Tag: Political Satire

A storm was raging. The large walnut minds of the Milkanhoney Preservation had set aside the day’s agenda. There was no time for the Kimjongadon, the hell-bent Tariffraptors or even a surprise visit from a Celebritysaurus. The sun was shining outside, but inside the Oval Dwelling, a feeding frenzy loomed in this on again-off again, dino-eat-dino world. The Tyrumposaurus was on the warpath, eager to blame any dino but himself.

He’d just been informed that the top legal dino in Manhattinhand was suing his My-Moolah-Moolah Foundation for illegal activity. Namely, accepting moolah-moolah leaves from well-meaning dinos who thought they were helping the veteran dinos only to see the T-Rump turn around and line his own nest with it.

“That’s my moolah-moolah,” shouted the T-Rump. “Don’t they understand that?”

The ever-blinking, battle-scarred Rudygiuliani nodded profusely.

“You’re the leader,” he said. “You’ve shown no empathy. No empathy whatsoever. Why on earth would they expect you to now give moolah-moolah to the veterans. It’s crazy. Preposterous!“

“Next,” said the Marinegunkelly at the door. His duties had been reduced to giving short, impromptu manicures to the long claws of the long line of dinos waiting to have access to the T-Rump.

“Oh, yes,” said the Rudygiuliani. “Before we begin Damage Control Briefing #263, I’d like to introduce you to the latest member of the team. We have a terrible turnover rate — I have no idea why — but I have a good feeling about this dino.”

A dinosaur wearing a goofy grin bounded forward with a playful leap. The Rudygiuliani wrapped a short arm around his neck.

“I present you the Stephencolbert.”

The T-Rump gave him the once over.

“Do I know you?”

“Heck, no. I’m up way past your bedtime.”

“Well, Stephen, you’re working for me now. For free. You should know I have a thing against paying a dino an honest wage for an honest day’s work.”

“Because you’re dishonest. Of course. No shocker there. I understand completely. Never mind the money, I’m going to enjoy this.”

“Hah!” the Rudygiuliani said with a forced laugh, punching the Stephencolbert in the arm. “That’s the spirit. Isn’t he a funny dino? … Of course he is or he wouldn’t be here. He’s smart, he cares … because there’s that hole to fill. Did I say he was funny too?”

The T-Rump dragged a claw across his chin, then the Stephencolbert’s chin for good measure.

“Smart, caring and funny like the Kimjongadon?” he asked.

The Stephencolbert brightened.

“Did you hear about the explosion in the Nuclearballisticus population? I mean, KA-BOOM!”

“O-k-a-y,” said the Rudygiuliani, “we don’t need the T-Rump mumbling that in his sleep. Moving right along, welcome to the team, Stephen. We have, uh … more messes than normal to clean up today. But first some good news. The Inspector General dino’s footprints in the sand were finally on display today. They say that lying, no-good Comeyonus acted out of line and some nonsense that he wasn’t politically motivated. I think we should just forget that last part because after all, as your legal dino, it’s my duty to contest everything.”

“What do you think, Stephen?” asked the T-Rump.

“Well, the way I see it … you fired Comey. Then you lied about it. But you’re a good liar, I’ll give you that. You need to look at your reflection in the water and ask yourself, are you the best liar?”

The T-Rump’s brow furrowed in confusion. He’d heard the special word. That ringing endorsement of desperately sought recognition.

“The best? Of course I’m the best.”

“Next!”

Claws groomed, the Michaelcohen scrambled into the room. The T-Rump bristled at the sight of him.

“Do I know you?”

“T-Rump, it’s me, your legal dino, your fixer. The dino who would dive off Smashed Dino-Head Jump for you.”

“Wrong on the first two counts,” said the T-Rump. “But you still have a shot at the third.”

“I know we’ve been through a lot, T-Rump. But my family needs me. You must understand. I was hoping … Could you pardon me? You know … like family?”

“Sure. I can pardon family.”

“Oh, thank you, bless you, T-Rump.”

“Not your family. Mine.”

