Tag: Political Humor

Dozens of Mediacircustops coughed, wheezed and squeezed in tighter to get within earshot of the flat rock lectern at Little Stomper Grounds, the dinosaur day care centre beside Watershed Falls. There had been rumblings the Tyrumposaurus would be stumping for the Judgeroymoore, the controversial representative for the Bamahama dinosaurs of Crimson Creek.

A young teenage Candystripertype ushered one of the dino tots to the side, an action not unnoticed by the T-Rump or the Judgeroymoore as the Trumpassic kingpin stood at the flat rock, basking in the sunlight.

“There’s a pretty one,” said the T-Rump. “She reminds me of my daughter. What’s your name, dear?”

“Suzie.”

“A beautiful name. Just beautiful. Isn’t that right, Judge?”

The Judgeroymoore nodded with a chuckle. The T-Rump returned to the crowd.

“I think I saw the Tennesseecorker playing in the corner, chasing his tail. But the real reason I’m here today is to promote my good friend, the Judgeroymoore in the great unwashed region of Crimson Creek. Now there have been several accusations against him of chasing young Candystripertypes. I waited six days to say this because I wanted the Fake News to pay extra close attention to me. The Judgeroymoore has disputed all the allegations against him. Every last one of them. He totally denies it. He says it didn’t happen. And I believe him because you have to listen to him also.”

“But part of your leadership group,” piped up a Mediacircustops, “the Mitchgetbacktowork, he said the Judgeroymoore is guilty.”

“Sorry, not going to happen. You want guilt? Look at the Alfrankenstein and the Harveyweinstein, that Great Horny Toad. Sick. It’s sad. It really is.”

“But T-Rump,” said another Mediacircustops, “so you’re saying the 16 female dinosaurs who accused you of sexual abuse and the 9 who accused the Judgeroymoore … all 25 of them are lying?”

“That’s right.”

“But the 2 who accused the Alfrankenstein and 57 who accused the Harveyweinstein … all 59 are telling the truth?”

“I believe they call that a coincidence,” said the T-Rump. “Don’t they, Judge? … Judge?”

But the Judgeroymoore was no longer at the T-Rump’s side. He had moved away from the flat rock and could be seen conversing with the young Candystripertype the T-Rump had spoken with earlier. All eyes watched as the Judgeroymoore pointed toward a shaded grove beside the falls before slowly leading her away. The T-Rump smiled and waved after them.

“Looks like the Judge is leaving me here to do the dirty work,” the T-Rump said with a smirk. “No, we do not want the Weak Knee Dougjonesy in Crimson Creek. He’s weak on protecting women and children, weak on border patrol and weak on our defense-by-devouring initiative.”

“Excuse me,” came a female voice from the audience.

“Yes?” said the T-Rump. “By the way, have we met before?”

“I beg your pardon? No, I’m here to pick up my daughter. She’s a young Candystripertype. Have you seen her?”

“Is her name Suzie?”

“Yes.”

“That was just a lucky guess. I don’t know her from Suzie, I mean Eve.”

“Hey,” shouted the first Mediacircustops, “we all just watched the Judgeroymoore walk out with her not 40 seconds ago.”

“Oh, sure,” said the T-Rump. “Forty seconds ago. Why bring it up now? Because I’m speaking? Let’s just wait for them to get back and hear what the Judge has to say. I’m sure he’ll say nothing happened and we’ll just have to believe him because that’s all that matters.”

The T-Rump turned back to Suzie’s mother.

“You’re sure we haven’t met before?”

“You there! Tuck in that belly! Absolutely no flabby trollertweeting today. Is that clear?”

The guilty Trollertweety nodded, grimaced and sucked in more air. The Tyrumposaurus stuck out his jaw as he inspected his fleet of Trollertweeties. Since the T-Rump came to power, their alert status hadn’t budged from DEF-CON 1. Deafening Content on par with white noise, that is.

The Trollertweeties slapped their cute little wings smartly to their sides. Their turquoise-coloured feathers with a hint of azure shimmered in the sun. Their golden beaks were finely honed to tweeting precision. They were a well-oiled machine, the only functioning unit in the T-Rump’s communication network.

The Trollertweeties were his pride and joy — a little army of Smurfs with wings. Not that he’d share that with them. Empathy was a sign of weakness. The Putinodon had drilled that into him. The T-Rump stopped to face his frequent feathered flyers.

