

Oh, sure, I’ve shaken hands with the Justintrudeau, but it was less Francophoney. Or was it more Francophoney? Anyway, with Emmanuel it was just right. Better accent, that’s it. I don’t like my accents watered down. Besides, the Justintrudeau is just next door. Who wants the bromance next door? Too easy. The T-Rump doesn’t settle.

With Emmanuel there will alway be the thrill of the chase, until our hands touch, sealing our fate, the reassuring grip of reality that makes me want to drag him around behind me all day long. Perhaps that’s just the dinosaur in me, dinosaur energy looking to escape. And be noticed.

Emmanuel listened to me. Oh, perhaps he trashed what I had to say afterwards but after all, they are only words. He will hold my hand again. And listen. His smile so genuine. It’s as if he really cares. Unlike the fake news Mediacircustops who can’t find anything nice to say about me from all their non-existent sources. But Emmanuel exists for me. He makes me feel young and vibrant. He makes me forget flogging. Who can do that? Perhaps he’ll let me help him with his back swing. I must invite him back. And get him something. The T-Melania’s birthday will have to wait.

Categories
Satire The Trump Dig

Meager Legal Dinos …

The Mikepompeo stuck his neck into the Oval Dwelling.

“Excuse me, T-Rump?”

“WHAT?!”

The Tyrumposaurus looked at him with panicky, bloodshot eyes. He hadn’t slept in a week. He sent out his Trollertweeties at all hours these days. Their messages, garbled at best, lacked their usual scorched earth policy. Instead, they sounded like those from a sniveling Snotnose, a dino prone to complaining of phantom bone spur pain. The T-Rump was having a bad day, a terrible week and a catastrophic month. The Michaelcohen raid had been a vicious dinosaur tail to the face.

Surrounding the T-Rump were the remaining dregs from the legal dino profession willing to work pro bono in addition to receiving copious amounts of daily verbal and psychological abuse.

‘I – I’ve come to a landmark decision with the Kimjongadon.”

“How nice,” the T-Rump replied through gritted teeth. “But that doesn’t help me now, does it!”

“But …”

“Can’t you see we’re in the middle of serious business here!? How can I make the Milkanhoney Preservation great again if I’m in the Solitary Sinkhole?”

“Yes, T-Rump.” The Mikepompeo turned to go.

“Pompeo, tell the Barbarabush funeral dinos I couldn’t make it out of respect … but since the T-Melania is there ….”

“I’ll see what Pornodactyls or Playmatapus are in the neighborhood.”

“You didn’t have to tell everyone.”

The aspiring Secretary of State exited.

“Okay,” the T-Rump said, turning to his lead dino attorney. The Jaysekulow was gnawing thoughtfully on a dead rodent. “What have you got for me?”

“We have some fresh meat, I mean legal dinos, added to the team.”

“Oh?” The T-Rump’s gaze skipped the first two dinos — both males — to land on the third. A female. They shared a smile, the T-Rump wanting more.

“This is the Rudygiuliani …”

“And?”

“The, uh … Martyraskin …”

“And?” The T-Rump grew impatient.

“The Janeraskin, of course. His wife.”

“How unfortunate.” The T-Rump winced.

“I beg your pardon?” she said.

“So unfortunate that you … and your husband … are only joining our team just now. I, I mean we, could’ve used you before.”

The T-Rump eyed the three new members.

“You will be working pro bono of course and, as none of you have my best interests at heart more than me, I will be calling the shots. One thing you all can do for me however …”

“Yes, yes?” the Rudygiuliani said a little too eagerly.

“I’ll need you to make up derogatory nicknames for yourselves. I simply don’t have the time.”

The Martyraskin raised a claw.

“Excuse me, but I heard that the Grandoldparty committee was spending 25% of its moolah-moolah on legal fees?”

The Jaysekulow shook his head.

