Tag: Political Humor

“Pass the trailsnack, ma.”

Trailsnack was Trumpassic Period parlance for roadkill. Another unidentifiable, stomped-upon mess of intestines and entrails that tasted surprisingly like chicken.

It was supper time in the Red Neck Nukkledraggerz home in the very hilly Billy Blue Bayou. Ma  passed an extra-crushed breastplate to Billyjoe as her other son Billybob and her husband gnashed away. Billyjoe and Billybob, both in their mid-30s, lived in their parents’ subterranean cavern.

“I wonder what them workin’ dinos is doin’ today,” Billyjoe said with a chuckle. “Or ain’t doin’. How many days that shutdown been now? 17?”

“16,” said Billybob. “And a bunch o’ hours.”

“That means 17.”

“16.”

Ma spit out a bone.

“Would you two cut it out! Ya got nothin’ better to do than argue over the time o’ day? Honestly. You’re gonna be the death o’ me.”

“Sorry, ma,” said Billyjoe. “We’re jus’ jacked up over the T-Rump hullabaloo, his Great Text-Mex Divide and all. The dino world is finally gettin’ tuh see how the other half lives.”

“Well, I don’t rightly know what all the fuss is about. All them dinos outta work right now. They could round’em up and build that wall in no time. Ain’t that right, pa?”

“Huh, what’s that? Is you talkin’ tuh me?”

Pa’s hearing had been haywire ever since the rabid raptor incident.

“Never mind,” she said. “I just think it’s nice that the T-Rump is finally takin’ a big squat for the little guy.”

“Both haunches, damn straight,” said Billyjoe. “First he said it was his shutdown, then he said you can call it the Pelosi shutdown or the Cryingchuck shutdown. He’s one-smart dino, coverin’ all them bases like that. Hah! He’s even callin’ it a strike.”

Billybob puzzled while munching.

“What’s a strike, Billyjoe?”

“That’s when ya don’t work cuz ya don’t want to.”

“Kinda like us, huh? Didn’t know we wuz on strike.”

“I’m the dino who should go on strike,” said ma. “Feedin’ you two and keepin’ your tails clean. You been squattin’ downstairs, no jobs fer so long, it’s a calamity, a national emergency!”

Billybob slapped his tail on the ground.

“Well, drag my knuckles til they’re bloody’n raw, that’s what the T-Rump said, ma! He’s gonna soon declare a national emergency.  He plum said they’re havin’ meetin’s this week … an’ nuthin’s gonna happen at them. That T-Rump is a psycho.”

“You mean psychic,” said Billyjoe. “Psycho is what you is at a T-Rump rally. Or when the Rashidatlaib said she was gonna impeach the mother-.”

“Billyjoe!” His mother threw a bone at him, bonking him on the beak. “No cussin’ durin’ supper!”

“Cussin’?” It was pappy piping up. “Is they cussin’ again? I loves a good cussin’! Only thing better than the T-Rump cussin’ is a lady dino cussin’. Is a lady cussin’?”

“Hush up, you ol’ fossil, before I gives you a cussin’ upside the head!”  Ma threw a bone at him, missing him on purpose because his eyes were worse than his ears, thanks to the older brother of said rabid raptor.

Billyjoe chewed with his mouth more open than the others.

“I hear the Donkeykongrus is askin’ for official justification for the Great Tex-Mex Divide.”

“What’s that?” asked Billybob.

“A wall, ya idjit.”

“No, the oh-fish-ull just-uh-fih-kay-shun. … Whew. That was a long one.”

“Oh. Just details is all. Who needs’em? The T-Rump sure don’t. That all just takes up more time. Look at us, ya think we gotta lotta spare time on our hands?”

Billybob stopped chewing.

“Gee, Billyjoe. I don’t rightly know. Ma? What say you?”

“Well, the T-Rump done said this shutdown could last for months, years even.”

Billybob slapped his knee.

“Hot Wartyhotdog! That means we gots ext-tree time on our hands. The T-Rump is my hee-ro.”

“Ayup,” said Billyjoe. “Done got a very, very large brain, he does. The biggest in these parts.”

