Tag: Political Humor

The Podestaphusses, a once notable family of swift-footed lizards, gathered around a fresh kill of the rare Panoplosaurus. It was the Shanks Given celebration, a day of charity where dinosaurs donated their excess red meat to the less swift. Squatting at the head of the spicy species laid open before them was the Marypodestaphus, a very spry dino for 95. On either side of her were her two sons, the Johnpodestaphus, 68, and his older brother, the Tonypodestaphus, 74.

The Marypodestaphus watched her youngest son nibbling slowly around the studded plates covering the back of the Panoplosaurus.

“Johnny, Panoplosaurus is your favorite nodosaurid and you haven’t even touched your lizard gizzards. Is there something wrong?”

“Leave him alone, ma,” said the Tonypodestaphus. “He’s had a tough week.”

“No thanks to you,” snapped his brother.

“Boys, boys, boys. I’ve slaved over this nice corpse of Panoplosaurus. Let’s not spoil the dripping blood. What’s going on here? Tony? Johnny?”

“He stole my secrets!” roared Johnny.

“Secrets?” asked his mother. Her walnut brain played catch-up. Until recently, eating, drinking and sleeping was all she knew. “What secrets?”

They paused while Johnny regurgitated a bone. Tony slapped him on the back for good measure, a true sign of a close-knit family.

“I was down at the Babylon Babbling Brook,” began Johnny. “Sure it’s a public meeting place, but every dino babbles. In one ear and out the other.” He looked directly at Tony and seethed. “What’s said at the Brook stays at the Brook.”

Tony turned sideways to spit out some gristle.

“How was I supposed to know? I was only there to help the Manaforta and the Rickyprisongates.”

Their mother’s lower double-hinged jaw dropped low, wide open. She was too shocked to hear the contents of her mouth hit the sand with a ‘plop, plop … plop.’

“You were in cohoots with those two louts — those co-louts — in c-c-c-collusion? You do know I have to show my face in the Cretaceous Square. Your father, rest his friendly fossil, would be spinning his grave like greased lightning. How could you, Tony? Especially after all your shenanigans with that Rusky no-good-nick, the Yanukovychnick. ”

“Ma, I was just listening for information on the Donkeykongrus …”

“And he got my secrets!” Johnny shouted. He turned to Tony with a sneer. “I used to look up to you.”

“Tony,” she said with a stern look. “You’re just going to have to give those secrets back.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not. He’s your brother.”

“I – I don’t know where they are.”

Johnny spit up his food.

“You lost my secrets?”

“Say it ain’t so, Tony.” She held her nine-inch nails to her face.

“You know how it is, Ma.”

“I sure do. That’s what the problem is with these Trumpassic times. In one ear and out the other.”

“But the moolah-moolah is good. Here, have some.”

Tony produced a thick wad of green moolah-moolah. It was the leafy, tender currency of the dinosaur diet, going well with anything.

“Don’t bring that moolah-moolah around my meal,” snapped their mother. “I will not eat T-Rumped up moolah-moolah.”

Tony raised a claw.

“But we don’t know–”

“Ah. Stop right there. What did I say about repeating that Huckabeecyclops mumbo-jumbo in my home? What did I say?”

Tony swallowed hard, waiting for his stomach to settle.

“She only has half a walnut,” he said under his breath. He slowly turned to her. “What am I going to do, ma?”

“Now you ask me.”

She turned to her other son. Johnny’s lower lip tightened over a double-row of razor-sharp teeth. He glared at his older sibling.

“Leave.”

“What? Where?”

“You know where.”

“No, not the Valley of Long Lost Brothers.”

“Get lost,” hissed Johnny.

Their mother’s large, droopy eyes welled up with tears. How had it come to this? The Tyrumposaurus, once seemingly the answer, had now ripped her family apart. She watched as Tony wiped the blood and loose entrails from his chin. He rose from the Panoplosaurus … the fine feast now a hollow memory.

She watched the departing Tonypodestaphus and couldn’t help from calling out after her oldest son.

“How much moolah-moolah is enough, Tony? How much is enough?”

The Tyrumposaurus looked up from counting his pooka shells, noticed the shadows creeping in and groaned. It was time. He had to put in an appearance at the Healing Grounds. It was a peaceful, shady place where dinosaurs went to convalesce after battles, domestic spats and third-degree trench foot.