“Boy, have you got a lot to learn.” He turned to his boss. “The latest status report:  we have over 100 civil law suits at the federal level, there’s the Stormydaniels thing, the Summerzervos defamation suit, the Muellersavus investigation and, this just in … the Donkeykongrus committee is suing us and the Russodinos and the Wikileakibeak for interfering with their election campaign.”

“Well, sue them back!”

“For what?”

“For suing me in the first place! How dare they!”

The Jaysekulow knew better than to butt heads with the T-Rump. The Dowderpuff had implied he knew more than the T-Rump and was now back to chasing the speedy Ambulansaurus’.

“We’ll come up with something, T-Rump. So … what kind of day are you having? Is it a I’m-smarter-than-the-Muellersavus or a He-hurt-my-feelings kind of day?”

The T-Rump mulled it over.

“That damn Comeyonus has really got me going. Who made him the law of the land? Honestly, if we just keep saying all media and their sources and the Donkeykongrus … am I missing any dino?

“Just say all dinos not present, T-Rump.”

“Right. If we can just keep lying about that then my six lies a day are meaningless, right?”

“Just one thing, T-Rump,” said the Martyraskin, “the Comeyonus has never changed his story. It’s uncanny. I’ve never heard a dino so eloquent, so convincing. Dare I say it, I really believe he’s telling the truth.”

“Hoo-boy,” said the Jaysekulow.

The T-Rump’s brow furrowed into a second frown.

“Do you want to work for me for free or not?”

The Martyraskin looked away, considering the moolah-moolah he would make from his own footprints-in-the-sand tell-all expose of this blowhard buffoon.

“I’m good,” he said.

“Alright then. I’m only keeping you because your wife had to divorce some other dino to marry you, right?”

She hadn’t, but the Raskin dinos quickly recognized the T-Rump’s penchant for maximum humiliation. There was no point in arguing with his alternate reality. Some walnut brains were simply more cracked than others. This was going to be a wild ride.

Categories
Satire The Trump Dig

The Seanhannity Calamity …

The Seanhannity clan gathered around the fresh kill of the day for supper. A delicious, 6000-pound Denversaurus. The Jillrhodes looked over the carcass at her husband and their two young dinos, the Patrickhannity and Merrihannity, drooling at the feast before them. The Seanhannity hadn’t killed it of course. No, when you made 36-million moolah-moolah a year as a Foxsquawkbox mouthpiece, you had others do your killing for you. The Jillrhodes knew the meat would expire in a few hours and they’d better eat fast. Still, there were flat rock table manners. She eyed her dino tots’ grubby hands.

“Patrick, Merri. No mud on the meat now. It’s all in the presentation.”

The children quickly licked their dirty hands clean, salivating all the while.

“I want the eyeballs!” said Patrick.

“No, I want the eyeballs!” said Merri.

“Here,” said their mother, ripping the fleshy orbs from the eye sockets of the wide skull. “Thank goodness dinos have two eyes. But ribs first, you two. Then the eyes.”

A Denversaurus Rib-Eye was indeed a delicacy. With the two young dinos immersed in the dripping spoils, the Jillrhodes turned to her husband.

“Can you believe the Michaelcohen?”

“The Michael who?”

“That slimeball legal dino.”

“Oh.” The Seanhannity pretended to lose himself in the meaty armpit before him.

“Not that he’s ever been in Dinosaur Court. At last count before the raid, his clients were mixed up with a Pornodactyl, a couple of Playmaytapus and that smiling nincompoop, the Keithdavidson. Not once or twice. Three times!”

“That’s not a charm,” her husband said, thoughtfully swallowing a chunk of meat.

“No, it’s downright disgusting. How’d he come to be the T-Rump’s legal dino?”

“Uh, this is still the Milkanhoney Preservation. He has rights, you know.”

The Jillrhodes snorted. Bloody mucus spewed from her nose.

“Hah! What good are rights when you have no morals?”

The Seanhannity thanked his lucky charms his wife wasn’t on his show.

She picked up the club-like femur bone and quickly stripped the meat from it.

