Tag: Politics

It was a somber gathering. Tyrumposaurus tail-waggers and several dino officials from the Permian Basin in the Land of Longhorns squatted behind a flat rock. More of their underlings squatted behind them, short arms folded, quietly licking their chops. A crowd of Mediacircustops and several high-ranking Donkeykongrus dinos gathered in front. They were all looking for answers in the latest Milkanhoney Preservation carnage. 7 dinos had been massacred in Odessa Mesa and 22 more wounded by a rampaging Assaultriflerus. 

An Odessa Mesa official brought the meeting to order.

“Ahem, I’d just like to say that yesterday afternoon, we had something happen that we would never wish on any dino.”

“Excuse me, Mike,” said the dino governor, the Gregabbott. “That’s not what we’re going for here. Thanks for coming out. I’m taking over.”

He carefully eyed the Mediacircustops.

“I’ve been to too many of these. 26 dinos dead in Supperland Springs, 23 dead in Killeen Fields and just four weeks ago, 22 dinos killed in Elpasogrande. Of the 18 worst dino massacres in the Milkanhoney Preservation, six of them have happened right here in the Land of Longhorns. Six!”

“Go, Longhorns!” came a voice from the back.

Dinos turned and stared him down.

“Oops. Sorry. I thought we were winning.”

“No, we’re not,” said the Gregabbott. We’re losing. Big time. Six massacres here. We have only 9% of the dino population and yet we have 33% of the massacres. I don’t like the math. I hate it. 109 dinos dead in the Land of Longhorns. The status quo is unacceptable.”

The Nancypelosi stepped forward.

“Before you change your mind, this requires immediate action. The Moscowmitch is refusing to help dinos.”

“Time’s up,” said the Elizabethwarren. “Every day we wait, more tragedies happen. Moscowmitch must do something. The Milkanhoney Preservation is done waiting for him.”

The Amyklobuchar was next.

“No more of the same. Promises made. A visit with that Ennarraygunsarus knucklehead Waynelapierre. Promises broken. We need to act. We were ready weeks ago.”

“Hey, where’d all these women come from?” asked the Gregabbott. “Oh, right. You’re with the Donkeykongrus.”

“Excuse me, Greg,” said the Mincepencenow. “I’m leaving soon for Polandia, but I just want to say in my best please-the-T-Rump voice, that every last one of his dinos are determined to work with all dinos in the Kongrus Kave to take steps that address and confront this scourge of mass atrocity in our dino nation. Scourge and atrocity. Mother told me to use those words.”

The dino senator from the Neverglades, the Rickscott, raised a short arm.

“This is an issue about how do we keep dinos safe. I’m going to do everything I can. I assure you. Everything.”

“Enough of your happy talk,” said the Juliancastro. “16 dino teenagers lost their lives on your watch in Parkland Heights. We need to know who are getting these Assaultriflerus dinos? The T-Rump expressed an interest in background checks twice after Parkland Heights and again after Elpasogrande and Greaterdayton. These are his biggest lies. Lies, dinos!”

“Hey!” said the Gregabbott. “Now cut that out. This is my Mediacircustops gathering. Just because the T-Rump isn’t nice to you doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be nice to him. Let’s try and set an example for our leader, okay? Sheesh. Now then. Yes, I did agree with a lot — okay, all — of the Ennarraygunsarus ideas we made the law of the land to ease the access of Assaultriflerus. But, I assure you, this is all in the interest of safety.”

“Aren’t you afraid these will increase the danger of dino massacres?” asked a Mediacircustops.

“Nonsense. Yes, two of the recent massacres were committed by Assaultriflerus, but one was by an itty-bitty Puppyhandgun. That alone blows your argument to smithereens. Did I mention that half of those 18 greatest massacres in the Milkanhoney Preservation have happened in the past three years? I promise to take action on these massacres. I really do. Ask me where we are in a few weeks. I’m not going to get into specifics now. We’re going to look at every issue. There’s no issue we’re not going to look at. We have several groups looking at all these issues. More ideas, less chance of coming to a consensus, mind you. But we’re trying. Changes are needed. Unless of course, they deal with a dino’s unalienable right to have an Assaultriflerus, or two or three, in their cave. You never know when 200 dinos on the warpath are going to drop by unannounced.”

“I am tired of the dying dinos in the Land of Longhorns but I am not tired of listening to the great ideas of the Ennarraygunsarus leader, the Waynelapierre. May I remind the dinos of the great Land of Longhorns that as far as our number of Assaultriflerus, etc. we still trail the Califortyniners. Let’s pick up the pace, shall we?” 