It had been twelve days since the dust-up in Chadniger’s Dustiest Dustbowl. There were three badly wounded Platooncorps dinosaurs for which the Mediacircustops had been hounding the T-Rump to pay a visit.

Following a three-minute stroll, the T-Rump stood over the first Platooncorps. The dinosaur was missing the bottom half of his right leg. How he hadn’t bled to death was a paleontological miracle. The T-Rump tapped his chin with a claw.

“Lost a leg, did you? Well, you did get to see a lot of the Trumpassic Kingdom. Say, you haven’t been to T-Rump Lagoon, have you?

“I can’t walk!”

“Okay, no need to get upset. I can come back later to tell you how my name wound up on it.”

The T-Rump moved on to the second Platooncorps. The injured dinosaur held his short arms up, covering his face with his trembling claws. The T-Rump tapped his foot impatiently. This dino didn’t even look like he was hurt.

“Well?”

The Platooncorps slowly lowered his claws. His face had been ravaged by a mammoth set of razor-sharp chompers. T-Rump stepped back on his heels.

“Wow! That’s gotta hurt. … What’s the other guy look like?”

“I can’t see!” sobbed the dino.

The T-Rump quickly stepped aside to the third Platooncorps. The dinosaur was holding the claws of one arm to his throat in a choking motion.

“Now, now,” said the T-Rump, “I know it’s been 12 days, but if you’re not going to appreciate my being here …”

The wounded dinosaur shook his head. He took his claws away from his neck and pointed to a deep slash across the jugular.

“Oh,” said the T-Rump. “You can’t talk. Why didn’t you say so?”

Exasperated, the Platooncorps collapsed on his back.

“Okay,” said the T-Rump, “I guess I’m done here. I hope you’re all happy.”

He returned home. Half an hour later a pair of Donkeykongrus dinosaurs paid him a visit.

“Cryingchuck and Nancypelosionyx, what a surprise!” The T-Rump took a peek around them. “What? No Chinese chocolate? How are we going to make a deal without Chinese chocolate?”

“No, no,” said the Cryingchuck, “we’re here because we wanted to bring your attention to something none of your, um … handlers are willing to talk to you about.”

“What? You mean the fake news or news from my favorite Foxsquawkbox?”

The near-sighted Cryingchuck looked down his nose at the Nancypelosionyx, who smiled sweetly and forged ahead.

“T-Rump, we’re talking about empathy.”

“What’s that?”

The Cryingchuck and the Nancypelosionyx shared a look, then nodded a silent ‘I told you so.’ The Nancypelosionyx turned to the T-Rump.

“Look, they’re having a benefit tonight for the survivors of the hurricanes in Samhouston Hills, the Neverglades and Puerto Rikiricardo.”

“That windy, rainy thing?”

“Right, T-Rump,” said the Cryingchuck. “We pulled some strings and you’re going to be there, seeing empathy in action.”

Two hours later the T-Rump plodded down the path toward the benefit. It was dusk and he almost tripped over her. It was the Sanjuanmayaurus.

“You again,” said the T-Rump. “What are you doing here?”

“Uh, this is a benefit?”

“For Samhouston Hills and the Neverglades.”

“And Puerto Rikiricardo. I treaded water for ten days, remember?”

The T-Rump shrugged.

“Uh, well, you knew what you were signing up for, but when it happens it hurts.” I suppose, he said to himself.

“I can’t believe you just said that.”

The T-Rump looked around.

“I didn’t.”

“Oh, yes you did. I heard it all.”

It was the Fredericawilson, a Packapunchian dinosaur with two large bumps on her head that resembled a 10-gallon cowboy hat. She stepped out of the bushes.

“What are you doing here?” asked the T-Rump. “Sheesh. Hold a benefit and everybody comes.”

“I used to babysit for her cousin’s cousin. I’m always there for them.”

“Obviously. I still didn’t say it though.”

“We heard it too,” came several other voices from the thick shrubs. Five former legendary leaders of the dinosaur world stepped out onto the path. There was the Carterpeanutshells, the Bushfortyone, the Bushfortythree, the Clinton Duckbill and the Obamarus.

The T-Rump scoffed at them.

“I’m doubling, no, tripling down because losing is for … losers. I’ll be sending out a fresh flock of Trollertweeties within the hour. Lies, fake news, lies, fake news. You know the drill.”

But no one was listening. The five former leaders had filed down the path into the benefit, leaving the Sanjuanmayaurus and the T-Rump looking after them.