“And don’t forget, T-Rump” said the Rudygiuliani, “the Kushneratops is disposable.”

The Michaelcohen stood there shocked, the familiar look on his face like he was being chased by something much bigger than him.

“But you pardoned the Sheriffjovenator. And the Scooterlibby. They’re not family.”

“Those were … those were my practice pardons.”

“Practice?” said the Stephencolbert. “You don’t need no practice. Practice? I mean, we’re talkin’ practice.”

The Stephencolbert turned to the Michaelcohen.

“Enquiring dinos want to know. Are you still thinking about flipping like a little purse puppy?”

“It’s a shame what’s happening to you,” the T-Rump said to his former fixer. “But no one knows of the hardship I’m going through trying to replace you. That’s the real shame.”

“You – you’re replacing me. Already?”

“Somebody has to take care of my, uh … discrepancies.”

“And there are SO many,” chimed in the Stephencolbert.

The T-Rump eyed him strangely.

“I don’t know what to say,” said the crestfallen Michaelcohen.

“Exactly,” said the Rudygiuliani. “What you just said. Say it to the judge. Over and over.”

The Michaelcohen trudged dejectedly for the door.

“Oh, Michael,” the Stephencolbert called after him. “If you need someone to look after your little dinos, you can drop them off at the Great Tex-Mex Divide. You might even see them again.”

A defeated Michaelcohen staggered out the door.

“Well,” said the Rudygiuliani, “I think we’re doing well. Just one last crisis.”

The Stephencolbert skipped around the room.

“The Manaforta’s in jail, the Manaforta’s in jail,” he sang gleefully.

The Rudygiuliani frowned.

“I wouldn’t be too happy about it.” He turned to the T-Rump. “The Manaforta was busted for witness tampering. He’s in the Solitary Sinkhole until his trial.”

“Witness tampering?” said the T-Rump. “I like his style. Even when facing 300 years in the hole, he keeps breaking the law. That’s impressive. It really is. He’s a real team player.”

The Rudygiuliani rose from his haunches.

“Well, time for me to make the rounds with the Mediacircustops. Bafflegab, bafflegab. Comin’ up.”

The Stephencolbert headed for the door as well.

“Where are you going?” asked the T-Rump.

“Me? Oh, bells to ring, songs to sing, hands to wring … and mud to sling.”

“Good,” said the T-Rump. “Mud slinging’s good. Hit the Sessionsopossum with some while you’re at it.”

The Velvetlounge Lizard Peternavarro slammed his fist on the flat rock table. His long, forked tongue flicked out and reeled back in as he glared at the Jaketapper.

“There’s a special place in hell for any foreign leader that engages in bad faith diplomacy with the Tyrumposaurus and then tries to stab him in the back on the way out the door.”

“Stabbed him in the back he did,” said the Larrykudlow. “Stabbed him! Kind of. Really.”

The two T-Rump economic dinos, who thought an interest rate was anything above boredom, frowned indignantly at the Jaketapper.

The Mediacircustops host was somewhat puzzled.

“You two must be ramping things up for the T-Rump’s big Singapore-Sling meeting with the Kimjongadon.”

The Peternavarro threw his short arms up in the air.

“The Kimjongadon? Hell no. We’re talking about that … that …”

“Easy, Petey,” said the Larrykudlow. “We don’t want you having a heart attack. You know what the doctor said about your cold, cold blood.”

The lizard shook him off.

“That Justintrudeau!”

“I’m sorry,” said the Jaketapper. “Do you mean the polite and reasonable Justintrudeau?”

“Wrong,” said the Larrykudlow. “Fake news. The T-Rump said he’s mild and meek. That makes him what, Petey?”

“The mildest and the meekest. Bar none. Somebody had to say it.”

“And he made false statements,” added the Larrykudlow. “Falsehoods. Lies. Despicable. The Justintrudeau is a liar. He’s weak. Dishonest.”

“But the T-Rump has told over 3000 lies. In 500 days. That’s six per day, Larry.”

“You’re winning my argument for me.”