“You think the T-Rump doubles down? I’ll show you doubling down. If I ever caught you with a Pornodactyl …”

She whacked him twice on the noggin. Hard.

“Ouch! Hey!”

“Mommy’s hitting daddy again,” Merri announced.

“Everything’s okay, children. Your mother is just laying down the law.”

She turned back to her husband.

“When you go into Foxsquawkbox mode, I have no idea what you’re up to.”

“You would if you’d just watch my show.”

“You know I wouldn’t waste one second on that trivial tripe you call the truth.”

“Can we watch, mom?” the dino tots said as one.

“NO! It’ll poison your minds!” She turned back to her cowering mate. “And this mystery client. Hah! What a crock of Shishkabobcats.”

“Mom, what’s a mystery client?” asked Patrick.

“A dino who is trying to hide something.”

“Like what?”

“Ask your father.”

The Seanhannity gulped, swallowed a bone and hacked it up.

“What?! … I mean … (cough, cough) who knows? Yeah. … Pffph. Who knows?”

Patrick scrunched his face.

“But you said you knew everything, including the Donkeykongrus’ Deep State thoughts, daddy.”

“Seanhannity! Have you been teaching our children those cornball conspiracy theories again?!”

“Hey, it’s a dino-eat-dino world out there.”

“But what the Michaelcohen is doing is criminal.”

“Innocent until proven guilty?” He looked to his kids for support. They weren’t buying it. Better they not see ol’ daddy dino like this. “Kids, time to play outside the cave.”

“Seanhannity!” his wife exclaimed. Good to see how popular he was in his own home.

“You know very well we’re in the Pterodactyl prime pickin’s corridor this time of day.” She eyed him warily. “Something’s wrong. What are you hiding? C’mon, out with it.”

“Uh. Nothing.”

“Don’t you nothing me.” She pointed to the bloody Denversaurus. “You’re next on the flat rock if you don’t cough it up right now. And your sudden demise won’t be a Sethrich conspiracy story. I’ll tell them I did it.”

She bonked him twice again with the bloody femur bone. It was their new Talking Bone.

“Alright, alright.” The Seanhannity surrendered, holding his short arms in the air. “I’M the mystery client. But he’s not really my legal dino. He helped me out with some advice on real estate. You know, the Porno-, I mean Hornoplenty Badlands.”

“Oh, this could end badly for you alright.”

She took one look at their children and told herself she wouldn’t scar them for life. No, she’d bide her time. Because hell hath no fury like a dino scorned by a Michaelcohen client.

She gave her husband the extra-hairy eyeball. Her nostrils flared, slimy snot bubbles boiling over. Momma was mad.

Merri turned to her brother.

“Daddy’s sleeping in the den tonight.”

Categories
Satire The Trump Dig

The Doorman Knows …

She lowered her head to sniff the sweet magnolia blossoms. She nibbled, then devoured the flower in one bite. Hearing a noise, she looked up. A perfectly wonderful day in Manhattinhand … ruined.

It was her ex, the Dinodoorman, heading hell-bent her way. It had been five years since she’d kicked his skinny, scaly butt out of their cave. She being the Nikkibenfatto of course, no relation to the Joeybuttafuoco.

“Whaddaya want?” she growled without looking up.

“Ain’t ya even goin’ to say hullo?”

“To the magnolias, maybe. I like them.”

He shrugged and plowed on.

“I got news.”

“You always had news, Dino. Sorry, no cartwheels today. My lower extremities, you know.”

“I’m talking real news. News I wasn’t supposed to tell, but now I can because, news-wise, for two days it’s been all the news.”

“You’re old news, Dino.”

“Remember that job I had with the T-Rump?”

“The one where you leaned against the wall outside his place all day, yakking to any dino that stumbled by?

He ignored her. As he had throughout their 14 years of cohabitation.

“I finally spilled the beans! The T-Rump had a love child — a little dino — with the hired help, 30 years ago.”