The Sanjuanmayaurus sighed.

“There go some real dinosaurs.”

“Hey!” the T-Rump hollered. “I should be in there.”

The last dinosaur in the line, the staggering Bushfortyone, turned to him and said croakingly, “You’ve been uninvited, sonny.”

“What?! I deserve to be in there. Hey, look at Santadomingo, here.”

“Sanjuanmayaurus,” she corrected.

“Whatever. I give myself a big fat 10 on how I helped her out.”

“And I give you a one.”

The Sanjuanmayaurus raised her nose and left for the benefit.

“Hey!” shouted the T-Rump louder. “Did you hear that? She just said I’m number one. I’m the best! The best!” His voice softened. “So how come … why am I here … all … alone?”

“Quiet on the steppes!”

It was the raspy voice of the incorrigible Bannoncanon. He was the director of the Trumpassic Period’s end of the year play. From atop the Bullee-Tar Pit he gazed over the Puhl-DePlugg Reservoir with the Tyrumposaurus, the Mitchgetbacktowork and the Tennesseecorker.

“Now, then,” continued the Bannoncanon, “I’m calling this the Season of War.”

“Why are we always at war?” asked the Mitchgetbacktowork.

“What did I say about cutting off your oxygen?”

The Mitchgetbacktowork took a deep breath in case he was serious.

The Bannoncanon raised a claw in the air.

“The opening scene will be like the Ides of Marching Together.”

“Oh,” said the T-Rump, “like we did with the Putinodon.”

“Quiet. T-Rump, you’re going to be the Caesarsaurus.”

“But of course.”

The Bannoncanon tapped his bottom lip as he stared down the Mitchgetbacktowork and the Tennesseecorker.

“Which one of you is going to play the Brutusbackstabus?”

The Tennesseecorker tapped the Mitchgetbacktowork on the shoulder.

“It’s all yours. I want to be the Nerofiddler. We need some laughs.”

“This is my play,” roared the Bannoncanon. There is NO Nerofiddler.”

“What’s that?” asked the T-Rump.

“No Post-Roast Rome Remains?” ventured the Tennesseecorker.

“No,” said the Bannoncanon.

“You’re losing me,” said the T-Rump. I think it’s time to send out a nasty Trollertweety about that son-of-a-brontosaurus Kaepernickelback.”

“Stay right there. I need more of you.”

“Well, that’s impossible.”

The Bannoncanon shook his head.

“I’m talking authentic candidates. That’s the most important thing.”

“For what?” The T-Rump was remarkably still on task.

The Bannoncanon spotted a rare teaching moment and seized it.

“T-Rump, what do we need if we’re going to win a war?”

“Um, a plan?”

“I’ve got the plan. It’s right here in my walnut brain! We need warriors. Lots of warriors!”

“Well,” said the T-Rump with a sniff. “I almost got you one. Remember the Lutherstrangia?”

“Yes, except it was the Judgeroymoore we needed — and who I helped win, thank you very much.”

“Wait a minute,” said the T-Rump. “You should be thanking me.”

“But you didn’t do anything.”

“Your point?” The T-Rump fidgeted nervously. “Look, I really, really need my Trollertweety fix. Just tell me how this things’s going to end.”

“Madness,” said the Tennesseecorker.

The Bannoncanon gave him the hairy eyeball.

“We’ll be overthrowing the Grandoldpartysaurus.”

“Can we do that?” asked the T-Rump.

The hairy eyeball swerved his way.

“Relax, this is just the dress rehearsal.”

The Tyrumposaurus and his eldest son were traipsing through the bullrushes and brambleweeds of Black Lung Lagoon. The sun came out of a cloud and the T-Rump paused in his tracks.

“What is it father?” asked the young T-Rump.

“Son, I think it’s time I told you the facts of life.”

“I’m 39. It’s a little late for the Firstdate Birds and the Placenta Bees speech.”

“No, I’m talking about the most important facts of life.”

“Like what, father?”

“Contrary to the fake news about me being a moron, I am indeed smarter and can run faster than a Saveyourenergyrex, a Marinegunkelly and a Maddogmaddis. And I can pee further too.”

“Wow. Individually or puddle to puddle?”

“Altogether, son. You should see my bladder.”

The T-Rump picked up a bullrush and chewed on the muddy end. It would later give him massive heartburn.