“Naw,” said Billybob. “That his gut be talkin’.”

“Brain.”

“Gut.”

Ma threw bones at both of them. Direct hits.

“Billyjoe! Billybob! Don’t make me spit out this trailsnack and come over there!”

It was the first day of a new world in the Puhl-DePlugg Reservoir. The Tyrumposaurus, the Stephenmillerus and the Huckabeecyclops hunkered down in the Oval Dwelling, commiserating over that very fact. The aging wonder, the Nancypelosi, and the incoming wave of new Donkeykongrus dinos had just finished taking the solemn Oath of Nether Regions. That is, they promised to give any tail-dragging Grandoldparty dino a kick in the butt. For all to see, it was the new dino transparency.

“She can’t do this to me!” the Tyrumposaurus wailed, lashing his tale against the battered Whaling-Away Wall behind him.

“They’re not budging on the Great Tex-Mex Divide,” said the ever despondent Stephenmillerus.

“They haven’t investigated you. Yet,” the Huckabeecyclops said, clinging desperately to a smidgen of hope.

“No!” the T-Rump roared. “Nancy’s getting all the attention! Where are my Mediacircustops?”

“We can put in a call to the Foxsquawkbox,” said the Huckabeecyclops. They’re always ready to kiss your bone spurs.”

The T-Rump paused to reflect on the latest display of supreme sycophancy shown towards him. But since none had occurred in the past 24 hours, all memories save for family names and morning scalp maintenance escaped him.

“That’s nice,” he lied softly. “But I need more.”

The Huckabeecyclops brightened.

“The Russodinos are holding the Paulwhelan hostage. Rescuing him would send your ratings sky-high.”

“No can do. Read my toothy grimace, the Putinodon is always right and my Langleyops dinos can’t find their tails with both hands. Look at the fascinating story the Putinodon came up with since we grabbed the Mariabutina. Great story. I’m sure the rube, tin-tooth dinos will eat it up.”

Another idea pinged the Huckabeecyclops.

“There’s the new attorney general dino in Manhatinhand, the Letitiajames. She’s been talking about you non-stop. I want the T-Rump, I want the T-Rump.”

“For the Solitary Sinkhole, you idiot,” the Stephenmillerus cut her off. “T-Rump, regarding the Nancypelosi …” he said, rubbing his hands in wicked glee. “We’ll head her off at the pass.”.

“Oh, no.” The T-Rump shuddered. “No violence. Please.”

“It’s a figure of–”

“Her daughter — her daughter said that Nancy could cut your head off and you wouldn’t even know you’re bleeding.”

Feeling woozy, the T-Rump slumped forward. The Stephenmillerus grabbed him before he hit the ground. The antagonistic analyst turned to the Huckabeecyclops.

“Can you run with that? Spin Nancy’s ‘cut your head off’ quote into some wild threat we can use against them?”

“I don’t know. After all, we are depraved, roaming, foaming-at-the-mouth dinosaurs.”

“Speak for yourself, Huckabee,” the T-Rump snorted, shaking off his nausea. Now then, Stephen. What are we going to do?”

Thirty minutes later, the Huckabeecyclops paraded in front of a hastily called Mediacircustops briefing. Behind her, half a dozen hefty Bald Borderpatrollus dinos traipsed in and lined up behind her, making for an impressive, if not impromptu border of their own. The Huckabeecyclops flashed her challenging eyeball at the news hungry dinos before her.

“Welcome. Before you start yelling at me, dare I remind you that I have the Tyrumposaurus right behind me.”

“Hah!” came a cry from the front row. “You’re nuts. That’s your best lie yet. The T-Rump has never shown his face here. Never.”

The dinos around him nodded their heads and laughed. Their laughter quickly turned to gasps. They blinked, slobbered and rubbed their eyes at the miracle before them.

The T-Rump was at the Mediacircustops briefing. A Trumpassic Period first. He stepped to the fore.