“You jumped off the Joyzee Turnpike to tell me that?”

“They paid me 30-thousand moolah-moolah to keep my trap shut all this time.”

“Who paid you?”

“The Davidpecker.”

“You watch your mouth around my cave, Dino.”

“But that’s what he is.”

“Why don’t I believe you? Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it’s because you’re a manipulative, malicious, pathological liar.”

“Okay, I’ll give you that. But did you hear about the T-Rump and the Comeyonus?”

And the game begins, she thought, sinking into a squatting position, listening to this goofball dino suck the sweetness out of her nearby magnolias.

“The Comeyonus is releasing his memoirs in a series of etchings and the T-Rump is going nuclearballisticus!” The Nuclearballisticus was a hard-shelled Ankylosaurus known for Tasmanian Devil-like tantrums.

“Now I know you’re lying. The T-Rump can’t read.”

“It’s all pictures, so he can. Etchings, remember?”

“Oh, yeah? What colour are they?”

“Golden.”

“Golden, huh. How do they stay golden in the rain, smart guy?”

“I dunno. I guess you pray there’s no golden showers.”

The Nikkibenfatto shook her head.

“Still nutso as ever.”

“And the T-Rump, our kind, humble leader of the Milkanhoney Preservation, he called the Comeyonus a weak and untruthful slimeball!”

“No, he did not. What’s next? I suppose you’re going to tell me the T-Rump’s own legal dino is under investigation.”

The Dinodoorman was aghast.

“How’d you know? The Michaelcohen was in cahoots with another legal dino, the Keithdavidson. They had it in for that Pornodactyl, the Stormydaniels, and the Playmaytapus, the Karenmcdougall.”

“S-u-u-r-r-e, they did. You’re famous for your stories, Dino. Remember the Chupacabra?”

The Chupacabra was a monstrous, dog-like dino that killed and drank the blood of cow-like dinosaurs. She went on.

“Then there was the Brachiobigfoot. And our friend, the Larrynextdoor, who passed away. You said you saw him skipping down the trail one day. Always something.”

The Dinodoorman set his elongated jaw in place.

“The Oval Dwelling. I’ll bet you didn’t know that all the dinos in the Oval Dwelling are saying nasty things to get rid of the Rodrosenstein.”

“Now why would the T-Rump do that?” she snapped. “He appointed him in the first place! It’s the Rodosenstein’s footprint on the slate that got Comey fired.”

“Which then forced the Rodrosenstein to bring in the Muellersavus,” said the defiant Dinodoorman, hands on hips.

The Nikkibenfatto looked around for something to shut him up with. Her walnut brain was aching and it wasn’t even noon.

“Dino, face it. You’re unstable on every level. Where’s the evidence?”

“Evidence! I’ll give you evidence. You know the Elliottbroidy?”

“Who doesn’t? He’s a Grandoldparty major donor and deputy finance chair dino on their big committee.”

“Well, he just resigned. He got a Playmaytapus pregnant and paid her off with the help of the Michaelcohen.”

“Well now, wasn’t that nice of the Michaelcohen.”

“Too nice if you ask me. She got 1.6 million moolah-moolah while the Stormydaniels and the Karenmcdougal only got a tenth of that. They sure got stiffed, huh?”

“Just like me.”

Dino hesitated, trying to picture his ex with the Elliottbroidy.

“Never mind,” she said.

Her stomach gurgled. She was dying for another magnolia.

“As always, you have an extreme, bizarre gift for gab, Dino. Love children and moolah-moolah corrupting the most powerful dinos in the land. Hah! Haven’t seen you in 5 years. Guess that’s how long it took for you to come up with all this.”

“Nope. Five days.”

Categories
Satire The Trump Dig

The Michaelcohen Raid …

The Tyrumposaurus was on the warpath. He lashed out viciously with his long orange tail, smashing the battered stone wall of the Oval Dwelling, leaving yet another mark. Archaeologists years later would assess the marks as evidence of nervosa breakdownus for the T-Rump. The Michaelcohen, his own tail squarely between his legs, recoiled from the spraying debris of the loose cannon leader.

