Tag: The Trump Dig

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

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

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

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

“I can’t walk!”

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

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

“Well?”

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

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

“I can’t see!” sobbed the dino.

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

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

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

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

Exasperated, the Platooncorps collapsed on his back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s that?”

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

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

“That windy, rainy thing?”

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

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

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

“Uh, this is a benefit?”

“For Samhouston Hills and the Neverglades.”

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

The T-Rump shrugged.

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

“I can’t believe you just said that.”

The T-Rump looked around.

“I didn’t.”

“Oh, yes you did. I heard it all.”

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

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

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

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

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

The T-Rump scoffed at them.

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

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

The Sanjuanmayaurus sighed.

“There go some real dinosaurs.”

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

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

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

“Sanjuanmayaurus,” she corrected.

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

“And I give you a one.”

The Sanjuanmayaurus raised her nose and left for the benefit.

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

“Quiet on the steppes!”

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

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

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

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

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

The Bannoncanon raised a claw in the air.

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

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

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

“But of course.”

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

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

The Tennesseecorker tapped the Mitchgetbacktowork on the shoulder.

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

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

“What’s that?” asked the T-Rump.

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

“No,” said the Bannoncanon.

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

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

“Well, that’s impossible.”

The Bannoncanon shook his head.

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

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

The Bannoncanon spotted a rare teaching moment and seized it.

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

“Um, a plan?”

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

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

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

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

“But you didn’t do anything.”

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

“Madness,” said the Tennesseecorker.

The Bannoncanon gave him the hairy eyeball.

“We’ll be overthrowing the Grandoldpartysaurus.”

“Can we do that?” asked the T-Rump.

The hairy eyeball swerved his way.

“Relax, this is just the dress rehearsal.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Like what, father?”

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

“Wow. Individually or puddle to puddle?”

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

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

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

“Not quite.”

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

“Are they all fools, father?”

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

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

“You’ve read them?”

“No, just a lucky guess.”

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

“Where are they, father?”

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

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

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

“I got it!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She turned to the next patient.

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

The Mitchgetbacktowork broke out in a bluster.

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

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

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

The Huckabeecyclops refocused her wandering eye.

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

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

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

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

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

The Huckabeecyclops checked the sun.

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

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

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

“I hijacked a few Trollertweeties of my own.”

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

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

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

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

The other patients nodded knowingly.

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

“What’s that?” asked the Huckabeecyclops.

“An adult day-care center.”

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

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

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

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

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

“What is it?” She asked.

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

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

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

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

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

Thank god, she thought.

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

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

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

He paused and looked at her.

“So …”

“So what?” she asked.

“Do you think I’m Little Rocketman?”

“No,” she said yawning.

“No? That’s it?”

“T-Rump, I don’t remember the last–”

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

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

“Mitchgetbacktowork! Saveyourenergyrex!”

The T-Melania shook her head.

“They’re sleeping.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looked at her carefully. His eyes narrowed.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Luther, you are a L-O-O-O-O-O-S-E-R.”

The Tyrumposaurus peered into Looking Glass Lake, practicing the introduction to his upcoming speech. The Marinegunkelly stepped up beside him.

“T-Rump, it’s time.”

“Great, I can’t wait.”

The two dinosaurs scurried off to Ex-Pred Field. It was a gathering place where the younger dinosaurs chased tiny Pigskineons around while the adult dinos basked in the autumn sun.

Dinosaurs assembled, they stood at attention and hummed the Flight of the Trollertweety, the national anthem of the Trumpassic Period. It spoke of the legend where a Trollertweety was flying with a stolen dinosaur egg high over the Milkanhoney Preservation when it collided with another Trollertweety carrying similar hot cargo. The two birds watched in horror as their eggs plummeted to the ground below, cracked open, and 15 years later — Dino Bob’s your uncle — the Trumpassic Period was born.

The Flight of the Trollertweety was a very solemn event for the dinosaur faithful of the entire Milkanhoney Preservation. Hummed every Sunday morning during the 16-week Martharaptor mating season, it sounded remarkably similar to the William Tell Overture.

The humming had only just begun when the T-Rump called for silence. The crowd gasped. This interruption had never happened before during the Flight of the Trollertweety. The T-Rump pointed across the field. All eyes turned to the source of the disturbance.

It was the Kaepernickelback, a genus of the hard-shelled Narciss-Egocentrian Sauropod from the Shaddup Province of Woebegonia. The Kaepernickelback was lying on its back.

“Stand up like a real dinosaur,” demanded the T-Rump.

“I’ve fallen and I can’t get up?”

“A likely story.”

“Okay, okay. Look, I’m only protesting the plight of the Gayblackinus and the Leftwing Narrativus.”

“This is not the time and place. We have Martharaptor mothers to honor. Were you not born?”

The Kaepernickelback looked longingly at the little dinos chasing the Pigskineons but stood his ground.

“I’m putting an end to this right now,” said the T-Rump. “Here’s my one-time offer. I will assign you one of my special Trollertweeties. He will fly with your message every 15 minutes across the land — outside of the two minutes we pay respect to the Flight of the Trollertweety. Is that clear?”

“You’ll do that for me?” said the astonished Kaepernickelback.

“Indeed I will. There’s only one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Before we begin your Trollertweety campaign, you need to kneel to me.”

“And if I don’t?”

“I will eat you.” The T-Rump eyed the rump of the Kaepernickelback and smacked his lips.

“You drive a hard bargain.”