The words fell on the shocked faces of many dinos.

“What? Turn those frowns upside down. The Waynelapierre himself suggested I mix that in to try and defuse the situation. Life goes on, right? Okay, unfortunately with some death mixed in. On that note, we are here today. And we’ll be here everyday until this dino community is pieced back together. Because you know it’s only a matter of one, two, three weeks — tops — when we’ll all be back here again somewhere in the Milkanhoney Preservation, more likely right here in the Land of Longhorns … so thoughts and prayers … you know the drill. I have my good friend here, the Mattschaefer to take us home. Matt?”

The Mattschaefer, a Land of Longhorns Grandoldparty dino, rose from his squat and glared at the Donkeykongrus faithful.

I hear a lot of you dinos hollering, ‘do something!’ Let me tell you what I am NOT going to do. I am NOT going to use the evil acts of a handful of dinos to diminish the Gawdalmighty-given rights of my fellow Land of Longhorn dinos. Period. None of these so-called solutions will work to stop a dino with evil intent. What can we do? I say YES to praying for victims. YES to praying for protection. YES to praying that Gawdalmighty will transform the hearts of dinos with evil intent. The real root of the problem is depraved dino hearts. The depraved dino heart. Ripping. Tearing. Destroying our community. Don’t blame the Assaultriflerus. That’s a cop-out. So I think the first big step on turning this whole thing around is one big Land of Longhorns-size group hug, everyone. C’mon. Who’s with me?”

The Betoorourke couldn’t believe his eyes.

“This is f*cked up.”

https://www.podbean.com/media/share/pb-szt7x-bdba29

This weeks T-Rump Dig Podcast features: Day 949 — Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner … the T-Rump stuns the dino global leaders at the Gee-Seven-Showed-Up … and … Day 953 — The Bed Bug Boogaloo — the T-Rump’s inner circle wrap their walnuts around how to woo the Putinodon to the Doral Gnats’n All.

“I am the chosen one.”

The Tyrumposaurus held his short arms high and positively gleamed at the Mediacircustops gathered before him. A few of them hemmed and hawed. Those more embarrassed than others, looked off to the side. A couple turned around in complete disbelief. The T-Rump’s latest, greatest whisperer, the Wayneallanroot jumped in to fill the void.

“Our leader, the T-Rump, is the greatest leader for the Jewisaurae of East Jerusalem in the history of the world, not just the Milkanhoney Preservation. He is the best leader for East Jerusalem ever and the Jewisaurae dinos in East Jerusalem love him like he’s the King of East Jerusalem. They love him like he’s the second coming of the dino Gawdalmighty. And importantly, I said “like” but I can’t even tell the difference. Wow! Can you stand it?”

Most dinos there couldn’t. More than a few of the Mediacirucustops caught themselves wishing they were 2000 miles away. Which brings us to the whereabouts of the dinosaur kingdom’s Priss Family Robinson. The Kushneratops, his wife the Tyvankanatrix and their three dino tots, eight-year-old Arabella, five-year-old Joseph and 3-year-old Theodore slogged through the high sand dunes alongside a shallow sea deep inside the Wyoming Valley. It was a hundred degrees in the blistering heat. 

The  Kushneratops stopped to squat beside the water.

“I, uh … I think we’re lost.” 

“Oh, I’m sure we lost them a few days ago,” his wife said, referring to the Paparazzipix, free-wheeling, distant cousins of the Mediacircustops.

“No, I said we’re lost.”

The two dinos looked at each other. The dino tots lapped up the salt water, then coughed and sputtered.

“Daddy,” said Arabella. “Make the awful taste go away!”

“I’m afraid that’s one of the few things your father can’t do, sweetheart.” Tyvanka turned to her husband. “That and keeping us from getting lost,” she hissed through clenched teeth.

“You’re the one who wanted to leave in such a hurry,” he snapped. “Grab the kids and go, you said. Your father …”

He stopped and looked down. She grasped his short arm with hers and looked into his eyes mournfully.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry, sweetheart. We had to get out of there. Father was having a bad day.”

“A crazy, get-the-hell-out-of-town-cuz-this-dino-is-loony-tunes bad day,” Jared corrected. “He said that if you’re a Jewisaurus and you want a Donkeykongrus dino in power, you are totally without intellect and disloyal. We — you, me, our dino tots — we are Jewisaurae. Does he not know this?! How he can be so S-T-O-O-O-O-O-P-I-D!”

The word echoed around the sand dunes.