“It’s a disgrace!” roared the T-Rump. “It’s ridiculous! It’s an attack on the Milkanhoney Preservation! It’s an attack on everything we stand for!”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” said a humble Michaelcohen. “No dino died. Or was attacked. Or verbally threatened for that matter.”

They were referring to the dozen Langleytips who’d conducted an early morning raid on the three main haunts of the Michaelcohen.

“I feel threatened,” said the T-Rump. “And that’s enough. Because it’s all about me. All other dinosaurs be damned! Disgraced! Damned! Disgraced!” The T-Rump still struggled with alliteration.

The leader of the dinosaur world leaned against a nearby wall. His fire and fury had him hyperventilating. He caught his breath, smiled and promptly spit up a gallon of green goo on the ground. And his big feet. Oops. Marking his territory, future dino diggers would incorrectly note. In fact, the T-Rump’s clean bill of health from the Ronniejackson, his personal doc-turned-veteran affairs head dino, was suddenly not so clean.

“You have to fix this, Michael. Fix it and fix it fast. … You can fix it, can’t you?”

“Oh, sure. We’ll just stick to the master plan. We threaten them. Then we sue them …”

“Then we blame the Donkeycongrus! Every middle-aged dino knows that damn Donkeycongrus is the root of all problems. Past, present and future.”

“Sure,” the Michaelcohen said, humoring his client. “But … but … they got my etchings. All of them.”

The T-Rump looked at him incredulously.

“Even the Stormy ones?”

“Especially the Stormy ones! They came to my work cave at Squirrel Petting Bogs, my place at the Regency Lowlands — I like how they always leave a mint-scented muskrat belly-up in the nest …   

“They came to your home, Michael. They were in your home.”

“That’s right.” The T-Rump’s anger was contagious. “I’m a legal dino, for cryin’ out loud. You’d think they could trust me. But oh no, they had to jump through all those extra hoops because I’m a legal dino. The referral by the Muellersavus. Then the Rodrosenstein signs off on it, the Langleytips’ Christopherwray okays it and the Geoffreyberman from the Manhattinhand South Sticks, who you even interviewed for the job.”

The T-Rump shook his head miserably.

“If I had known he was going to give the go ahead on investigating my own personal legal dino, well … I never, never would’ve hired him.”

“Hard to believe, but those dinos are all Sub Family to the Grandoldparty,” said the Michaelcohen in stunned wonder.

The T-Rump lashed out again with his tail, giving the cave wall a good workout.

“Deep down they’re all Donkeycongrus. Every last one of’em. Ya think ya know a dino.” The T-Rump shook his head and green slimed another wall. “You told me, Michael, you’d pay the 130-thousand moolah-moolah to the Stormydaniels and that I should keep my mouth shut. But that Mediacircustops gal — love in the air — the rolling Farce One Plains. She was s-o-o-o-o cute. My animal instinct took over. She asked me … all I said was ‘no.’ Usually it’s the other way around.”

“Don’t I know it, said the T-Rump’s fixer. “It’s not your fault, T-Rump. It was the perfect plan. Every dino in the world was supposed to believe you didn’t know I paid all that moolah-moolah on my own to Stormy for something that never happened. … Sometimes I wonder if we’re washing too much moolah-moolah leaves.”

The T-Rump gave him that you-can-never-have-enough-moolah-moolah look.

“But, Michael. You told me we would always have attorney-client privilege.”

“Um … unfortunately they have us over a boulder with crime-fraud exemption.”

“But we have attorney-client privilege.”

It was his dino DNA, the T-Rump repeating himself, believing truth would quickly step in line if not by the second mention, then surely by the third. There was no convincing the Michaelcohen however. He looked like a beaten, down-and-out dino, looking for a hasty escape before becoming the latest slime on the wall.

