Tag: Political Satire

“I can’t do it. I just can’t,” said the Rudygiuliani, scratching the many scabs on his head. They were from having too often fallen asleep in the sun. “Since you got back from Smellstinki, you’re backtracking every day now. I can’t keep things straight and even the Grandoldparty dinos are giving me a wide berth. And not just because I’m pretty wide myself,” he said, looking down at his pudgy, sagging, mud-caked haunches.

The Huckabeecyclops, her mercurial eye twitching away, wrinkled her nose at the sight.

“Backtracking,” said the Stephenmillerus. “Constant backtracking. That’s exactly what we’re going for. It’ll drive the Mediacircustops crazy. Our base is eating it up. Would, wouldn’t. ‘No’ means get out of the Oval Dwelling. This opens up everything. I love it.”

“Except we just had a vote of 98 dinos to nothing in the Sin Hut Chamber,” the Rudygiuliani told the T-Rump, “on your suggestion that we send our dinos over to the Putinodon for interrogation.”

“What’s wrong with that?” asked the T-Rump. “The Putinodon was so strong and sincere. That’s exactly what he told me to say when we discussed this on our own in Smellstinki.”

“Well, I dare say. It’s a good thing we changed your story out there a few seconds before the Sin Hut vote came in.”

The Stephenmillerus paced in a circle, dragging his scraggly, serrated tail against the floor, grating the nerves of the others, a secret joy he loved playing out.

“This one,” he said, “THIS one, we should’ve doubled down. Let the Putinodon throw our dinos out in the cold in the Gulag Hark-of-the-Yellow-Nosed. He knows how to control his dinos. He’s a maverick.”

“He’s a killer,” said the Huckabeecyclops, shuddering.

“You could be too,” the Stephenmillerus urged the T-Rump.

“A killer? You mean, for more than just meat to eat?”

“Sure, why not?

“I don’t know if you want to go there, T-Rump,” said the Rudygiuliani.

“You can’t walk back a dead dino,” offered the Huckabeecyclops.

“Who said just one?”

The Stephenmillerus frowned at her weakness. Hands on hips, his best pout on his lips, he turned to the T-Rump.

“Look, do you want to be the next Putinodon or not? I mean, what DID you two talk about when you were off on your own at Smellstinki?”

The three senior walnut brains leaned in close to the T-Rump. Dinosaurs get a lot of mud in their ears.

“Well, you know I have a tough time remembering things …”

“And he was making footprints in his sand while you weren’t,” said the Rudygiuliani.

“That’s right. I don’t read footprints in the sand. I hate it. So, uh … we talked about … uh, you know … the natural things …”

“Right, right,” said the Rudygiuliani, “where you like to pee.”

“Yes, there was that. For some reason he referred to me as the Smalldinki of Smellstinki.”

“Hmm,” said the Stephenmillerus. “Must be a Finnish thing.”

“I’m finished?!”

“No, they are. Never mind.”

“Oh, yes,” the T-Rump continued, “I made sure NOT to ask him if he meddled in our big victory.”

“Well, of course you didn’t!” an exasperated Rudygiuliani said, eyes bulging.

“You wouldn’t have gotten out of there alive,” said the Huckabeecyclops, wringing her hands nervously.

“What else?” asked the Stephenmillerus.

“Um, well … you sure don’t want to know what he’s gonna do to the Manaforta if he catches him. I pity that poor dino. I really do. No wonder he wants to stay in the Solitary Sinkhole.”

The Stephenmillerus brightened.

“Perhaps we should take another run at sending dinos, in this case, the Manaforta, to the Putinodon. You could score some major points with the Putinodon.”

“I don’t know,” said the Rudygiuliani. “98 to nothing is a tough nut to crack.”

The T-Rump whirled on them, orange tail lashing out.

“WHO said they’re gonna crack my nut?!”

“I wasn’t referring to your … nut.”

“No, no he wasn’t,” the Stephenmillerus chimed in. “He was talking about … other …”

“Nuts,” finished the Huckabeecyclops. “You have a fine nut, T-Rump.”

“Ah-ah-ah,” the T-Rump raised a claw. “A stable nut.”

“Yes, T-Rump,” they said together, bowing in unison.