S-T-O-O-O-O-O-P-I-D … S-T-O-O-O-O-O-P-I-D … S-T-O-O-O-O-O-P-I-D

“Do it again, daddy,” said Joseph, “do it again!”

“No, your father will not say it again.” She turned to Jared. “You know how he gets when he has a chance to pick on minority dinos, women and the Donkeykongrus. It’s almost as good as cheating on Tymelania. It’s what he lives for.”

“And taking over Greenlandia. My god. What was he thinking? Such an idjit.”

“Idjit,” said the wee Theodore. “Grandpa idjit.”

Jared and Tyvanka looked at their youngest dino tot and melted.

“His first words!”

They quickly compartmentalized the cherished family moment and returned to the chaos at hand.

“Jared, this whole Greenlandia thing was a set-up for him to get out of a meeting with the Denmarkus dinos, our allies. His only friends are our foes — wicked, evil dinos like the Kimjongadon and the Putinodon. He knew the Denmarkus would call his advances absurd, allowing him to then call them ‘nasty’ and cancel his trip. The Putinodon will be so very pleased.”

Jared reached for her arm.

“I don’t know how you do it, honey. You continue to amaze me. The love you have for your father when he does the most callous things. Even now when he’s prepared to strip baby dinos from their mothers once more and keep them in captivity forever.”

“Forever,” she whispered. “It sounds so long.”

Together, they looked down at their three dino tots playing in the sand. She turned to her husband, wrapped her tail around his and drew him in close.

“Let’s stay here, Jared. No more Mediacircustops. Just the children. Just us here, where we’re safe.” She looked around. “In this desolate … desert. It does come with a beach.”

He mulled it over with an arching right eye.

“Well, I would avoid the Solitary Sinkhole. But what about water? We’ll die of thirst out here.”

“We’ll pray for rain. Kids, start praying.”

The dino tots stopped and looked to their parents.

“Which way is East Jerusalem, mama?” asked Arabella. 

Tyvanka turned to Jared, who gave her the how-the-hell-should-I-know look. But he needn’t worry, for at that instant came the sound of an approaching dino. Jared was about to holler ‘run for the hills’ when he recognized the dino cresting a nearby sand dune.

“There you two are. And the kids too. How sweet.”

“Mick?” Tyvanka asked. It was the Mickmulvaney.

“Yes. Boy, that was some walk. Glad I caught up with you. Listen, there’s a T-Rump victory shin-dig a couple of sand dunes from here. That-a-way,” he said, pointing north. “I’m sure your father would love having you in attendance. You know what I mean?”

An awkward wink punctuated his question.

Tyvanka turned to Jared, who replied with a helpless shrug. They gathered the children and soon headed north. Tyvanka trudged alongside the Mickmulvaney, waiting to catch his eye.

“How’s my father feeling?” she finally asked.

“Don’t ask. I’m so glad I found you. Misery loves company.”

The Tyrumposaurus squatted at the flat rock lectern, looking out at his latest audience, a few dozen Royaldutch Shellplanters in the Beaver Beltlands of Pennsappalachia. The T-Rump’s gaze passed over their slobbery mugs one at a time. He frowned. He knew full well gatherings like these were captive audiences but the dinos here genuinely looked like they’d rather be somewhere else.

The T-Rump sniffed. Too bad. This was an official Oval Dwelling event and they’d just have to live with it. He picked out a particularly sour-looking puss in the front row and leaned over him.

“You there. Let me guess. You absolutely have to be here, don’t you?”

“We all do. The boss said if we don’t show up, we won’t get our moolah-moolah leaves.”

“Anything else?”

“He said we can’t boo you. Or be disrespectful. Or even gnash our teeth, like menacingly. I mean, that’s a natural instinct.”

“Hmph. A smile now and then wouldn’t hurt, y’know.”

“Boss didn’t say anything about smiling.”

The T-Rump sighed. This was why he didn’t spend much time with the little dinos. They didn’t pump his ego enough. Or even know how to flatter him properly. He straightened and looked out at the rest of the crowd.

“You’re all here. That’s good. Okay, alright already. So you have to be here. Of course you have to be here. I’m here. Love me, hate me. You need me, believe me. And I’m going to be speaking to some of your union leaders to say, ‘I hope you’re going to support the T-Rump.’  Okay? And if they don’t, vote them the hell out because they’re not doing their job. It’s true. It’s true. Vote’em out.” 

There was a low rustling in the audience as each dino shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other. The T-Rump grinned broadly and continued.

“Let’s talk about the booming economy. BOOM-ing. Pay no attention to those lies from the extreme radical left Donkeykongrus. The Chopstickchowmein are eating those Tariffraptors. Eating them! We’re helping the Combinefarmer dinos with big Tariffraptor moolah-moolah coming in. Billions coming in!