“Excuse me?”

“That’s what we’ve come to expect from our leader. That’s the way he bungles, I mean, rumbles in the jungle. But this Justintrudeau. We expect the truth from him. One lie and now we don’t know what to expect. Unpredictable. One lie too many. I don’t know what to say. It’s shocking. Really.”

“Uh, Larry, this may be breaking news, but the Justintrudeau is our ally. Our friend. He merely said he wasn’t about to be pushed around.”

“There. You said it yourself. He was picking a fight.”

“You think you know a dino,” scoffed the Peternavarro. “The Justintrudeau should know better than to say such things before the big Singapore-Sling meeting. He knows the T-Rump has a short fuse.”

“The shortest,” added the Larrykudlow.

The Peternavarro waggled a claw at the Jaketapper.

“The T-Rump showed the utmost courtesy of showing up at Charlevoix-Kaybeck. In a socialist setting, no less.”

“He was supposed to be there.”

“And there he was, things were going so well. The T-Rump was all set to agree with the other dinos that something was actually being accomplished — and wham!”

The Larrykudlow jumped in.

“The Justintrudeau had to go there. He had to remind everybody about the Tariffraptors the T-Rump released in the Region D’Aluminum and behind the Steel Curtain.”

Try as he might, Jaketapper couldn’t stop from rolling his eyes.

“Dinos, one of the first things the T-Rump said in Charlevoix was to ask how come the Putinodon wasn’t there. That the Putinodon should be there.”

“Yes, well, uh,” stammered the Larrykudlow. “The T-Rump said something happened.”

“That something was the Putinodon’s Russodinos rampaging through the Ukrainia into the Creme de la Crimea four years ago.”

The Peternavarro jumped up from his haunches.

“That was the Obamarus’ fault! The T-Rump said so!”

“Of course,” said the Jaketapper, eyebrows firmly clamped down. “Finally, with this Singapore-Sling meeting the T-Rump has rushed off to. Any comments on how it’s going to go? The T-Rump said he’ll know in the first minute if it will be a success or not.”

“That’s right,” said the Larrykudlow. “The T-Rump doesn’t even have to prepare. He’s ready. Because if anything happens, and I mean anything, it’s the Kimjongadon’s fault.”

“Or the Obamarus,” said the Peternavarro. “And don’t forget the Justintrudeau. The meek and mild be damned.”

His long, forked tongue flicked out and reeled in.

You could cut the tension in the Oval Dwelling with a sharp-edged dinosaur bone. Glum faces all around. There was the Paulryan, a seasoned but largely silent Grandoldparty dino. Beside him sat the Scottpruitt, an Enviromenace whose unethical shenanigans had launched no less than a dozen investigations. A former heavyweight from the Philadelphian Free Range, the Michaelnutter was also in attendance. The Huckabeecyclops snuck inside the doorway, collapsing beside it, weeping softly into her hands. The others paid her no mind. It was just another day in the Trumpassic Period.

The Tyrumposaurus entered the Oval Dwelling and took a quick, cursory glance around the room. His angry glare settled upon the Paulryan.

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this, Paul. Using your cabinet position as Beaker and a Louse to gain favorable consideration for your spouse to receive a fresh Chickfillay. What gives you that special right? Did you ever consider asking me if I might want a fresh Chickfillay? You know what? I should rename that beast. To make it sound even better. Because I can, you know. We’ll call it the T-Rump Chickfillay.”

“Excuse me, T-Rump,” said the Paulryan. He pointed at the Scottpruit. “He’s the Chickfillay.”

The T-Rump moved over to the Scottpruitt.

“You Cheekyphilly,” he said, glaring down at the Enviromenace. “You think you’re so special, saying you’re going to be here at the Oval Dwelling and then you don’t even show up. I said don’t kneel and you kick and scream saying you’re free to kneel. Who ever heard of a dinosaur kneeling? Dinos squat! You got that? Such disgraceful conduct for our national anthem, The Flight of the Trollertweeties. I used to know a few words. I think I can still hum it.” He eyed the Scottpruitt warily. “I ought to kick you out of the Milkanhoney Preservation.”