“It was a pleasure serving you, T-Rump. But I now have to, you know … run and hide.” He turned to leave.

“Michael, stop. Please.”

This was a shocker. The T-Rump actually showing him sympathy. The Michaelcohen brightened. Could this be the beginning of a beautiful relationship at the end of said relationship? They did everything else ass-backwards.

Even this brief, blissful moment was all too brief, broken up by the arrival of a dinosaur outside the doorway.

“Hey, Pursepuppy!” It was the Michaelavenatti. “See you in Dino Court!”

His laughter trailed away as he departed the scene. Obviously a hit-and-run job to maximize embarrassment. The T-Rump and the Michaelcohen waited, wincing at eight more blasts of “Pursepuppy!” … each echoing … stinging … before Stormy’s legal dino was finally out of earshot.

“You were saying?” asked the Michaelcohen, looking hopefully at the T-Rump.

“I see you’ll probably be going away to The Hole for a long time. A really long time.”

“Uh … thanks. It’s nice of you, T-Rump, to take notice …”

“Yes, well … I mean, I’ve already contacted several Legalzoomarus’ … No luck. And I realized you have a lawyer you won’t be needing now that you’re guilty as sin.”

Mortal shock from the Michaelcohen.

“What?” The T-Rump failed to comprehend how the Michaelcohen could possibly have feelings. “I have a business to run here.”

“You mean the Milkanhoney Preservation.”

“Stop splitting scales. Look, before they haul you away, I just want you to put in a good word with the Stevenryan to drop you and work for me. Can you do that? You’re still loyal, right?

Categories
Satire The Trump Dig

Mar-a-Guano Meet-n-Tweet …

There was the gnashing of teeth and flashing of raw, rare Kosmoceratops meat in the mouths of the Tyrumposaurus, the Jeaninepirro, the Seanhannity and the frizzy-scalped Donking. The four dinos were at the T-Rump’s Mar-a-Guano retreat to discuss strategy and devour spoils befitting their standing in the topsy-turvy political food chain.

The Jeaninepirro paused, blood dripping from her jowls, her sharp teeth and claws deep in a juicy flap of Kosmo red meat. The kind of red meat that makes a dino see red. The Jeaninepirro ate a lot of red meat.

“T-Rump,” she said. “Are you sure you don’t want me to join your legal team? I’m free next week.”

“Well, I’ve been giving it a great amount of consideration, meaning I wasn’t thinking about it until you mentioned it, but … I think I’d like you to stay with the Foxsquawkbox and friends. You serve me so well there. Very well. So … so … well.”

“We’re doing our best, T-Rump,” said the Seanhannity. “It’s all we can do to stay ahead of the sick and twisted agenda of the Mediacircustops down at the Main Stream.”

“Sick and twisted agenda,” the T-Rump said. “I like that.”

“I’m truly humbled,” said the Foxsquawkbox host. “I have more. Rabid rabbit-hole reporters … left-leaning, lily-livered liars … deep doo-doo, Deep State defenders …”

“Fine, just fine, Sean. I’ll keep you another week.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m kidding. Just an old line my mother used to tell me. Which is why I like my father much better. When I picture my father and my mother in mind, my father is always bigger. Much bigger.”

“Ahem,” said the Jeaninepirro, “I believe it’s my turn to bash those liberal line-spewing losers. LOCK’EM UP!”

Her loud shout startled the T-Rump. He clutched his throat, choking on a half-chewed flap of Kosmo gizzard, his second helping of gizzard because his guests were only allowed one. The horror in the T-Rump’s eyes spoke of a suddenly realized threat that no one would save him.

“Ohmigod! Did I do that?” she said. “I’m so sorry. Are you dying? You’re not going to uninvite me, are you?”

The Donking sprang to action. He brought his tail around like a roundhouse punch, right to the kisser. A tooth tumbled out of the T-Rump’s mouth. His eyelids sank, pulling the shades over their panic.

“You dummy,” said the Seanhannity. “You knocked him out.”