“You are all expendable! Every last one of you … because my Trollertweeties have to be the best the world has ever seen!”

This was his morning ritual. Many a time he’d forgotten to kiss the Tymelania upon waking up — there were so many nasty thoughts burning holes in his walnut. Never just one. His paranoia saw to that. He did his best ranting before high noon. His deplorable dinosaur base depended on it.

“Today’s a big day. I didn’t sleep well which means I’m in fine whining form.”

“SQUAWK! Would you like some cheese with that?”

“Who said that?!”

There were no takers, nary a beak was beaking.

“Once more,” he glared down at his Trollertweety fleet, “I write the jokes around here. You’re just the messenger. I’M the joke.”

A single snicker came from deep in the pack.

The T-Rump glared after it … to no avail.

“Alright then. Yes, I do have lot to whine about. So let’s start with the Big Whine. Everybody!”

“SQUAWK! Nobody appreciates me! Nobody! SQUAWK!” came the nerve-jangling response from the 1000 Trollertweety strong. Like a barrel of howler monkeys, each squadron was solely trained for derisive division.

“Great! The greatest! Now then, I have three messages to remind the Milkanhoney Preservation who their favorite dinosaur is.”

The T-Rump paused. He was breaking a sweat. This wouldn’t do. Work was for losers.

He looked off to the side and spotted the Kushneratops sitting in a nearby field of forget-me-nots and poison ivy. The dinosaur was scratching himself and mumbling as he pulled petals off the flowers …

“She loves me, she loves me not. I’ll tell the truth, tell the truth–NOT.”

“Kushneratops!”

“Yes, uh … dad?”

“Fatigue alert. Get over here now!”

The Kushneratops hustled over to his father-in-law’s side.

“You remember that special targeting you did during the campaign? The one where we beat the Crookadillary.”

“Tell me again,” the son-in-law said on cue.

“We beat the Crookadillary. You may thank me now.”

“Thank you, um … dad.” It would always sound strange.

“Uh, yes. Now then, I have three messages …”

The T-Rump related them to the Kushneratops, then exited to practice his latest flogging technique at Mar-a-Guano.

Twenty minutes later, a sweet little Trollertweety, looked up at the Kushneratops.

“Are you sure you know what the hell you’re doing?”

“Quiet or I’ll step on you.”

“That’s not what the T-Rump said. You’ve got to say what the T-Rump said.”

“Okay, okay.” How he hated these little birds. He was better than them. Why was he talking to birds? Because they owned the T-Rump and the T-Rump owned him. Color him a happy slave.

“You know where to go. Just go. Fly away!”

Three Trollertweety squadrons lined up and took off into Trumpassic history.

The first squadron flew over the Californation with the following news blast:

“SQUAWK! … Lavarballboy! … You were caught saying bad things about your favourite dinosaur. Your career is toast anyway! SQUAWK!”

Moments later, in an area the Trollertweeties flew daily, they let loose the following shrill shriek:

“SQUAWK! … Crookadillary! … I have only one thing to say to the deplorables that voted for me. I should’ve left them in jail! SQUAWK!”

And finally, in a secluded flight along the Kushkislyak Back Channel, a fleet of Trollertweeties laid down the following scorched earth message over the Moscovian Bluffs:

“SQUAWK! … Putinodon! … You’re the worst and biggest loser of all time! Get on with your life and give it another try in three years! SQUAWK!”

The Tyrumposaurus lay on his back in a comfy pile of eucalyptus leaves under the We Teach People How to Treat Us Tree. The doctor was in. The T-Rump squinted at the midday sun.

“Do you think the three Trojanballboys will say thank you, T-Rump? They were headed for ten years in the Solitary Sinkhole.”

The Doctorphilsofa shook his head, his steely gaze riveted upon his patient.

“Why are you referring to yourself in the third person?”

“I like the sound of T-Rump.”

“It obviously concerned you enough to send out your flock of trollertweeties to alert the land. Was this a cry for attention?”

The T-Rump frowned.

“I’ll tell you who’s crying now. That Alfrankenstein. Really bad, really sad what he did to the Leeanntweeden.”

“Interesting. Similar charges have been made against you. What were you doing with lady dinosaurs 2, 3, 4, 5 and 6?”

“Liars. All six. Twelve. However many.”

“You’ve said nothing on the Judgeroymoore situation. Now’s the time to come clean. He is a member of your group. Don’t you think the dinosaurs of the Milkanhoney Preservation deserve guidance on this?”