“Alright, alright. Don’t all clap at once. I’m here to tell you I’ll say one nice thing about the Nancypelosi. It would be nice if she’d come to her senses and end this government shutdown. Sheesh! I like my executive time but this is ridiculous. Now then, these fine dinos behind me are all guards straight from the Great Tex-Mex Divide. They are there so you have the freedom to remind the Milkanhoney Preservation how important I am. I’d let them each step up and tell you their harrowing stories of how they’ve fought tooth and nail to keep the marauding, the rampaging and the bloodthirsty Latinonachos from stripping our freedoms away like meat from a bone … but this is my Great Tex-Mex Divide, my demand for more moolah-moolah leaves and my political stunt to put your focus back on me.”

The Stephenmillerus winced. He lies all day long and then picks the worst time to be honest.

“That will be all” the T-Rump said, glaring sternly at his audience. “Thank you, thank you and good-bye.”

He turned and led his entourage away.

“What? No questions?” one Mediacircustops said to another. “You call that a briefing?”

“Yeah, where’s the beef? Didn’t he say something about meat from a bone?”

Inside. Alone. And angry. It was just that dangerous, toxic combination that caused many dinosaurs to throw the ‘F’ word, then the ‘E’ word around. Extinction.

Of course, the Tyrumposaurus hadn’t thought that far ahead. No, he lived in the moment, waiting for the next tasty transaction to present itself. One that benefited himself, his family, his vanity once, twice, thrice, then perhaps, finally then the starved-for-leadership dinos of the Milkanhoney Preservation.

“Nancypelosi! Cryingchuck! Come on over!”

Hmph. No response. The T-Rump withdrew from the doorway and squatted in his favorite stewing corner of the Oval Dwelling.

He stared at the wall and the vast array of tail lashings he’d inflicted upon it. Over 700 deep grooves of gratuitous violence masquerading as pity-seeking petulance. One malevolent mark for every day he’d spent in this hell hole. And now four days left. Four days he could be out flogging. Had it already been two years? That’s it. The Donkeykongrus was now eliminating time itself.

He was a leader looking to rewrite the definition of mutiny. To drive his Isolation Nation into the ground. A new stone age with their fossils just another stain on a rock. Because the Putinodon would want it that way.

The T-Rump shuddered. The Donkeykongrus were soon taking control of the Kongrus Kave, leaving only the Sin Hut in his control. His long-tailed, short-minded base was growing restless. 

The government shutdown was ten days old with no end in sight. Blame it on the Donkeykongrus. Damn them all. He’d show them. Except he couldn’t send out his fleet of Trollertweeties. Not just yet. Too many were complaining of wing fatigue after this morning’s latest besmirch-and-destroy missions. Eight of them. Desperate times called for desperate measures. He sighed. Why did pop leave me so soon? I could sure use another 400 million moolah-moolah leaves.

He rose and hobbled back to the doorway. He’d yell his lungs out. That’s what he’d do. Because that’s what delusional dinosaurs did when the cave walls were closing in.

“Nancy! Chuck! I know you’re out there. Because I’m in here. All alone. Poor me! I said, POOR ME! I’m cold. It’s freezing in here!”

He paused, his wee walnut struggling, finally sparking a brief synapse connection.

“I’ll freeze you. I mean, I’ll freeze the workers’ wages. No raises! You hear me? We just don’t have the moolah-moolah. And the dinos in the Middle Eastlands? I’m bringing them home. Tomorrow. All of them. Oh, sure, the Lindseygraham got me to back down. But that was yesterday. And this is tomorrow!”

“You want more?! I’ll give you more. I have all the time in the world. It may seem like four days but you don’t have the leverage on me. Oh, no. I have the leverage on YOU. The most leverage that four days has ever seen!”

“I’m not going anywhere until I get my Great Tex-Mex Divide. Any deaths at the southern border are the pathetic Donkeykongrus fault! And although you are pathetic, I know we can still make a deal if you can just find it in your cold heart to agree to everything I say. Is that so difficult? I win. You lose. It’s my way or doomsday. There is no middle ground to a shut-down!”

Another trickle down sparking of a synapse.

“Shut-down! I will shut the border down. No migration. This will be MY shut-down, with ownership passed to you at MY convenience. There will be moolah-moolah lost. You hear that?! Moolah-moolah lost on your account!”