“That’s all I know,” said the Donking, squatting back on his haunches.

The Seanhannity jumped in the air, landing with resounding thud on the T-Rump’s belly. The T-Rump’s eyelids flew open and the guilty gizzard ejected high up in the air. The three other dinosaurs jockeyed for position under the flight of the juicy red meat. A quick two kicks to two groins and the Jeaninepirro snapped her jaws shut, swallowing the gizzard.

“M-m-m, sloppy seconds.”

A dazed T-Rump struggled to a squatting position.

“Did the Mediacircustops get my successful recovery? Did the Maggiehaberman say anything about me? Anything?”

“I’m afraid not,” said the Seanhannity. “There’s always tomorrow.”

“That’s all that matters.” The T-Rump sighed. “Has her husband left her yet?”

The other three dinosaurs shared the Oval Dwelling’s daily conundrum of wondering whether to humor the leader of the dinosaur world or simply ignore him. They nodded that in this case ignorance was bliss.

The Seanhannity raised a claw.

“Here’s one we haven’t tried yet. Let’s say that the Main Stream Mediacircustops only have jobs if they profess to have an undying, looks could kill, spit in your face hatred of you.”

“I’ll go you one better,” said the Jeaninepirro. “The Sinclair dinos — Sub Family of the Mediacircustops — have close to 200 species at the Main Stream. We should have them all say the same fake news message. Something like …”

“Let’s do this together,” interrupted the Seanhannity. “You know, misery loves company. I’ll start. We, the stalwart, know-it-all Sinclair dinos will root out the …”

“Nefarious, ugly thought-provoking, fickle, time-wasting facts,” chimed in the Jeaninepirro.

“That only serve to take our esteemed leader, the Tyrumposaurus, and his most important thoughts away from his latest game of flog,” finished the Seanhannity.

“I like it,” said the T-Rump. “Make it so. All 200 species. Give me loyalty. Or moolah-moolah.”

“Speaking of which,” said the Seanhannity. “We finally found a dinosaur poll that gives you a 50% approval rating.”

“How much did we pay for that?”

“We don’t want to say things like that, T-Rump,” cautioned the Jeaninepirro.

“Oh, right. Well, what poll was it?”

“Oh,” said the Seanhannity. “A little dino outfit just this side of extinction. It’s called the Ragamuffin Report.”

“They said 50%?”

“Yes. Well, they polled 5 dinosaurs and it’s a rolling average over a 5-minute period. Give or take 20 percent.”

“Fantastic! That’s more than the Obamarus ever had. Isn’t it?”

“At some point.”

“I want more. 60%. Get me 60.”

“Allow me,” said the Donking. “You want to beat the Obamarus? I can see it now.” He waved his short arms wide. Twice for effect. “We’ll call it The T-Rump Thump-a-Chump.’ You and the Obamarus toe-to-toe.”

“Can we throw in the Crookadillary too? Remember how I thumped her?”

“Are you sure you can handle two at the same time?” asked the Jeaninepirro.

“Oh, sure. You should’ve seen what I did to that place in the Moscovian Bluffs. Trashed it!”

“But what about your bone spurs?”

The T-Rump smiled his satisfied, lounge lizard smile.

“Did you want to see them? I have a private cave just around the corner. Out of the way, unassuming, includes a non-disclosure agreement. But you know all about those.”

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
Satire The Trump Dig

The Moscowchickenkiev …

Ho-hum, thought the Muellersavus. Another day, another victory. For collusion. His Langleytips DNA told him it was only a matter of sifting through the rubble and connecting the rocks that mattered. Today he was sitting atop a boulder.

He ramped up his steely-eyed gaze and directed it across the rustic rockpile at the latest stool pigeon caught in his gut-squeezing, mind-melding jaws of justice.