“Anything else from the Putinodon?” asked the Rudygiuliani. “Anything he wants or needs? You can tell us. We won’t blab to the Langleyops dinos. They don’t need to know.”

“Hmm … He also said he will continue meddling in our affairs this fall to help us win the November battle.”

“Thank you, thank you, evil shrouded god of darkness,” the Stephenmillerus hugged himself and bowed his head, his eyes burning two fresh holes in the ground.

“Oh, oh.” said the T-Rump. “I almost forgot. Speaking of this fall, the Putinodon wants me to invite him here to the Puhl-DePlugg Reservoir. Can you stand it?”

The Rudygiuliani shivered, ravaged by an attack of giddy goosebumps.

“This – this just keeps getting better. Doesn’t it?”

The Tyrumposaurus’ chief of staff stood in sullen silence at his accustomed position inside the doorway to the Oval Dwelling. The Marinegunkelly had fallen long and hard from his heady military days as a key dino warfare strategist. He was now little more than a doorstop. For a cave without a door. Only the Stephenmillerus spent more time looking at his feet these days. Like a divorce that was in its final stages, the Marinegunkelly was simply taking up space. He was a voice in a vacuum. The only dino on the T-Rump’s team the leader despised more was the Sessionsopossum.

The Rudygiuliani breezed past the Marinegunkelly into the Oval Dwelling where the T-Rump squatted, counting his moolah-moolah. The T-Rump laid out the small, medium and large leaves in their respective piles. A fourth stack was his Foundation pile, for amounts he “found” he needed to move between the other piles. The T-Rump Foundation was a simple scam whereby unsuspecting, lowminded dinos paid a fee to tour the underpinnings … that is, foundation of the T-Rump cave with the understanding that upon exiting, they would become savvy, in-the-know dinos. It was a blatant moolah-moolah grab. Savvy, in-the-know dinos were still 22 million years away.

“I bring good news, T-Rump,” said the Rudygiuliani. “The Muellersavus had speculated about perhaps interviewing the Marinegunkelly but I told him under NO circumstances — Not. Gonna. Happen. What is he, crazy? He can’t just run around acting like he owns the joint.”

The Marinegunkelly’s ears perked up.

“He wanted to talk to me?”

“Was I talking to you?”

The screwed-up expression on Rudygiuliani’s face was devoid of veteran respect.

“That’s great, Rudy,” said the T-Rump. “Just great. Say, that deadline coming up on the Refugeeraptors. We’ll have to push that back.”

“Of course.”

“We can’t have the Refugeeraptors — or more importantly, our base — actually believing we care about this whole separation process. That would be a disaster.”

The Marinegunkelly frowned. His long tail twitched.

“Should we give them a timeline?” asked the Rudygiuliani.

“Details?” T-Rump scoffed. “In the sand for all to see? Of course not!”

Enough was enough. The Marinegunkelly’s tail lashed out, carving his own mark in the Oval Dwelling’s tail-scarred wall, an ever-changing mosaic of T-Rump’s daily frustration.

“The corpse has the floor!” the chief of staff snarled.

A couple of pebbles fell from the wall, pinpointing the silence. The Marinegunkelly glared at the T-Rump.

“I told you what moving here would mean — the decision-making — but you were the one who said you’d consider it. Not the actual decision-making, just the considering.  The decision-making part was left to me. Why?”

“Because you didn’t know what to do. You were confused, new to this. You didn’t know what was the right thing. But you were sure as hell sick and tired of living a life outside the swollen walnutheads of Manhattinhand.”

“So don’t hand me that “Make the Milkanhoney Preservation Great Again” garbage! You don’t care about the average dino, and you don’t want any help reuniting the baby Refugeeraptors … because you want all the attention focused on yourself. And you hated visiting the Great Tex-Mex Divide because you had the T-Melania tell everyone she didn’t care!”

“You can’t think a coherent thought and you’re miserable because you know the Obamarus can. And here we are, up to our ears in the Muellersavus investigation. With me, the decision-maker. Making no decisions.”

“What difference does that make now?” said the Rudygiuliani. “You’ll be looking for a job next week.”

“Rudy.”

“What?”

“Is it possible for you to shut the hell up for ten seconds?”

“What? … Uh … You can’t talk to me like that in the Oval Dwelling. Can he boss?”

The T-Rump looked on nonplussed.