He paused. One final synapse. One final thought he fought to pull together. Moolah-moolah. Account. Mine. Got it. Look, dad. No Stephenmillerus.

“Okay, I’m backing off my complete southern border shut-down and my original travel ban. I will proceed with a partial shutdown of the border. I will only allow in Mexicodinos who will then stay a minimum of one month in any one of my many luxury caves. I’ll get the Kirstjennielsen right on it. She can set up a program where moolah-moolah is provided to the migrant dinos which then goes directly to me. Trust me, my daughter will charge the fair, market rate. It’s not catch and release. It’s catch and recline.”

“Nancy! Chuck! Do we have a deal?!”

‘Twas three nights after shutdown, when in my dwelling,

Mice yanked out whiskers at my latest retelling;

“I’m all alone, poor me,” I heard myself bawl,

“Oh, please, Donkeykongrus, I want my damn wall!”

Grandoldparty dinos nestled in their beds,

Visions of greed and power danced in their heads.

The wife and I, with my Dietcoker nightcap,

Had just settled our brains after one lengthy scrap–

When outside the cave there arose such a clatter,

Melania said, “Be best, Go! What is matter?”

Away to the doorway, I waddled real slow,

At this time of the night, I sure had to go.

The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow,

My mind was on Stormy, if you really must know;

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a dino chain-gang, and all eight drawing near,

With a lanky old driver, one heckuva puller,

“Gawdamnit!” I cursed. If that ain’t Bob Mueller!

Like slow, slogging snails, his culprits they came,

And he whistled, then roared, and called them by name:

“Now! Don Jr., now! Manaforta, now! Gates and Cohen,

“On! Kushner, on! Weisselberg, on! Pecker and Stone;

“To that doorway right there, go and stop by that cave!

“Pick up your feet! Pick up your feet! Don’t misbehave!”

As dry heaves announced their ascent to my place,

Could they see the worry that leapt from my face?

So up to my home base, these culprits, they drew,

Sweaty hands clutching cold tails — and Mueller too.

And then in a twinkling, I heard my heart sink.

You know that feeling, when you need a stiff drink?

As I drew in my head, blessed fuming I found,

I’d need it for Mueller, who now stood his ground.

He had that stoic look from his head to his foot,

Then a long, tarnished glare. My life was kaput!

A bundle of nerves, I fell on my back.

He was enjoying all this! The stupid sad sack!

His eyes how they twinkled! His dimples how merry,

How I wished him a case of acute beriberi!

His slack-jawed smile was drawn up like a bow,

I considered playing dead right there in the snow;

My guilty verdict he held tight in his teeth,

Years in the hole encircled his head like a wreath.

The Manaforta then spoke, slapping his belly,

“This time I’ll talk, for some real dino jelly.”

Kushner, skinny and weak, a right sickly tall elf,

And I laughed at my in-law in spite of myself;

But Mueller’s coy wink and a twist of his head

Soon gave me to know I had so much to dread.

He said, “My report,” and went straight to his work,

Obstruction?! Collusion?! I called him a jerk!

And laying a long claw aside of his nose,

‘Twas the sign of the damned. Good god! There I froze!

He turned to his gang, to the lot gave a whistle,

And dragged them away, one disaster dismissal.

But I heard him exclaim, ere they trudged out of sight–

Ho! Ho! To the Sinkhole! I shall return! Good night!

“Hope! Hope! Where are you, my lovely Hope?”

The Tyrumposaurus was on his knees, clutching his short arms together in prayer. Three shutdowns. Oval Dwelling ineptitude not seen since the Fubar-Filibuster Period.

“Excuse me,” said the Mickmulvaney, poking his head into the Oval Dwelling. “What are you doing on the floor? You weren’t praying for the return of the Hopehicksbagotrix again, were you?”

“No, of course not. I – I just dropped some food on the ground.”

“Since when do you eat food off the ground?”

“Oh, I suppose you’d call that simplistic and absurd and almost childish. And while you’re at it, you could call me a terrible dinosaur species again. Well, all that, times ten back at you, Sick Mick.”