The Alexvanderzwaan, a Danishbritwit ex-legal dino from the meager Skadden Arps Slate Formation, squatted before him. He was the 19th dinosaur caught in the Moscovian Bluffs investigation. Beside him squatted the Rickyprisongates, nervously eyeing the Muellersavus. The veteran Langleytips dinosaur had already nailed him for washing millions of moolah-moolah leaves with his kingpin idol, the Manaforta, in all the wrong places. Law abiding dinos knew moolah-moolah leaves should always be washed at home.

“Alex,” said the Muellersavus, “you lied to me about your conversation with the Rickyprisiongates here. Now that you’re staring at the Solitary Sinkhole, you spent the past three days whining to one of my subordinate dinos about how you desperately need to be home to see the egg cracking of your first little dino.”

“Please, Muellersavus. I’m just a lonely Danishbritwit.”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk.” The Muellersavus waggled a boney claw at him. “I call it collusion entitlement. Did you ever stop to think how I feel? The Papadopoulus. The Flynnhasbeen. And now you. Lying to me. All of you. Do you think this is some dino game of Hang the Droopy Nose on the Dippy Diplodocus? Well?”

The ex-legal dino dropped his gaze to the ground in shame.

“No.”

“No, what?”

“No, it’s not some dino game of Hang the Droopy Nose on the Dippy Diplodocus.”

“I should say not. So, no, you can’t go home. Your poor wife is going to have to crack that damn egg all by herself. I hope you remember that.”

The Alexvanderzwaan was moved to tears.  An obvious ploy for pity thought the Muellersavus. Egg crackings, adopted dino babies, the Muellersavus had seen it all. It was time for the boulder play. Crack this one, Manaforta.

“Manaforta! Get in here!”

The Manaforta shuffled in, looking like a Martharaptor caught in the bright light of an incoming meteor. The Alexvanderzwaan’s eyes lit up.

“Hey, Manaforta! It’s been, what … 15 months since we’ve all been together?”

The Manaforta stole a quick glance at the Muellersavus, then turned to the two dinos.

“I don’t know any of you. Never seen you before in my life.”

“Paulie?” The Rickyprisongates looked crushed.

“Oh. Sorry, Ricky. Force of habit. Of course I know you. Only at work though. Remember, you work for me.”

The hairy eyeball from the Manaforta.

“Why are you looking at me like that, Paulie?”

“Ladies,” said the Muellersavus, “let’s cut to the chase.”

“Great,” said the Rickyprisongates. “I’m starved.”

“Figure of speech. Manaforta, you might be interested in knowing, the Alexvanderzwaan and your prodigy here, the Rickyprisongates were speaking with … I’ll call him a mystery dinosaur … the Moscowchickenkiev.”

The Manaforta turned to the Rickyprisongates.

“Did you tell him about the … the … Moscowchickenkiev? Huh? Did you? The Moscowchickenkiev, Ricky!”

“Paulie, stop it. You’re making me hungry!”

The Rickyprisongates coughed up a large, soft-shell rodent, then slowly regurgitated it.

“I’m sorry, Paulie,” he said between swallows. “I had to. I like you a lot but …”

“But what?”

“I don’t like you enough to spend 300 years with you in the Solitary Sinkhole. There. I said it.”

“But we can get pardons, Ricky. Pardons.” He said it through clenched teeth, squeezing his hands into pleading fists.

“Forget it, Paulie. The T-Rump has. The Stormydaniels, the Karenmcdougal, you know how short his attention span is.”

The Manaforta had to give him that one. The Muellersavus raised a claw.

“Manaforta, I think you know who the Moscowchickenkiev is. Oh, who am I kidding? No, I know you know who he is. The question is, do you know how many dinosaurs have already told me you know who he is. Well? … This was just my little way of reminding you that your washing moolah-moolah leaves all over the countryside is just the beginning of the troubled waters I now hold back, just waiting to wash over you. … It’s your turn, Manaforta. Are you a big fish or a little fish? Be the little fish and you may get to see your own little fishies outside visiting hours at the Solitary Sinkhole. What’ll it be, Manaforta? … I’m waiting.”