“You two work it out. I love a good fight.”

The Marinegunkelly spoke first.

“You know what, Rudy? You know what I’m going to get you for your birthday? A great big dinosaur egg. So every time you feel shocked at all these supposed injustices, you can climb on top with your gas lighting dinosaur farts. Good luck, because you couldn’t hatch an idea!”

“Hah!” laughed the T-Rump. “Oops. Did I say that?”

The Tyrumposaurus looked down and smiled at the pleasant kissing sounds coming from his feet.

(Smack.) “Blessed.” (Smack. Smack.) “Blessed.” (Smack.) “Blessed. Blessed.”

It had been going on for several minutes. The Enviromenace, the Scottpruitt, was on his stomach, slowly making his way around the T-Rump’s unwashed, swamp-stained feet, kissing them repeatedly. First clockwise … then counter-clockwise.

“Missed a spot,” said the T-Rump.

(Smack. Smack.) “Blessed. Blessed.”

The Scottpruitt finally rose to his feet, spit out some sand, several ants and a wayward earthworm. He blushed and brightened.

“I have been so blessed to serve you in any capacity, T-Rump.”

“Alac and alas, all good things must come to an end.”

“Unfortunately the Mediacircustops haven’t seen it that way. Their attacks have been unrelenting, never mind my family, but especially on me. So, I do understand your blessed exit interview that I must resign so you don’t have to fire my scaly butt out of here.”

“You’ve done so many good things for me.”

“Haven’t I? My footprints in the sand may well stand the test of time. John Q. Dino needed me. I knew the public wouldn’t mind me spending 60,000 of their hard-earned moolah-moolah to travel to my native Boomer-Sooner Lands. And 14,000 more moolah-moolah for my legal dinos.”

“Fantastic.”

“And another 68,000 moolah-moolah, including that 4-day trip to No-Barack-Oh-Morocco.”

“Fantastic. That must have been so nice for you and your wife.”

“Thank you for mentioning her. Your memory is so blessed. Yes, she has enjoyed the perks of my supposed leadership of the Envirodino movement. My staff chased down her favorite scaly-skin Ritz-Lagoon oils, tried finding her a job paying 200,000 moolah-moolah and even a fresh Chickfillay. No tough task.”

“Fantastic.”

“Of course, my wife and I would still like to have some of the blessed moolah-moolah leaves you and the T-Melania have slept on. Anything with your scent, if you know what I mean.”

Awkward moment. The T-Rump coughed.

“And how did that little bachelor pad work out on Capitalist Hill?”

“Oh, it was a sweet deal from another Lobbysaurus — just 50 moolah-moolah a night. Market rate. Definitely market rate. They must’ve forgotten who I am because they — believe it or not — evicted me after six months. Can you imagine that? Something about me not paying the bill. But that’s what staffer dinos are for, right?”

“Fantastic.”

“You allowed my popularity to flourish, T-Rump. Still, you never know when the public may lash out, so I had no problem spending another 30,000 of the public’s moolah-moolah on extra dino security for that trip last year to Mafia Meadows. The Lasagnasaucean was delicious.”

“Fantastic.”

“Yes, the memories have been many. There was my 43,000 moolah-moolah sound-proof cave, not that I don’t love to hear your blessed roar. And was I being selfish? Heck no. I gave substantial raises to two of my staffers. Unfortunately I had to demote several others who had the audacity to question my decisions.”

“Fantastic.”

“Well, now that I’m a free dino, are you sure you won’t reconsider my request to replace the top legal dino in the land, the Sessionsopossum? I think his freckles are affecting his thinking. You know I’d never recuse myself. Just look how many investigations I just had against me? Fourteen?”

“You make a good point,” said the T-Rump, extending his short arms. “But you can see my hands are tied. I’ll be replacing you with the Wheelerdealer.”

The Wheelerdealer was a Lobbysaurus from the Notso-Kleencoal Deposits.

“He will do a blessed job for you, T-Rump. A blessed, blessed job. Bless you.”

The Scottpruitt dropped to his knees to kiss the T-Rump’s feet good-bye.

(Smack. Smack.) “Blessed. Blessed.”

The Tyrumposaurus stepped off the beaten path deep inside the Virgin-Yall Forest. He’d just finished lapping up most of a large mud puddle. Bladder full, he squatted beside a whispering willow and proceeded to relieve himself. His eyes momentarily crossed.