The Scottpruitt motioned over to the Michaelnutter. “Uh … he’s the Cheekyphilly.”

“Ah, yes. Chock-fullah … spies.” The T-Rump’s evil eye found the Michaelnutter. “I know all about your Langleyops penetrating my leadership campaign. You’re a sneaky bunch, you are. But you weren’t looking for Russodinos. You were looking for me!”

“Oh, T-Rump,” said the Paulryan, “I happen to agree. They were just doing their job.”

“Silence! Don’t stick up for him. … Chickfillay. Cheekyphilly. Chock-fullah. Call it what you may. It’s all the same thing. You’re all against me. Everyone of you. Against me … the stable genius!

Out of the corner of his eye he spotted the sobbing Huckabeecyclops.

“What are you doing here?”

“I, I … it’s the Mediacircustops.”

“Are you crying? There’s no crying in politics!”

“They’re ganging up on me! They’re calling me a … chi- … chi- …”

“Chickfillay?”

“No.”

“Cheekyphilly?”

She shook her head.

“Chock-fullah … ?”

Another shake of her head.

“Chicken! They’re calling me chicken!”

“Frankly, Huckabee, I don’t give a damn. They can call you whatever they want as long as they say nice things about me. Remember, you’ve got a job to do.”

“Keep misinforming them?”

“Away you go. Back to work.”

She slowly rose to her haunches and dragged herself out the door. The T-Rump turned back to the others.

“Now then, I think this weekly Pardon Program I’ve begun is going to be very successful. It may even put me in the running for the Nobelpeacepiper, I’m such a nice guy. I think 30 or so pardons should do it.”

“T-Rump,” said the Michaelnutter. “Before you pardon others, maybe you should pardon yourself.”

“I will. Eventually.”

“I don’t mean that. I’m talking about your begging the pardon of the fine dinos of the Philadelphian Free Range, for embarrassing them over this whole Oval Dwelling visit fiasco.”

“I don’t beg.”

“You, on the other hand,” the T-Rump said, turning to the Paulryan, “you could use a pardon.”

“What!? I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Don’t I know it. If you’d back me up on a few of these things I’ve got going on here, that wouldn’t be a problem, now would it? You’re a little too squeaky clean for my liking.”

The T-Rump’s gaze found the Scottpruitt.

“Scotty here, on the other hand … ah, my good dino, Scotty. You’re doing a great job. Ethically speaking, the environment as well, you’re a monster! I hope you’re still here after another dozen investigations, you’ve done so much for me. It’s too bad I’ll only be able to pardon you once. Hmm. Maybe I can change that. Until then, keep up the great work. Oh, and I have some used moolah-moolah leaves I’ve been sleeping in. Would you like those?”

“Sure thing, boss.”

The Tyrumposaurus had a penchant for cheating on his Milkanhoney Preservation-sponsored fitness diet. The calorie-counting crime typically began with a few extra servings of Caviaraptor legs topped with two bushfuls of huckleberries and a drizzle of gargantuan gristle. But tonight he was paying the price. The T-Rump tossed and turned in his sleep before finally losing himself … if only to find himself in the most profound of prophetic dreams.

He dreamt he was flogging with the Putinodon on a sunny hillside overlooking a den of healthy, vibrant Playmatapus frolicking in a waist-deep, sandy beach lagoon.

The Putinodon went one way, the T-Rump the other, and the leader of the free-running dinosaur world soon stood before a cave with a large boulder blocking the entrance.

A voice came from within.

“I’ve been waiting.”

It was dino English, but spoken with an idiosyncratic accent: something between an old-fashioned, upper class Mid-Atlanticus accent, and Britwit Received Pronunciation, with a Fine Southern Dixie drawl.