“Son, one more great fact of life. No matter how many millions of years that the Mediacircustops write their stories about truth and justice in the sands of time, it’s still all fake news. Do you follow me?”

“Not quite.”

“Well, you take your Tennesseecorker for example. He was a good dinosaur once upon a time. Then the Mediacircustops took his words and made him out to sound like a fool. That’s what I’m dealing with.”

“Are they all fools, father?”

“Now you’re beginning to understand. Yes, I am smarter than all of them. However, I’ll tell you one dinosaur that’s close to my walnut brain. That Christopherbedford dinosaur. He’s writing good things in the sand about me. The Art of the T-Rump. The Art of the T-Rump’s Art and the …”

“Art of the T-Rump’s Art’s Art,” finished the T-Rump Jr.

“You’ve read them?”

“No, just a lucky guess.”

“Well, you should. I’m sending out the Trollertweeties to tell all the dinosaurs they must visit and read these great lines in the sand.”

“Where are they, father?”

“On the shores of Hippockruh Sea. Such a beautiful place.”

“But, father, isn’t the Christopherbedford a Sub Family of the Mediacircustops?”

“Son, I made up the term fake news. I can certainly make up another phrase for turning fake news into real news on an as-needed basis.”

“I got it!”

“Aha.” The T-Rump raised a claw in the air. “No, son. I got it. And that’s what I will call it. They’re my words now. I GOT IT. Simple but so meaningful. Simply great. You can thank me now.”

“Gee. Thanks for allowing me to thank you, dad.”

“Any time, son. Keep thanking me any time.”

The Sessionsopus, the Mitchgetbacktowork and the Saveyourenergyrex all sat on their haunches before the Huckabeecyclops. She was overseeing their latest mandatory therapy session in the Puhl-DePlugg Reservoir. The Huckabeecyclops cast her eye to the cloudy sky. The doctor was in.

“We are gathered here today in what may appear as the deep, dark depths of depression, but I assure you that things are not as bad as they seem. Sessionsopus? Why don’t you start things off for us.”

“Well, okay. I’m feeling better these days. A good day is when I don’t see the T-Rump. You know the story, he expected me to slay the Putinodon and the Crookadillary in a single day. When I didn’t, he sent out his fleet of Trollertweeties calling me ‘beleaguered’ and ‘very weak.’ I’m not beset by difficulties. He’s the difficulty. There. I said it.”

“Now, now, Sessionsopus,” said the Huckabeecyclops. “When the T-Rump said ‘beleaguered’ he could’ve been referring to, oh … the ‘B’ Leagues perhaps. You know, just a step below his ‘A’ League expectations. Sure. He just wants you to step it up a bit.”

She turned to the next patient.

“Mitchgetbacktowork, you haven’t talked to the T-Rump in weeks, if not months. Can I at least bring him back a wee bit of good tidings?”

The Mitchgetbacktowork broke out in a bluster.

“It wasn’t just me attacking the Obamacarus. Oh, no. Seven years to repeel and regurgitate. What did he expect? That skin was like leather! You tell him I hope he chokes on his next helping of Caviaraptor legs!”

“No,” said the calming Huckabeecyclops, “I’m going to tell him your relationship with him is fine. Certainly there are going to be some policy differences, but you two share so many goals.”

“Do me a favor and just point him to the Caviaraptor legs.”

The Huckabeecyclops refocused her wandering eye.

“Saveyourenergyrex. You’re joining us today for the first time. Why is that?”

“He called the T-Rump a moh-ron,” said the Sessionsopus with a chuckle.

“Who then made him go in front of all the Mediacircustops and say he had the T-Rump’s back,” said the Mitchgetbacktowork. “Were you really being held hostage?”

“Certainly not,” said the Saveyourenergyrex. “I plan on spending another year here and — god willing with these therapy sessions — I can step aside with some morsel of dignity.”

“Dignity, schmignity.” It was the Tennessecorker, a feisty Snapchattanoogan Ornithopod.

The Huckabeecyclops checked the sun.

“You’re late, Tenneseecorker. But just in time to share your own woes. As I’ve briefed the others, I’ll be returning to the T-Rump with unabridged versions of your statements in some neutral form of semi-confidentiality.”

“Oh, I’ve passed on a statement alright.”

“Er, what kind of statement?” The Huckabeecyclop’s eye was wobbling, as it did whenever she felt left out of the loop.

“I hijacked a few Trollertweeties of my own.”