“Psst!”

The voice came from behind him. The T-Rump wheeled, peeing on his foot as he did. He groaned, wiggled his wet toes and returned to his original posture.

“Who is it? You just made me pee on my foot!”

“That’s okay, your base can relate to that. It’s me, the Rudygiuliani.”

Only it wasn’t. It was the Stutteringjohn, a funny dino who’d toured with the Howardstern comedy troupe during their heyday twenty years earlier. He was pranking the T-Rump.

“It doesn’t sound like you, Rudy. Where’s that stupid laugh of yours?”

“Ha-ha .. heh-heh … hah-hah-hah-hah!”

“That’s better. What is it? Go ahead, I can talk and pee at the same time.”

“I’m just thinking aloud here,” said the fake Rudygiuliani, “but I have some suggestions for legal dinos you could send to the two-storey brownstone on Supreme Court.”

“In the Highly-Esteemed neighborhood?”

“That’s the one.”

“Great,” said the T-Rump. “I was looking for some input. I’m tired of having to do everything around here.”

“Of course. I was thinking an obvious selection would be the Sessionsopossum.”

“The Sessionsopossum?! But I hate that giggling, long-tailed weasel.”

“And that’s exactly why you could ship him off to Supreme Court and have your pick at a new attorney general dino. Like me maybe.”

“I like your thinking.”

“Oh, I’m not done. Did I mention myself? Of course I did. At the Supreme Court brownstone, I could turn your legal world upside down. It’s not that I’m vain, mind you. But if the Sessionsopossum says no, for the record, I am available.”

“What record? … Never mind. Look, Rudy, I need you to baffle-gab the Mediacircustops. You are such a great baffle-gabber.”

“Why, thank you. Another possibility would be the Jeaninepirro.”

“Lock her up!” the T-Rump shouted with a violent lash of the tail. “I love that line!”

“I know, I know.”

“But,” cautioned the T-Rump. “Hasn’t she had some run-ins with the law?”

“Yes, but think about it, you could pardon her AND send her to Supreme Court. Won’t the Donkeykongrus poop the nest on that one?”

“These are all great ideas, Rudy, but I just don’t know …”

“But wait, there’s more. Remember the Jayeffkay with the Bobbykennedy as the attorney general  dino?”

“But I don’t have a brother.”

“I’m talking about the T-Rump Jr.!”

“Why?”

“As a Supreme Court dino!”

“What? He doesn’t know a hard case from a soft shell.”

“He doesn’t need to. You control the Capsized Hill. You can do this!”

“I don’t know. I’m his father. What if I want a new law and he says no? It’s gonna look bad disowning a Supreme Court dino.”

“Okay,” said the Stutteringjohn, “I’ve got it. You send the Sergeykysliak to Supreme Court.”

“Now you’re talking!”

“I – I am? I was just kidding around, just foolin’ with you.”

“Oh, the Putinodon would love it. And that’s all that matters, right?”

“Uh, sure?”

“I can then free the Russodinos from the Sanctionsaurus. The Mediacircustops will be so busy chasing their tails with the Sergeykysliak as one of the highest legal dinos in the land.”

“Well, now” said the Stutteringjohn, “those are five exciting options for a Supreme Court legal dino, aren’t they?”

“Tough decision,” said the T-Rump, scratching his rump. “Tough decision.”

Short arms flailing, the Tyrumposaurus scurried around the Oval Dwelling between a dejected Stephenmillerus and the T-Rump’s new chief of staff in charge of communications, the Billshineola. The T-Rump stopped in front of the Stephenmillerus.

“How do I look? Be honest now.”

“T-Rump, your meeting with the Putinodon is still, uh … two weeks away.”

“I know that! And stop calling it a meeting. It’s a par-TAY … P-A-R-T-A-Y. I want to look my best. I have to look my best. Are my scales too orange? What if they’re too orange? He may think I’m on fire. Do I look like I’m on fire?”

“In a good way. To antagonize and divide the masses.”

“Oh, T-Rump?”

It was the Billshineola, poking his head around the Stephenmillerus.

“The Seanhannity says hello.”

“Good. Very good. Uh, you do realize you’re only here because I couldn’t pay him one-tenth the moolah-moolah he’s getting from the Foxsquawkbox dinos.”