The boulder moved slowly to the side, a beam of light came from the heavens and a flock of Trollertweeties suddenly passed by overhead, a squawking squadron of sorts. It almost had a religious feel to it. The T-Rump wondered if a parade may be in store. But only a single dinosaur stood there, carefully studying the Tyrumposaurus.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I am the Williameffbuckley. Some refer to me as the Williameffenbuckley. Perhaps you’ve read my footprints in the sand. No, of course you haven’t. You don’t read. What did you do at bedtime with your baby dinos?

“We counted. Moolah-moolah leaves. Every night.”

The Williameffbuckley smirked.

“I won’t insult your intelligence by suggesting that you really believe what you just said.”

Even dinosaurs wonder while dreaming and the T-Rump wondered what in blue blazes a Williameffbuckley was doing in his.

“You’re fired!” he blurted out, a knee jerk reaction. Only in the dreams that blur reality, it sounded like the croaking of an old, withered frog.

And the Williameffbuckley was still there.

“Go on,” said the T-Rump. “Shoo. Be off.”

“Oh, you can’t be rid of me. I’m the preeminent voice of Milkanhoney conservatism. Some call me its great ecumenical dino.”

“Great, huh? Sorry, bub. I’m the greatest. At whatever you said.”

“Indeed you are the greatest at what you do during your executive time, because I profoundly believe it takes a lot of practice to become a moral slob.”

“I don’t have to put up with this. I know the Putinodon, you know. He almost invited me to dinner once.”

“Ah, the Putinodon, your home away from home. He’s still practicing communism. What would happen if the Communists occupied the Sahara? Answer: Nothing—for 50 years. Then there would be a shortage of sand. … The Putinodon cannot take permanent advantage of our temporary disadvantage, for it is the West he is fighting. And in the West there lie, however encysted, the ultimate resources, which are moral in nature. The Putinodon is not aware that the gates of hell shall not prevail against us. Even out of the depths of despair, we take heart in the knowledge that it cannot matter how deep we fall, for there is always hope. In the end, we will bury him.”

The T-Rump raised a claw.

“Before you do that, I believe I still owe him some moolah-moolah leaves. I mean, would you like to do some campaign stops with me? You sure have the gift of gab. I could use you. The Rudygiuliani is getting stale, believe it or not.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. As your most basic politicaI tenets are on the far side of common sense, I hereby expel you from the entire neo-classic conservative spectrum. You are a dino demagogue and narcissist.”

“Oh, come on. I was just having an off day like the Roseannebarr. I’m really a nice guy.”

“T-Rump,” the Williameffbuckley said as if cajoling a dino tot. “You are almost unique in your search for notoriety and absolutely unequalled in your co-existence with it. I would like to take you seriously but to do so would be an affront to your intelligence.”

“There you go again with that reading thing. Why read when I can just lie?”

“Because every dino has a right to his own opinion, but no dino has a right to be wrong in his facts. Today this seemingly indisputable truth no longer holds. Propaganda is indistinguishable from fact and we find ourselves living in the frightening Georgeorwellian footprints in the sand.”

“George who?”

“Truth is a demure lady, much too ladylike to knock you on your head and drag you to her cave. She is there, but people must want her, and seek her out.”

“Sounds like work.”

There was a pause, making the T-Rump nervous at his limited vocabulary.

“What?” he said. “Did you run out of fancy words already?”

The Williameffbuckley shrugged.

“I am satisfied to sit back and contemplate my own former eloquence. … But so you don’t go away angry … you just go away … I’d like to introduce you to a friend of mine, a great patriot …”

“Oh, no you don’t. Not the Muellersavus.”

“Rest assured, there will be time for him. I was talking about the …”

A ferocious, jagged toothed, saliva-dripping-from-jaws dinosaur stepped out of the wings. His roar sent a chill down the T-Rump’s spine.

It was the Joemccarthy, foaming at the mouth in a foul, anti-Russodino sympathizing mood.

“It was terrible!”

The Kushneratop’s skinny body shook, his shoulders hitching in gut-wrenching sobs. Puddles from his streaming dinosaur tears soaked into the dry ground beneath his carefully chewed claws, his melodramatic wails of grief echoing through the prehistoric neighborhood.

“It was awful!”