There was an audible gasp of enthusiasm from the other patients.

“Yessiree, Bob,” said the Tennesseecorker. “I had them say the Marinegunkelly, the Maddogmattis and the Saveyourenergyrex were all that was keeping the Puhl-DePlugg Reservoir from plunging into chaos.”

The Huckabeecyclop’s eye whirled at how to spin ‘chaos.’

“Then,” the Tennesseecorker continued, “he lied about convincing me to stay, how I begged him. More lies, you know.”

The other patients nodded knowingly.

“Finally, I just told him what his Oval Dwelling is.”

“What’s that?” asked the Huckabeecyclops.

“An adult day-care center.”

There were loud snorts of laughter. The Sessionsopus coughed up a cat.

“Oh, no,” said the Huckabeecyclops, reeling with confusion. “I’m sure, absolutely positive what you meant to say, what I will tell the T-Rump, is that his Oval Dwelling is indeed a … uh, professional meeting place.”

Her words however, were lost in the first cathartic laughter heard across the Milkanhoney Preservation in weeks. The Tennesseecorker rose from his haunches and waved to his cohorts.

“Good luck, good bye and thank God for the Trollertweety.”

The Tyrumposaurus sat bolt upright in his nest of fine fig leaves. The rustling leaves awakened the Tymelania, who was sleeping a good tail’s length away.

“What is it?” She asked.

“A nightmare. Must’ve been that third helping of Caviaraptor legs.”

“Maybe it’s been the strain of getting Puerto Rikiricardo back on it’s feet.”

“That has nothing to do with me. No, in the dream, well … it got personal.”

“Yes?” She blinked in shock. Twelve years they’d been together and this was the first time he was opening up to her. She cringed at the thought.

“The Kimjongadon and I were gazing at the stars. Imagine that crackpot and me, looking at the stars. Why, I don’t even look at the stars with you.”

Thank god, she thought.

“The lunatic was going on about the meaning of life and other nonsense when he has the nerve to call me Little Rocketman. Can you believe it?”

“Wasn’t that the last thing you called him before you fell asleep?”

“Sure, but I said it first. They’re my words now.”

He paused and looked at her.

“So …”

“So what?” she asked.

“Do you think I’m Little Rocketman?”

“No,” she said yawning.

“No? That’s it?”

“T-Rump, I don’t remember the last–”

“Not that. You’re supposed to pump me up. Make me look great. That’s your job. Excuse me.”

He raised his head above a low-hanging branch of huckleberries.

“Mitchgetbacktowork! Saveyourenergyrex!”

The T-Melania shook her head.

“They’re sleeping.”

“They work for me 24-7. They need to figure out what I’m going to do to that herb-sucking Hamiltonian, Linmanmiranda. He told me to go straight to hell.”

“You did tell the Sanjuanmayorsaur she was a loser.”

“I thought that. What I said was that she had poor leadership ability.”

“And that she was a complainer and her dinosaurs want everything done for themselves. That hurricane almost wiped them out. There were dinosaurs dying.”

“That reminds me,” said the T-Rump. “Our battle-scarred veterans. Only eleven dinos were lying on their backs during the humming of the Flight of the Trollertweeties. That’s progress. Great progress.”

“How can you say Trollertweety and Puerto Rikiricardo in the same sentence?”

He looked at her carefully. His eyes narrowed.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You’re starting to sound like the Mediacircustops and their fake news. I need to know. Are you with me?

“Three days a week. You know I need … my own time.”

“Are you being nasty to me? Did the Donkeykongrus put you up to this? You’re out to get me, aren’t you?”

“No, no and I thought we had an agreement.”

“And that damn Lutherstrangia with his Bamahama dinosaurs in Crimson Creek. You did see the Mediacircustops failed to mention that even though he lost his battle, his popularity went WAY UP after my endorsement!”

But the T-Melania had once again tuned him out. She reclined with a sigh back into her nest. Her eyes found the nearby huckleberries. She’d lectured the dino tots only yesterday not to eat them because they would make the young ones dizzy. But they didn’t have to live with the T-Rump.

She coughed to cover the sound of her snapping off the branch. She licked her lips at the glossy, succulent berries glistening in the moonlight, each beckoning her, ‘bite me, no me.’ She plopped one into her mouth. One huckleberry of course begets another. She plopped more, plowing through the branch like corn on the cob until happy sleep found her.