“Let the Bamahama dinosaurs of Crimson Creek decide. I backed the Lutherstrangia — and this is the thanks I get!”

The Doctorphilsofa scratched a lower itch.

“You do understand your need to hear people thank you is part of a deep-seated need for acceptance.”

“Hah. I always ask people to thank me.”

“That is not a virtue.”

“Maybe not in your world.”

“Who do you think you are?” 

The Doctorphilsofa glared at the T-Rump, waiting patiently.

“Do you know who I am?” It was a default response the T-Rump still found humorous.

“I asked you first.”

“Ahem, I am the leader of the born free world.”

“So why does it feel like every dino is being held hostage? But let’s move on. When is the last time you thanked another dinosaur?”

“For what?”

“Anything.”

The T-Rump closed his eyes and thought hard. A minute passed. An excuse finally arrived.

“You see, it’s all about expectations.”

“You mean yours.”

“Now that I’m the boss, yes, that’s pretty much how it works.”

“And anything the Mediacircustops say is …”

“Fake news. Disgraceful. Failing. Losers.”

“Are you done yet?”

“If I don’t say it, people won’t believe it.”

The Doctorphilsofa squeezed his claws together.

“And so you reign over every dinosaur from the Bullee-Tar Pit … referring to the Elizabethwarrenpeace as Pocahontas, calling the Kimjongadon short and fat and labeling the Tennesseecorker as an incompetent lightweight. T-Rump, he’s on your team!”

The Tyrumposaurus smiled smugly, picking his teeth with a claw.

“You know, I could gobble you up right now and get away with it.”

“Spare me. Are you ready to accept some advice?”

“You did say you were going to give me something. Advice? Is that all?”

The Doctorphilsofa plunged on.

“There are many pitfalls on the long and winding road of life …”

“That sounds familiar.”

“And you’re not missing one of them.”

The T-Rump harrumphed.

“The only thing I’m missing is from you. Did you thank me yet?”

The Tyvankanatrix gazed up at the starry, moonlit night, her deep sniffs broken by the occasional hitching, honking sob. A gallon-sized tear spilled down her shimmering, scaly face, splashing beside her big feet.

“Oh, Jared, my Jared,” wherefore art thou?”

Her beloved Kushneratops however, was many miles away, hiding in a corner of the Intentionally Unnamed Den in the Valley of the Shrouded Veil. He sat there mumbling over and over his latest catch-phrase from the previous day’s journey through the very valley next door.

“Yet even though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Depositions, I shall fear no Muellersavus.”

There was a rustling in the dark. The sound of panting. And fear.

“Is that you, Kush?”

“T-Rump Jr.? How did you find me?”

“Remember that targeting strategy you came up with during the campaign? The one where you marked a tree beside every T-Rump supporter? Well, the trail led straight here.”

“One of my few shining moments,” the  Kushneratops said with a sigh.

The dank, pitch black darkness of the cave enveloped the two dinosaurs. The T-Rump Jr. finally spoke.

“The T-Vanka’s been asking about you. Is there anything you want me to tell her? I mean, that won’t get us all in trouble?”

“Tell her … tell her that when I’m feeling down I think of the speech she gave on the tax middle-aged dinosaurs place on their health by stampeding three times a day. … And I hope she’s having success with her new lady dino beauty tip, you know, the face-plant mud baths.”

“Sure. Anything else?”

“Not off hand I can think of. I’ve pretty much kept to myself in this godforsaken cave the past month. No dinosaur contact, no companionship, no emotion.”

“Meaning?”

“Well, now that you mention it. Yeah, tell T-Vanka I love her father.”

“Of course. Still trying to make brownie points, even after marrying my sister. You don’t give up, Kush. … I remember when you two first met. The T-Rump told you to run away and hide.”

“Just like last month. So, bring me up to speed. Anything exciting going on?”

“No, just the usual. I can’t remember more than two days ago, so I’ll start there. The Mediacircustops are up in arms because I had a whopping three conversations with the Wikileakibeak. The Sessionsopussum continues to stay one step behind the Mediacircustops. The Judgeroymoore was caught chasing Candystripertypes out of season and the Mitchgetbacktowork wants the Sessionsopussum to replace Judgeroymoore to keep the Grandoldpartysaurus alive and kicking. Finally, the T-Rump just got back from his Maidenasia trip where he kissed the Chopstickchowmein’s tail up and down. The T-Rump of course can’t say boo about Judgeroymoore because there’s a long line of Pushmepullyou gals just waiting to pile on him.