“It was just an interview,” said his legal dino, the Crabbyabbelowell.

“For seven hours! It was torture! Pure torture! It was like … like Jerusalem’s Lot all over again. Stuck in the corner of a little … corner.” He shuddered. “At least then I could speak freely.”

He made no mention of the 55 dinos who’d died outside during his speech, fighting for theirs.

The Tyvankanatrix comforted her husband.

“You’re so brave. Seven hours. You don’t even listen to me for that long.”

The T-Rump strummed his fingers impatiently. He turned to the Crabbyabbelowell.

“Well? How’d he do?”

“Fine. Just fine. He answered every question. I’ll give him that. But that pesky Wolfblitzer. He’s the one that got under my skin. The nerve of him asking if my client was a witness, subject or target.”

“Well, which is he?”

“Not you too! … Look, I simply told him that today’s witness is tomorrow’s indicted dino.”

“You said what?! I’d expect that from the Rudygiuliani. Who’s side are you on anyway?”

The Kushernatops’ eyes rolled back and he whimpered anew, rocking on his haunches.

“No, no. Not another interview. Say it ain’t so.”

He curled up in the fetal position and sucked his little pinky claw. The T-Vanka looked to her father.

“Daddy, you’re scaring him.”

The T-Rump turned to the legal dino.

“Tell my sniveling son-in-law he’s done talking with the Muellersavus.”

“Sorry, T-Rump, I’m afraid the sniveling has only begun.”

“Well, isn’t this is a disaster of a disaster. I can’t buy happiness and now my moolah-moolah can’t even get me peace and quiet.”

“Uh … I’m doing this pro bono, remember?”

“I don’t want your sob story too. You’re not even family. T-Vanka, dear,” he said, pointing to Jared. “Just get him out of here. Before I start feeling sorry for him.”

“Of course, father.”

She dutifully shepherded the Kushneratops, still shaking, from the Oval Dwelling. The T-Rump returned to the Crabbyabbelowell.

“I want to sit down with the Muellersavus. I really do.”

“I’m not your legal dino, but that’s still a bad idea.”

“But look, I’ve been saying ‘deep state’ and presto! — only 17% of Grandoldparty dinos trust the Muellersavus. We’re killing them in the court of public opinion.”

“He will be issuing a report.”

“So? I’ll force the Deeohjay dinos to hand it over to the Devilnunesmemo. He’ll eat it before he reads it. I can do that, you know. The Rudygiuliani says so.”

“I’ll forget you said that. On a much more positive note, the Kushneratops got his top secret security clearance back. He now has access to your morning footprints in the sand.”

“That’s great. Just great. Because I think, you know … someone really should read them.”

“You mean … you haven’t?”

The T-Rump scrunched his face in disgust.

“Are you kidding. Why should I? The Homelandsecurus Kirstjennielsen said she wasn’t even aware of the Langleyops footprints in the sand about the Russodinos meddling in the election to help me win. And that came out months ago.”

“You’re not trying to start another conspiracy in your intelligence community. Are you?”

“Do you think it’s too soon? We’ve gotten good mileage out of Spygate. What’s it been, six days?”

There came a sad, brooding shadow in the doorway.

“T-Vanka!” shouted the T-Rump. “I thought I told you to get that panty-waist pussy — I mean, your husband — out of here!”

“It’s me,” said the sad, brooding shadow, lumbering into view.

The T-Rump squinted.

“Is that you, Mike?” 

“Yes.”

It was the T-Rump’s plodding mate, the Mincepencenow.

“What’s wrong? What happened?”

“The Mediacircustops …”

“Stop right there, don’t believe a word. It’s all fake. Fake news.”

“No, they were reporting on what the Kimjongadon said. On what he called me. A … a … political dummy.”

“Well, I never.” The T-Rump’s tail lashed out, creating another crack in the cave. “That does it! The heck with this summit meeting. I’ll just find summit else to do. There will be NO meeting. It’s canceled!”

The Mincepencenow dropped to his knees. He considered kissing the T-Rump’s scaly feet.