“I’ll be a herbivore if you respect the Flight of the Trollertweety. Do we have a deal?”

“Deal.”

The two dinos touched tails and Trumpassic trauma was stayed yet again, a patchwork of peace born of broken egg shell pieces. Dinosaurs could hum once more in the Milkanhoney Preservation.

The Tyrumposaurus and the Lutherstrangia were taking time out from their reservoir-side chat about the Lutherstrangia’s upcoming battle royale to win favor with the Bamahama dinosaurs in his Crimson Creek stomping grounds.

“I’ve seen the numbers, Luther. You only agree with what I say 91.7 percent of the time. Why is that?”

But the T-Rump didn’t give the Lutherstrangia a chance to respond. The T-Rump much preferred the sound of his own voice.

“Look around you, Luther. I did this for you.”

“You made Crimson Creek?”

“No, you big bunny of a dinosaur. Your dinosaur following. It was because of my support that has you so close to being the top critter here at Crimson Creek. By the way, you do know I’m the number one dinosaur the Trollertweeties crow about.”

“Excuse me, T-Rump.”

It was the Marinegunkelly leaning over the T-Rump’s shoulder.

“We have a situation.”

“Should I leave?” asked the Lutherstrangia.

“Oh, no,” said the T-Rump. “I like it when the Marinegunkelly whispers in my ear.”

Awkward. The Marinegunkelly frowned but dutifully leaned forward to share with the T-Rump, in whispered tones, the latest breaking Trumpassic Period news.

“What!?” The T-Rump recoiled in shock. “Why, he can’t do that!”

“He apparently just did, T-Rump.”

“We’ll see about that. He’s obviously a mad dinosaur who doesn’t mind starving or killing his dinosaurs. He will be tested like never before.”

“Tested like never before? Did you have something in mind, T-Rump?”

“Spelling, math. Whatever. If he thinks this is some kind of party balloon …”

“Trial balloon, T-Rump.”

The dinosaur-in-chief was livid.

“And now the totally biased and dishonest Mediacircustops are going to put us side by side and make me look like an idiot. After all these years, my dinos still don’t have an answer.”

The T-Rump finally stopped foaming at the mouth. He swallowed, burped and looked seriously at the Marinegunkelly.

“Does he really think I’m a Dotardosaurus?”

“I reserve judgment. But he has been down this road before.”

“He thinks he’s a war hero. I’ll show him war.”

“T-Rump, it’s not the end of the world.”

“No, but thanks to him, we can’t kill the Obamacarus. Damn that McCainus!”

The Tyrumposaurus stood atop the Bullee-Tar Pit. It was time for his weekly address. He gazed smugly at the gathering of Mediacircustops below.

“Greetings! While I was having breakfast this morning, I decided — on my own — that I will be changing the main message of the Trumpassic Period. No more ‘make Milkanhoney Preservation great again.’ That was a loser of a slogan. From now on … We must cut off and use better!”

“Does this mean,” asked a Mediacircustops, “that you’ve changed your mind on the environment? Again?”

“Er, wait a minute. Wrong slogan. I got it. I got it now. … We must be proactive and nasty!”

“On what exactly?” asked the Mediacircustops.

“Everything. And by the way, I’ve accomplished more in 8 days than the Obamarus did in 8 decades. 8 days. 8 decades. NOT fake news.”

Another Mediacircustops piped up.

“How did your latest meal go with the Cryingchuck and the Nancypelosionyx?”

“Great. Just great. We had a chocolate moose. That’s right, a four-legged chocolate moose. GREAT moose. I hadn’t even finished my first bite before we agreed on two MAJOR pieces of business. We did away with Chain Migration AND that ridiculous Filibuster Rule. Now we can get some work done without that stupid political correctness.”

Another Mediacircustops joined the fray.

“But that’s free speech.”

“No, that’s paying a really BIG PRICE for politics.”

“T-Rump, how are you going to get along with the new Trollertweety restrictions?”

“Restrictions? What restrictions?”

The Marinegunkelly stuck his nose in the T-Rump’s ear.

“I was trying to tell you, T-Rump, but you had me eating with the kiddy Koreaceratops.”

Another Mediacircustops raised his tail to speak.

“Killing the Filibuster Rule means you can’t send out your Trollertweety more than 140 times per day.”

The T-Rump stamped his foot, causing the Bullee-Tar Pit to shake.

“That ENDS NOW! Apologize for that untruth! Apologize!”

“T-Rump,” said the Marinegunkelly, “you made it the law.”

“Oh. Well, I — I’ll get another Trollertweety then.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible. They’re from Socialbuzz-Medialand. You just put an end to Chain Migration. You complained alien dinosaurs were entering the Milkanhoney Preservation in RECORD numbers. Your capital letters. Sorry, T-Rump, but you need to control your Trollertweety.”

“Control my Trollertweety?”

He sounded like a little girly dinosaur. The T-Rump’s stomach fell hard. So hard and so fast, the acid reflux was heard across the land. He gritted his teeth and glared at the Mediacircustops below.

“We must be proactive and nasty!  … I have an idea. I will give back the T-Melania!”

The Mediacircustops jaws hit the ground in a collective, choking cloud of dust.

“T-Rump?” asked the Marinegunkelly.

“Yes, take my wife, please. I will send T-Melania back to the Slovenia-Siberian Salt Flats for my Trollertweety. Do we have a deal? Do we have a DEAL?!”

You could hear a dinosaur egg crack.

“Cryingchuck? Nancypelosionyx? Mitchgetbacktowork!