The audience stared back at him stupefied.

“T-Rump. How can you squat there and say that?”

It was the Jaketapper. The T-Rump recoiled in surprise.

“Say what?”

“There’s a Minnesotafarmer dino, the Garywertish, who says his dinos are hurt and struggling, that your words and your Trollertweeties are not helping matters, that this problem is self-inflicted by you and after a year of this, you don’t even have a plan ‘B.’ What do you say to that?”

“What do I say?”

“Yes.”

“I say … I say I have the best dinos on top of this. Like the Peternavarro. Peter! Get out here and tell this Jaketapper and these dinos about all the things we’re doing to the Chopstickchowmein. All the things. There are so many things, aren’t there? Go ahead and tell them. The things.”

The Peternavarro strutted out from the shadows to take the T-Rump’s place at the lectern. The T-Rump took two steps back and stood there silently, working his jaw like he was chewing on something important. The Peternavarro raised a short arm in the air.

“First off, I want to say that the T-Rump has the backs of all the Combinefarmer dinos in the midwest. The moolah-moolah leaves the Tariffraptors are gathering goes straight back to the Combinefarmers. So the Combinefarmers are behind the T-Rump.”

“The Combinefarmers are starting to lose patience,” said the Jaketapper. “You say that the entire burden of the Tariffraptor war is being borne by the Chopstickchowmein.”

“And that is absolutely true.”

“But a study by Harvard Harbour dinos — you did go to Harvard, didn’t you?

“I did.”

“So this is your old school that found that Milkanhoney Preservation dinos are paying 95% of the difference here and the Chopstickchowmein only 5%.”  

“That dog won’t hunt. Let’s do some math here.”

“No, Peter. You’ve dodged every one of my questions, so I don’t have time for your math. But I do know someone who does. I believe you know the Johnbrinkley.”

Uh-oh, thought the Peternavarro. Not the Johnbrinkley. The Peternavarro’s confidence was swallowed in the sand like a raindrop in the desert.

The T-Rump had sent in his relief dino and now the Jaketapper his. And the Johnbrinkley was no slouch. The veteran Forbesmagaziner crunched numbers as a late night snack. The Johnbrinkley stepped to the fore.

“Yes, let’s do some math, Peter.”

“Uh, yes. Okay. Well, you see now. Our dinos here spend 14 trillion moolah-moolah leaves per year. And ten percent of 300 million is, uh … 30 million.”

“You’re just noise, Peter. Just noise. You need to stick to the subject. That 14 trillion number is global. We’re talking Chopstickchowmein here, who we have a deficit of 560 billion with and we owe over one trillion. How do you like those numbers? Do you know how long it takes a dino nation to collect one trillion moolah-moolah leaves? I didn’t think so. Why would we want to be siccing our Tariffraptors on them? 

“I, uh … we see no such data,” he coughed.

“Because you’re reading the data wrong. After his being in the Oval Dwelling for two-and-a-half years, you might want to tell the T-Rump how a Tariffraptor war really works. The Tariffraptor moolah-moolah coming into the Dino Treasury? None of it comes from Chopstickchowmein. Not one leaf. It all comes from our own dinos paying for Chopstickchowmein goods. The Milkanhoney Preservation are the dinos picking the tab. Just like the 24 billion you’ve now given the Combinefarmer dinos to keep them from starving.”

The T-Rump stepped forward.

“I want some fake news, I mean, good news and I want it now.”

“Sorry, T-Rump. You’ve also conveniently forgotten or failed to understand that the Xijinping can put stimulus moolah-moolah into the Chopstickchowmein without asking for approval and he doesn’t have to worry about an election next year. Oh, and he did not devalue his moolah-moolah. That was your 12,000th lie, wasn’t it?”

“Damn!”

“One more thing. The Chopstickchowmein dinos are coming for a visit in two weeks. If you can’t iron things out, what then?”

The T-Rump and the Peternavarro shared an uneasy look. 

The Johnbrinkley shook his head.

“Y’know, you’d better hope they show up. If they don’t, you may be without a deal for the remainder of your days in the Oval Dwelling. That’s not a good look. Can you say reptile recession?”

After the meeting, the Royaldutch Shellplanters filed out of the gathering area. One dino turned to his co-worker.

“And to think you almost stayed home. Do you feel better now?”

“Do I? I’m gettin’ paid and I’m votin’ Donkeykongrus!”

The Trollertweety flew overhead, releasing its fury.