“I said I was sorry … and you probably don’t want that nickname to get out. My job title isn’t even official yet.”

“Why did I hire you as my Chief of Staff? You’re supposed to say nice, gushing things about me. You have seen the Mincepencenow, haven’t you? Yet you haven’t knelt before me once today. Where’s your loyalty, dammit! This is my operation.”

“I’m working on it. Really. Reaching such depths of groveling takes time. Uh, did you want me alert the Mediacircustops that we’re laughing off my old remarks again?”

“Never mind. Anything new on the shut-down?”

“It’s a partial shut-down, T-Rump.”

The T-Rump slammed his tail against the wall.

“Read my nostrils. I want the entire Milkanhoney Preservation to believe it’s a full shut-down and it’s all the Donkeykongrus’s fault. All three of them. In one year. Disgraceful.”

“Except you recently said you would take full responsibility for this one.”

“Mick. You must be sick. That was 10 days and a hundred lies ago. We have walnuts for brains. Walnuts! No dinosaur is going to remember what I said yesterday. Try and remember that!”

The Mickmulvaney found sanity in a corner and sighed. It was the holiday season and he couldn’t help but notice the dozens of Pet Rocks scattered about the Oval Dwelling. It had been a popular gift idea decades before and the T-Rump simply refused to let it go. Like his Great Tex-Mex Divide — the main subject of the government shutdown. Thousands of dinos would not even receive lumps of coal in their doorways, largely because coal still fell into the T-Rump’s domain of shiny objects.

The Mickmulvaney turned back to his boss.

“The shutdown will unfortunately extend through the holidays. Thousands of dinos will not be getting their weekly moolah-moolah leaves.”

“Why do you even bring that up?” snapped the T-Rump. “There’s NO place in greed for guilt. None. Is that clear? It’s bad enough I’m stuck here when I could be out flogging. I don’t care what working dinos think. All that matters is that the Rushlimbaugh and the Annecoulter have my back.”

“Didn’t you just quit speaking to her?”

“Of course I did. She called me gutless. Can you believe it?”

“Now, now. You have a fine gut, T-Rump.”

“She’s never known the pain of bone-spurs. Oh, the horror.”

“I’m sure it was an apocalyptically debilitating experience.”

The Mickmulvaney cringed inside. It was true. He’d only been in the Oval Dwelling a few days and yet he knew already the debilitating embarrassment the Marinegunkelly had finally succumbed to. He was the new adult dino in the room. More 24-7 hand-holding. More verbal abuse. Cue the disgust. Ugh. He pondered his breaking point.

The T-Rump tossed a Pet Rock at him that conked him in the head.

“Did we get the Patrickshanahan to replace the Maddogmaddis?”

“Yes, we used that, um … phrase you borrowed from the Putinodon.”

“It’s a job to die for. Great. Just great. We only hire the greatest. Great dinos should be hard to find.”

“Speaking of ‘great, hard-to-find dinos’ …”

“Oh no you don’t, Sick Mick.”

“Afraid so. The Brettmcgurk up and left the Middle Eastlands. Something about not having a strategy there now that we’re bringing all our dinos home. He said something about staying there the day you show your face in a war zone.”

“I’m not listening. And don’t tell me that the Obamarus brought the dinos home and I complained about it. Just. Don’t.”

“I won’t.”

“C’mon, give me some good news, Sick Mick. Even if you have to make it up.”

The Mickmulvaney puzzled for a moment. His face brightened.

“The Randpaul said he’s very proud of you. There’s that.”

The Randpaul had of course recently taken up residence in a new cave — with no grazing grass outside — after he was mauled by a hungry neighbour.

The T-Rump shook his head.

“I’ll never figure him out. But keep a cave with grass ready. Next to a deranged diplodocus. We’re gonna need every distraction we can find.”

The Tyrumposaurus eased back into his standard Oval Dwelling squat. Prime “executive time” for some serious navel gazing. He scratched for a moment and nibbled on a Caviaraptor leg. He slapped his belly, the flabby tide rolling out and back in.

