Tag: The Trump Dig

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Satire The Trump Dig

Dinner with the T-Rump …

The Tyrumposaurus let loose a blood-curdling yell. Dinner time. A moment later the Cryingchuck and the Nancypelosionyx arrived. The Cryingchuck was a distant genus of the Humorvor Amyschumerus dinosaur and, like the Nancypelosionyx, was a Sub Family member of the Donkeykongrus. The Nancypelosionyx was a well-respected, hard-charging Rheumatoidian Arthritisan dino.

With the T-Rump, they gathered around the business at hand. The Cryingchuck couldn’t help but notice.

“Where are the Mnuchinmunchkin and the Mitchgetbacktowork?”

The prehistoric hedgehog and the Kentucky Gobbler were key advisers to the T-Rump.

“I’ve accomplished more with you two in one week than I have with them in six months. Now then, who would like to cut the Taxbeast?”  

“Cut” was a euphemism in dino-talk for gutting the kill with a quick flick of the wrist.

“Forgive me,” the T-Rump said to the Nancypelosionyx in a once-every-100-years display of Trumpassic chivalry. “Ladies first.”

“Ooh, it looks complicated.” She put her claw on the Taxbeast’s belly. “Lower?”

“Lower,” said the Cryingchuk. “That would be the popular deduction.”

“Look at the interest,” said the T-Rump. “Big interest. This is big business.”

The Nancypelosionyx stopped in mid-cut.

“I thought this was individual, like just for me.”

The T-Rump leaned forward.

“Now that the introductions are over, I’m taking the business end of the Taxbeast. Them’s the breaks. Thank you very much. ”

And with that the T-Rump hoisted most of the Taxbeast before him.

“What’s next?” he asked between mouthfuls of the savory cuts.

“Well,” said the Cryingchuck, “we need to reauthorize the F.A.A.”

“Free  Archaeopteryx Aviation? Not so fast. Not so free. They need to stop flying over the oval dwelling during my nap. What a racket!”

“And then there’s the Dacadreamers,” said the Nancypelosionyx. “T-Rump, we can’t have these poor Latinonachos building your Great Tex-Mex Divide if they want to stay in the Milkanhoney Preservation.”

The T-Rump snorted, then chewed and gnawed on his Taxbeast. He chewed and gnawed some more. He swallowed hard and cast a smart, smug, all-knowing gaze at the Cryingchuck and the Nancypelosionyx.

“You know what this means?” The T-Rump cocked his head back and roared at the top of his lungs.

“Mitchgetbacktowork!”

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Satire The Trump Dig

The Trumpassic Hurricane …

Mother Nature was dealing the Trumpassic Period a nuclear blow. The Tyrumposaurus and most of his clan, T-Melania, T-Rump Jr. and T-Vankanatrix were gathered in their off-season den at Mar-a-Guano. The T-Rump turned to his cantankerous right-hand dino, the Marinegunkelly.

“What’s the latest on the funny stuff happening with the clouds?” The T-Rump refused to look up at the skies since the unfortunate solar eclipse incident.

“Well,” said Marinegunkelly, “we were in the direct path of the hurricane.”

“The greatest hurricane,” corrected the T-Rump. “Ever.”

“Excuse me, T-Rump, I said were. The pterodactyl’s are all in a snit, so it appears the storm is now headed toward the Conch Republic.”

The T-Rump started off in that direction.

“Where are you going?” the Marinegunkelly yelled above the storm.

“The Conch Republic.”

“Why on earth? You’ll be killed!”

“I have to be there. That’s where the hurricane is. Who wants to be on the outside looking in?”

“Mother? Aren’t you going to say something?” cried the T-Vankanatrix.

But the T-Melania was busy looking at the scales on her back legs. She arched her heel, admiring her instep.

“Mother!”

The T-Melania turned her dark, foreboding lashes upon the T-Vankanatrix. Mixed dinosaur marriages were such a bore.

“Father’s going to be in the path of the storm. Say something!”

The T-Melania dropped her eyes. The T-Rump and her no longer held hands … or went out for a late night Brachiosaurus snack any more.

“When will you be home?” she asked, hoping he’d  be washed away.

“I’ll return when the Trollertweety is tweeting the loudest. Triumphant. Winning.”

“Dad!” shouted the T-Rump Jr., rushing over to him. “What am I going to do without you?”

“You have my name, son. That’s all you’ll need. Don’t wear it out.”

The T-Rump turned to leave once more. He was about to plunge into the howling wind and rain when another dinosaur staggered in. It was the Schillersaurus, an Uberguardian dinosaur from the T-Rump’s days of yore.

“Schillersaurus,” said the T-Rump. “You’re too late. I’ve made up my mind.”

“No, I’ve come to collect for previous work.”

“Oh. Well, help yourself to some Caviaraptor legs.”

The Schillersaurus scurried over to the dinosaur delicacy. The T-Rump stood there, looking back.

“It’s not too late to protect me.”

“I’m good,” said the Schillersaurus, waving him off between nibbles.  

The T-Rump set his jaw and traipsed off in the tail-deep flood waters.

In the few hours that followed, his would be a carefree journey, for the hurricane changed its path. It made a catastrophic direct hit upon Mar-a-Guano. The T-Rump arrived home the following day after the flood waters had receded.

“Dad!” screamed the T-Vankanatrix, “You left us for the — the … Conch Republic! How could you? You were drinking from the dirty end of the swamp, weren’t you?”