“You … you’d do that for me?”

“Of course. Let me be perfectly clear. The only dino that gets to call you a political dummy is me.”

He was a veteran Trollertweety long in the beak. Not much to look at, he was destined to forever fly under the radar. He knew deep down where twits didn’t tweet that he was as disposable as a Kushneratops. But that didn’t stop him from staring up into the eyes of dark contempt before him. The eyes of deep corruption. The eyes of a surly Tyrumposaurus that is, because the T-Rump, Ashtag felt, had flirted with for so long and finally crossed the dreaded red line. That red line in the sands of democracy that even a Trollertweety did best to tiptoe around.

“I won’t do it,” Ashtag said.

“What do you mean you won’t do it?” The T-Rump’s nostrils flared and his face screwed up into a scaly, wrinkled knot of hate. “Since when do you have a voice?”

“Since, well …” The Trollertweety had to think fast. “Since I noticed you haven’t been yourself lately.”

“Oh?” The T-Rump sneered. This was rich. Being psychoanalyzed by a wee Trollertweety. “Go on.”

“Two days ago. You had to recall a Trollertweety because you got your wife’s name wrong. Your own wife, T-Rump. It’s the T-Melania, not the T-Melanie. You never got the Stormydaniels or the Katemcdougal wrong. Or the …”

“Okay, okay. But this has nothing to do with that.”

“But it does. Then there’s the five Trollertweeties you sent out yesterday.”

“What about them?”

“There were 11 lies between them. Eleven.”

“So?”

“So … besides the fact that the dinos want the truth from their leader, it makes me look bad.”

“You? Who cares about you? You’re just a … tiny, measly …Trollertweety.”

“I care about me.”

The little Ashtag’s beady eyes belied a bravery that gave even the T-Rump pause. The dino leader scowled down at him.

“You do know I can have you, ahem … deleted.”

“Better than to fly around the Trumpassic kingdom spouting your nonsense about the Langleyops eavesdropping on your cave … or the improper unmasking of your dino aides. That was pure malarkeyville … Or claiming you had evidence of your Comeyonus chat in the Oval Dwelling. Nope. … A deep state within the Langleyops? Not a chance. … The Christophersteele footprints in the sand triggering the Russodino investigation? I don’t think so …”

“Enough!”

“Which brings us to today’s message you want me to bring to 52 million dinosaurs. I have a little problem with the first sentence.”

The T-Rump bristled.

“It is exactly the way I want it.”

“Really. ‘I hereby demand?’ If that doesn’t scream dictator …”

“Look, the Putinodon would do the same thing. And he’s a great leader. Great.”

“Afraid not, boss. What you have here is just another scorched earth message. You’re telling the Deeohjay dinos to investigate the Langleyops to see if they infiltrated your team for political purposes.”

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t own the Deeohjay dinos.”

“I don’t? But I picked them.”

The Trollertweety shook his head.

“This informant was there as part of a counterintelligence operation, not a criminal one.”

“Meaning?”

“He was trying to help you.”

“Oh. Well, this is the first I’m hearing of this,” the T-Rump lied for the 3,165th time. 

“Perhaps you do need me around,” Ashtag said with a shrug. “You know, to keep you informed. Call me the messenger who can help craft your message.”

The T-Rump mulled it over. His nightly chats with the Seanhannity had become toxic, even by Foxsquawkbox standards. He stared hard down at his wee tweeter, considering his options of slim and none. The expression on the T-Rump’s face softened.

“You are my little Trollertweety.”

“Less trouble than the Michaelcohen, the Manaforta, the Flynnhasbeen …”

“Alright already. You made your point!”

And so, of course, the fly-by-night, 29-syllable relationship continued between the T-Rump and his Trollertweety fleet. Perhaps because the T-Rump knew he couldn’t be friends with anyone but himself. He only longed to hear his words trumpeted across the land. But maybe, just maybe, deep in the empty pit of his soul there was a small scraping of empathy suggesting he be on good terms with the messenger. However ridiculous the courage of the small, insignificant Ashtag.