“Squawk! The T-Rump is mentally declining! He’s losing his step! He’s a corrosive, socially dividing cancer! Squawk!”

That damn Mooch, thought the dino, looking up from his squat at the entrance to the Oval Dwelling. He turned and rapped three times on the wall with his tail. The Mickmulvaney timidly approached the sound of the rapping to greet the visitor. The chief of dino staff relaxed, then raised a shackle or two when he saw who it was.

“You again,” he sniffed.

“I don’t care who it is,” came the Tyrumposaurus’ shout in the background. “Send them in. I need some attention.”

The tired, wretched, poor Lewandowski stepped into the cave. The Sethabramson had described the Lewandowski as a Ziplocbaggie of Gymcandy wrapped in a Cheapsuit, sent out into the world to sexually and physically assault dino women and dodge the Subpoenasaurae.  The Ziplocbaggie, Gymcandy and Cheapsuit were all dinos from the wrong side of nature’s trail.

Their culmination, the Lewandowski, now stood before the T-Rump, who looked up from his third Cheezbuggabugga.  

“You again.”

The Lewandowski’s presence preceded perturbance. As with all the T-Rump’s yes-dinos, He took it as a hello.

“The Subpoenasaurus came to see me today. For the third time.”

“You know the drill,” said the T-Rump. “Play dumb, don’t even agree on the colour of the sky … and we’ll claim executive privilege.”

“But I never even worked for you. Can we do that?”

“You’re forgetting we have the Williambarr and the Moscowmitch in our corner.”

“You mean the Mitchgetbacktowork.”

“No, he’s the Moscowmitch now.”

“You can change his species?”

“I can do anything. I’m simply honoring Mitch’s great work in calling the Sanctionsaurus off the Olegderipaska so the Russodinos could become major players in the northeast corner of Kentucky-Muckety-Muck thanks to 200 million moolah-moolah leaves.”

The Lewandowski cringed at the thought but was well practiced at concealing all jaw-dropping emotions in front of the T-Rump, who continued speaking to any dino who would listen.

“I may take over Greenlandia next week. What do you think?”

The Lewandowski thought the leader was bat-poop crazy but responded with the perfunctory nod, yet again enabling the dino king with no oaths.

The T-Rump scratched his sagging nether regions. An idea fell out.

“Y’know, Corey. I was thinking. This subpoena thing. We need to deflect this, I mean, turn it into a positive.”

“Of course,” said the enabler, praying silently as well that he hadn’t just precipitated the death and destruction of all dinos.

“Yes,” said the T-Rump. “I think you should run for the Sin Hut in … uh, oh … I don’t know. I don’t care. I don’t want to know. But humor me. Pick somewhere.”

“New Hampshironia?”

“Done. I’ll make a visit there and tell them you’re the best thing since … hold on. Stephen!”

“Since dino tots held captive,” came the sinister voice of the Stephenmillerus from deep within his Den of Demented Doom.

“Right,” said the T-Rump with a chuckle. “We’ll run with that.”

“But what about my baggage?” asked the Lewandowski. “I’ve got a lotta skeletons. Even a few you don’t know about.”

“Quiet. Don’t say another word. You know what the Putinodon said about keeping the crime one dino removed from me. Cooch! Get in here.”

The Kencuccinelli entered the Oval Dwelling with his trademark sneer and bowed to the T-Rump.

“Cooch, before you start, you gotta say it one more time. Okay?”

The Lewandowski looked from the T-Rump to the Cooch, who knew exactly what the T-Rump was referring to. The T-Rump’s new migration go-to-dino had revised the time-honored Emmalazarus’ footprint poem at the base of the Status-Libertarius, stripping it of all previous symbolism. The Cooch version? He coughed and began.

“Give me your be best white-striped dinos who can stand on their own two feet and find their own damn food.”  

“I love it!” said the T-Rump. “Short. Sweet. White-striped supreme. Okay now, what can you do for Corey here? He’s got a lot of crap you need to make go away.”

The Lewandowski’s raging stream of controversies poured out to be de- and reconstructed by the Cooch.

Battery against a female Mediacircustops?

“He was standing on his own two feet.”

Directed by the T-Rump to deliver a message to the Sessionsopposum telling the Muellersavus to just forget about past battle campaign shenanigans and focus on future campaigns?

The Cooch smiled.

“They can stand on their own two feet. Next time.”

Other episodes of obstruction of justice?

“Obstruction?” he said. “You’re the one standing on our two feet.”

The Cooch had landed. One small step for delaying justice, one giant leap for white-striped supremacy.