“What do you think, Mike?”

The Mincepencenow sat nearby, eyes half closed, a snore in the offing. He blinked at the sound of the T-Rump’s voice.

“Huh? I will be your everything. I mean, what’s that?”

“My six-pack. What do you think of my six-pack? Don’t be shy now.”

The second-banana sycophant paused. He was well aware the T-Rump despised bad news. As in Remodel the Oval Dwelling bad news. Oh, well, he thought. Here goes nothing.

“Your six-pack is, uh … an exercise in abominable reflex actions.”

“Not sure that’s the body part, but go on.”

“You’ve pulled your weight and shown great, ahem, muscle. Yes, all muscle in your, uh … accomplishments. You have beautiful muscles, T-Rump.”

“You really know how to pump me up, Mike.”

“That’s my job. With the muscle campaign part of your six-pack, there was some Russodino influence and, ahem, exercising with Pornodactyls and Playmatapae. Good, healthy exercising. Your muscle hushed them in a nick of time. Excellent timing. No foul there. A very civil campaign.”

“Very.”

“Then there’s your foundation of muscle. Some dinos may call it illegal the way you’ve mixed charity with reaping the rewards of being our leader, our king. Not me though. You are the foundation. It’s your strength. You gave. You received. Oh, how you’ve received. Muscle, I mean.”

“Thanks, Mike. I appreciate that. Uh, you were talking about my muscles?”

“Yes. I must applaud your transition team of muscle.”

The T-Rump gazed at his belly.

“I’ve never quite heard it described like that.”

“Oh, it’s there for all to see. Your transition muscle, well … it’s a national security issue.”

“You’re making me blush now.”

“No, the Flynnhasbeen and the Kysliak, the Manaforta contacting the Kushneratops, all wanting to be your powerful muscles flexed during transition. The Manaforta received 15 million moolah-moolah leaves after providing his muscle advice.”

“Hmph. Peanuts.”

“You have to start somewhere, T-Rump. I was just glad I was there to see your inaugural muscle. The beginnings of your muscle. We had a third of the staff, a quarter of the events and raised twice the moolah-moolah. That’s big-time muscle. 25 million moolah-moolah went to the Stephaniewolkoff and we have no idea about another 40 million. We can’t keep track of your muscle, it’s so great. I humbly commend you on the muscle you showed. The beginnings of it anyway. Inaugural muscle. You bet.”

“You’re not done, are you?”

“Oh, no. I could go on for days. We’re talking about your six-pack, remember? There’s your organization muscle. Let’s investigate that. I don’t see anything wrong with the Saudisaurae paying for 500 nights in your luxury caves. It was a good time to demonstrate your power and strength. I get tired just watching you. And the Tyvankanatrix? She was so proud of you too. She doubled the normal charge from 85,000 moolah-moolah per day to 175,000. But they’re nice luxury caves and foreign folks deserve to see you in action. It was a very impressive organization of muscle-heads. I mean muscle.”

“It’s all in the details. You know how I love details.”

“In closing — unless you want me to continue — your six-pack … can I call it sinister-looking?”

“Please.”

“I wanted to point out the administration part of your six-pack.”

“Why, of course. Flogging and Dietcokers.”

“Yes, no obstruction there. Keep drinking. But it’s no mistake that 36 of your highest ranking dinos have scampered for the hills, including the Scottpruitt and the Ryanzinke. It’s obvious they’re deathly afraid of your administration body pounding that’s surely around the corner. There. That’s your six-pack. You’re my dino hero, T-Rump. May I kneel before your six-pack of the apocalypse?

“Why ask? I couldn’t have done it without your praise, Mike. Well, of course I could’ve … but I like having you around to take my mind off the Muellersavus and the six investigations he’s discovered. So far.”

“Any time, T-Rump. Any time.”

The Tyrumposaurus looked at the cool, confident Nickayers squatting across from him and grinned. Fresh meat for the swamp soup. There were glaring holes to fill in T-Rump’s Oval Dwelling staff but he’d never let that bother him. His gut, namely any form of indigestion, was his best indicator as to how the wind was blowing. Plus his favorite dino staffing rule. Always get one last kick in the exiting dino’s can.