“The same ol’ same ol’,” said the Kushneratops. “I miss it, all that same.”

“Yeah. We’re just one big happy family, aren’t we? So why are 67% of dinosaurs against us? I mean, look at the Romanovenators — a regular dynasty from the Moscovian Bluffs.”

“Oh, really?” said the Kushneratops. “How’d it work out for them?”

“Are we there yet?”

It was the fourth time in two hours the Tyrumposaurus Jr. had asked his father. The T-Rump didn’t answer. Their father-son retreat in the Buddy-Feller Badlands was not off to a good start. They could barely keep up with the Flynnhasbeen and his son.

They soon found a small clearing in the grassland beside the rocky ridge of a butte that towered over them. They squatted on their haunches, all eyes following the T-Rump’s every move. Their leader nodded at the knee-high grass around them.

“Grasslands. Look at it. The tallest ever seen. Fantastic growth. The greatest.”

The Flynnhasbeen Jr. turned to his father.

“Why are we here again?”

“It’s a retreat.”

“Stop calling it that. It sounds weak,” said the T-Rump. “I don’t run from anything.”

“He means, what happens on a retreat,” said the T-Rump Jr.

“How should I know? Who set this up anyway? Was it you, Flynn?”

“I did.”

The voice was deep, Slavic and mostly Machiavellian. It’s owner appeared from behind a huge horehound bush. It was the Putinodon, with a younger dinosaur in tow.

“Hey! If it isn’t the Putinodon. So happy to see you again,” gushed the T-Rump. “And who is this?”

“My son.”

“But … you don’t have a son.”

“For father-son retreat, I have son.”

“Great. We can call him the Putinodon Jr.”

“No, there is only one Putinodon. He is the Acornfromtreedmitri.”

The dinosaurs nodded hello to the Putinodon off-spring cut-out, who stood tall and mum, well-trained in the art of resolute stoicism.

The Putinodon took in the dinosaurs before him with a lecherous grin. He would play these buffoons for the food chain failures they were.

“Thank you for coming. There are three parts to father-son program. Building team, priorities and solving problems.”

The T-Rump nudged his son.

“Forget everything I told you. Just listen.”

“Building team,” continued the real Trumpassic boss. “Trust. No trust.” He scanned their faces for answers.

“Trust?” said the T-Rump Jr.

“No trust. Never trust. Trust is dust in wind. Trust will get you killed.” He looked at the Flynnhasbeens. “Do I have need of repeating myself?”

The Flynnhasbeens shared a gulp.

“But we still need to communicate, don’t we?” asked the elder Flynnhasbeen.

“You, comrade, have 15 million reasons to stay silent. Now for priorities. You all work for Moscovian Bluffs, which means you work for me.”

The T-Rump leaned toward his son.

“Did I tell you how much I like this guy?”

“T-Rump, you interrupt again, I make you into little dinosaurs that go inside each other.”

The T-Rump humbly dragged a claw across his overhanging lip to zip it.

“Let me get this right,” said the Flynnhasbeen Jr., “we put you ahead of family?”

“Of course,” said the Putinodon, nodding to the Acornfromtreedmitri. “What is family? No family, no worries.”

The Flynnhasbeen Jr. and the T-Rump Jr. nervously eyed their fathers, who gave helpless shrugs in response.

“Finally,” said the Putinodon. “Problem solving. Go ahead, ask me.” He nodded to the T-Rump Jr.

“Uh, what is the problem?”

“Very good. What is problem?”

“That’s what I said.”

“That is answer. There is no problem. Hmm. Perhaps, I speak too soon …” He stared down the T-Rump. “There is one issue that is not problem. Yet.”

The T-Rump’s saggy knees began shaking.

“Oh, what’s that?”

“You have not yet killed the Sanctionsaurus. When will this happen?”

“Oh, well. It’s a beast. It’s a disaster!”

“Disaster is problem. Make problem disappear.”

“But I’m short of dinosaurs. Who’s going to do all the work?” The T-Rump paused, finally understanding the Putinodon’s true meaning. “O-o-o-o-h. That kind of disappearing.”

He turned to the Flynnhasbeen.

“Can we do that?”

The Flynnhasbeen turned to the Putinodon with a questioning look of his own. The Putinodon smiled almost apologetically.