“Excuse me, T-Rump,” interrupted the Stephenmillerus. “I have a dozen dinos all ready to step into the small two-storey brownstone …”

“That small two-storey brownstone?”

“Yes, the one on Supreme Court in the esteemed Dino-Judge neighborhood. I’ve given the Anthonykennedy his notice to move out tout suite.”

“Good. Pick the most conservative dino that looks the best in front of the Mediacircustops and sign him up. Fast!”

“Of course. I promise you, we will get this done before the meeting — I mean party.”

“The Putinodon will be pleased, don’t you think?”

“Of course.”

The T-Rump turned to the Billshineola.

“Well?”

“Well, what? I don’t know a thing about the Putinodon.”

“You call yourself the Billshineola, and you can’t make up something to gratify me? The Seanhannity told me you were an outstanding director of falsehoods, misdirections and confounding conspiracies.”

“Sorry, first day on the job jitters. Just trying to fit in, you know.”

“Well, there’s only one fit. The reason you’re here, aside from your daily licking of my shins, is to craft my message for the Putinodon. That is your only concern.

“Gotcha.”

The Billshineola breathed a sigh of relief … then genuflected for good measure.

“Uh, T-Rump?”

“Yes? What is it Stephen?”

“I realize it’s never a good time for anything around here, but I was wondering …”

“Spit it out, dino.”

The Stephenmillerus coughed up several semi-digested rodents.

“There. No wonder I’ve been feeling crappy. I was just going to say … now that you’ve given the Huckabeecyclops secret service dino protection. Can I have that too? She’s not the only one hated by a lot of dinos.”

“Sorry. Not gonna happen. I need you to stay sharp. I want you heckled. I want you angry. The Trollertweety messages you create for me wouldn’t be the same without fire and brimstone in your belly.”

“Of course.”

Meanwhile, a short distance away, the Huckabeecyclops addressed the Mediacircustops.

“I would answer that question but again, for the 49th time, I must refer you to the T-Rump’s legal dino, whichever one is still available.”

The Jimacosta raised his arm. The Huckabeecyclops saw him. Her eyes settled upon him as if to say, “I will never field a question from you again” before moving on. The Jimacosta rose from his haunches anyway. He was about to speak when a chant arose from behind him.

“Go home, Jim! Go home, Jim!”

He turned around. It was a one-dino chant in the form of a female Blue Hair dino with distinct shell markings that gave her away as being from the Plodding Church of Immaculate Mercy. His jaw dropped in surprise.

“What are you doing here?”

“Go home, Jim! Go home, Jim!”

“But I work here. You go home.”

“Aha! You’re threatening me. The T-Rump said you’re an enemy of the state. Fake news!”

The Jimacosta ignored her and turned back to the Huckabeecyclops.

“Where are the 1500 little dinos separated from their mothers? And what about the Puerto Rikiricardo dinos? Did 4500 die?”

A big, beefy secret service dino stepped in front of the Jimacosta.

“That will be enough of that!”

“What?!”

“That question is harassment, bub. You cannot, will not, pepper her with questions. Can’t you see she’s helpless. Is that clear?”

“But this is a free country!”

“Correction. Free-running country. Now be a good dino and run along. Move along, Mediacircustops. Change the narrative.”

Back in the Oval Dwelling, the Stephenmillerus stood in the doorway, in conference with the Marinegunkelly. The T-Rump had returned to running around, his short arms flailing.

“The Fake News! I have to show the Putinodon I’m in control of the Mediacircustops. Yes, my great footprints in the sand does include the Art of the Deal. But the Putinodon, he did the Acts of a Tryant. I have to show him I’m capable of that big first act. Controlling the Mediacircustops.”

The T-Rump turned to the Billshineola.

“We need to ratchet up the Fake News Trollertweety messages. Fake. Fake. Fake. Got it?

Before the Billshineola could respond however, the Stephenmillerus interrupted them.

“I’m sorry, T-Rump, that may not be a good idea. I’ve just received word that a rogue Annapolisaurus has massacred five Mediacircustops.”

The T-Rump paused. 

“Well, that’s not good.”  He frowned at the Stephenmillerus. “You are such a … a …”

The Billshineola held up a claw.

“Party pooper?”