The departure of the Marinegunkelly as chief of staff had been sweet. The T-Rump had led Kelly to believe he’d be able to inform his dinos privately on Monday about his exit. Except the T-Rump upstaged him by blurting it out to the Mediacircustops two days prior. A snicker from the T-Rump. Only he could make a resignation seem like a firing. He loved firing staff. Disposing of them like plants, once-ripe, now shriveled weeds, their life sucked out, reclining, disappearing back into the swamp. Ruined, ridiculed, dead to his world.

Focus, T-Rump. He squared his eyes back  upon the Nickayers, the latest dino tabbed for Kelly’s vacant spot. The dino upstart still looked wet behind the ears. Or was that Raptor blood? He apparently had a solid pedigree, not that the T-Rump put any stock in that. It was all about loyalty. And fawning praise. The Mincepencenow was good at that. Hopefully it had rubbed off on the Nickayers, who’d been the Mincepencenow’s own chief of staff. The T-Rump hadn’t given the dino heist a second thought. It was all about him.

“So, who did you vote for?”

“I’m sorry, T-Rump. I’m not at liberty to tell you that.”

“Do you hate the Comeyonus? The Peterstrzok? The lovely Lisapage? Come now, you can tell me.”

“Again, I’m afraid you can’t ask me that.”

“We’re not exactly getting off on the right foot here. You’re not going to go Saveyourenergyrex on me, are you? Telling me I’d be breaking the law by doing this or that? I didn’t bring you in here to advance your career, y’know.”

“Sure thing, T-Rump.”

“Alright then. So, old lazy bones, dumb-as-a-rock number 2, the Marinegunkelly will be around for another couple of weeks. This gives you a chance to ease in and do your chief of staff shtick, not that it’s really going to change things around here. I’m told your position is fairly important. Important that you stay out of my way. Okay?”

“Gotcha.”

“Good. I hate confrontation. So when I fire you it will probably be by a Trollertweety message some other dino informs you about.”

The Nickayers nodded, doing his best to conceal a smirk. The rumors of “Jesus, take the wheel” were true. It was scarier. He thought of his wife and three young dino tots.

“Okay, then,” said the T-Rump. “Show me what ya got.”

“Well, T-Rump. It appears the Muellersavus is ready to roar on five issues the Manaforta lied about.”

“So we lie in turn. To keep all the lies straight.”

“Don’t you ever get tired of lying?”

“I lie like a Bastardosaurus. It lowers my blood pressure.”

“So,” said the Nickayers, “Let’s tell them we read the footprints in the sand.”

“Wait. I don’t read.”

“I said ‘we.’ … You tell them we read about the Manaforta’s actions with the Kilimnik and his role in the obstruction and … we’re very happy.”

“Very happy?”

“Very happy. Never let’em see you sweat. Then, regarding the Manaforta’s payment to other dinos under investigation … you tell them we’re jumping for joy.”

“O-k-a-y. I think I know where this is going.”

“For Manaforta contacting your own dinos after he was charged …”

The T-Rump clapped his hands.

“I know. We’re ecstatic.”

“That’s it. And for the Manaforta lying about a completely different investigation?”

“Over the moon. We’re over the moon. I like your style, Nick. Reminds me of when I was younger.”

“Why, thank you.”

“Why don’t you go get me a Dietcoker? And get one for yourself while you’re at it.”

“Uh, I don’t drink Dietcoker.”

“You don’t? Well, I guess that’s it then. Nick, you’re fired.”

“But you didn’t even hire me yet.”

“It’s your word against mine. Bye-bye.”

The Nickayers rose from his squat and headed for the doorway. That was too easy he thought. What a maroon.

Seconds later, the T-Rump stood alone, reveling in his latest staffing conquest. Another one bites the dust. Speaking of dust, he could see and smell it wafting into the cave from outside Accompanied by … what was that? Laughter?

Outside the Oval Dwelling, the Marinegunkelly was rolling on the ground to and fro, laughing uproariously at the T-Rump’s latest move blowing up in his face.