“What is another 15 million?”

The T-Rump swallowed hard.

“I’ll have my dinosaurs get right on it,” he said, having no idea what he was going to do. The Putinodon relished the T-Rump’s discomfort.

“We go now,” he said, nodding to the Acornfromtreedmitri, who dutifully fell in behind. Fifty yards away, out of earshot of the others, the fake son finally broke his silence.

“Putinodon, can I have sister?”

“No, I trade you now for niece. Last one worked well.”

The Crookadillary leaned back upon her knobby elbows, reclining on the narrow banks of Lagoon DeChagrin. The searing afternoon sun was sweet respite to her aching joints. The distant roar of Twennysevendoller Falls could be heard in the background. She’d finally put the previous year’s dust-up with the Tyrumposaurus behind her. Still, she found herself in a state of melancholy similar to a previous depression, the Lewinsky-Dresse Blues. 

She sighed, made a feeble attempt at a smile and flexed her claws in the sand. The Sands of Time now sifted her golden years as a retired Donkeykongrus dino. She’d come so far since her humble beginnings as just another anxious ankylosaurid stepping out from behind a little rock in the Arkansas Whitewater Development. It seemed like epochs ago.

“Ahem.”

She slowly opened the wide slits of her eyes, her lazy gaze finding a large form before her. She frowned.

“Excuse me. You’re blocking my sun.”

“As you blocked me.”

Confrontation. The bane of all herbivores. She closed her eyes and shuddered at the memories of the T-Rump stalking her. Shut it out. Just shut it out. She found the center of her happy place and opened her eyes again. Blinking once, twice, she focused on the aging dinosaur glaring down at her. It was the Berniesaurus.

“Bernie? What are you doing here?”

“I live here, remember?”

“Oh, yes. Twennysevendoller Falls. Such a quaint, modest address.”

The Berniesaurus was a Newdeelio Vermontindytitan whose main diet usually consisted of grass roots and straw poles. He was now, however, hungry for something else.

“I was speaking with the Donnabrazilla,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

The Donnabrazilla was a Nawlins Sauropod from the Raisincain-Anfunds Formation, part of the well-known Dixiewhistlin Superpax Group.

“Oh, how is she?”

“How could you, Hillary!?”

“How could I what?”

“You threw me under the Priebusunderbus.”

“That’s old news,” said the Crookadillary. “The T-Rump and the Putinodon stole my secrets and I’m sorry, I’m sorry and — good grief, get over it — I’m sorry again that I told the Donkeykongrus your grass roots were simply too soggy for the rest of us. There, are you happy? I told you What Happened. Now leave me alone.  I’m retired, dammit.”

But the Berniesaurus had only begun. Spittle flew from his jowls as he shook his head, working himself into a feverish frenzy — not to be confused with the mating habits of the Arizonasaurus.

“You rigged the Donkeykongrus! Rigged it, you did!”

“Stop it, Bernie. Settle down. We’re all in this together.”

“I am not!” He waggled a claw in the air. “I am independent of your gross dereliction of duty. The Donnabrazilla told me the Donkeykongrus was starving. Starving! … You gave them the green, leafy moolah-moolah they needed and they gave you …” he gasped and heaved, clutching his chest. “Everything.” He sank back on his haunches, winded and struggling for air.

The Crookadillary looked within. Uh-oh. Cover up. Cover it up. She instinctively clawed the ground with her feet. Old habits died hard. The sand had lost its heat. Her vision turned cold.

“I gave you my dinosaurs!” roared the Berniesaurus. “My scaly flesh and my old, cold blood. Honest reptiles. The lot of them. And what did you do, Hillary? What did you do?!”

She closed her eyes to the ground-shaking thunder. Her happy place inside was in tatters. The melancholy now a barrage from the brow-beating Berniesaurus. My god, where does he get the energy? It was like she was back on the Donkeykongrus Trail. Had she stepped on too many feet … or not enough? She felt dizzy and reminded herself that heat stroke was the second highest cause of death for dinosaurs after STD (Senseless Territorial Disputes).

“We are the meek, the many, the malnourished!” the Berniesaurus went on. “All thanks to you!”

His blaring blinded her oasis, blocking out the sounds of the falls. The Crookadillary dipped her cheek horn into the cool, shallow waters of Lagoon DeChagrin. Her golden years would not be easy. Dinosaurs would hunt her. Haunt her. She wondered how long she could hold her breath under water.