“I — I …”

“Look at me!” shrieked the normally placid T-Melania. “Just look at my scales! They’re ruined!”

She bounded off, sobbing uncontrollably, to hide behind what was left of a bush. The T-Rump turned to the T-Rump Jr.

“Son?”

“You … weren’t here. I didn’t know what to do.”

“Come here, son.” He put his arm around the T-Rump Jr. “Now, before you run and get Sukelowphus and Futerfasphus, we need to let them know … one … that this was the biggest hurricane and …”

“You were here, dad.”

“That’s my boy.”

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Satire The Trump Dig

T-Rump Coaches T-Rump Jr. …

“I can’t do it. I won’t do it!”

The Tyrumposaurus Junior lashed out his tail, striking the wall of the oval dwelling, narrowly missing the T-Rump, the Sukelowphus and the smaller Futerfasphus. The latter two dinosaurs were always close at hand, Sub Family to the Pantsonfire Solisitaur.

“Now, now,” said the T-Rump, patting his son on the head. “Everything’s going to be fine. It’s just the Cynette-Judy-Sherry Committee. Those three? C’mon. What could possibly happen?”

“That’s what you said the last time before you had me tell the Mediacircustops I was talking with three Kayjeebeeops about baby dinos.”

“That could play in the dirt beside the Crookadillary,” added the Futerfasphus.

The T-Rump looked from the Futerfasphus to his son.

“That’s why he’s your Solisitaur.”

“T-Rump,” said the Sukelowphus, “just so we’re straight, you’re not having this conversation with T-Rump Jr. right now.”

“Listen to you,” said the T-Rump, “Just so we’re straight. You crack me up. Listen to me, clarity is not good. Believe me, not good.”

“What about me,” said the Futerfasphus, “Am I here?”

A prehistoric cricket chirped. The Sukelowphus turned to T-Rump Junior.

“If you don’t go, they’ll send the Suppeenaraptors after you.”

“Dad, you’ve got to help me!”

“Stop that. You’re scaring him,” said the T-Rump. He tapped his chin with a gnarly claw. “Now then, what would the Putinodon want me to do? I know. What if the baby dinos were from the Crookadillary?”

“The Crookadillary is ancient history,” said the Sukelowphus.

“Okay, just a shot in the dark. How about an adjustment to the Kayjeebeeops migration pattern … because of the anticipated Biblical Flood Belt.”

“The timeline is a little sketchy but, like you said …”

“Who needs clarity?”

The T-Rump Jr. hugged his father.

“Gee, thanks, dad. You’re a lifesaver.”

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Satire The Trump Dig

Today’s Menu: Nuclearballisticus …

It was once again feeding time at the Puhl-DePlugg Reservoir. It seemed like it always was what with the Tyrumposaurus keen on maintaining his svelte, 9-ton figure. This required he devour upwards of 285,000 calories daily. There would be no counting calories today however. The catered dinosaur was a special one. Freshly killed Nuclearballisticus.

The T-Rump had invited several special guests to the oval dwelling to gnaw bones and chew the fat with him. They included the Kimjongadon, the Seoulkoreasaur, the Chungkingosaurus and the smaller Tokyohiroshima. The T-Rump eyed his favorite part of the Nuclearballisticus. He knew the hard shell would explode in his stomach later. He was salivating already and would have to stake his claim.

“Okay, everyone. We need to set some ground rules first.”

He stared down the Kimjongadon, who gleefully clapped his little hands together at the sudden attention.

“Kimjongadon, I’m sorry, but there will be no Nuclearballisticus for you.”

The Kimjongadon stopped in mid-clap.

“You invite me to dinner and you’re not going to feed me? Are you crazy!”

“Here we go again. You wanna see crazy?”

The other dinosaurs ducked their heads into their hands. Even the Kimjongadon blinked. The T-Rump was firm.

“You’ve got to stop playing with your food, Kimjongadon. You make the Seoulkoreasaur here nervous and last week you almost hit the poor Tokyohiroshima.”

“Don’t be too harsh with him,” said the Chungkingosaurus. “He just wants to eat with us at the big table.”

“Yeah,” said the Seoulkoreasaur, “he can’t help it if he’s a Kimjongadon.”

The Seoulkoreasaur reached for a side of Tradebaitor, the ornithopod appetizer of the day, only to see the T-Rump snatch it away.

“Hey! I wasn’t done with that yet.”

“You are now,” said the T-Rump. He turned to the Chungkingosaurus. “You may help yourself to some Tradebaitor … I said SOME,” and to the Kimjongadon, “Oh, I’m sorry, definitely none for you.”

A perplexed Kimjongadon looked to the Chungkingosaurus for support.

“Sorry, he has a point. Behave yourself and we’ll stop for some Petrodactyl on the way home.”

“That’s what I’m talking about,” the T-Rump scolded the Chungkingosaurus. “You shouldn’t encourage the little rogue.”

The Kimjongadon turned four shades of purple.

“I have to live too, you know!” he sputtered, saliva flying.

“Not on Nuclearballisticus, you don’t,” said the T-Rump. “You know what they say, too much of a good thing is bad for you. No, Kimjongadon, it’s become quite clear you only understand one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Next time, for you … it’s a happy meal.”

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Satire The Trump Dig

The T-Rump’s Drafted Etchings …

The Muellersavus was out for one of his long walks, puzzling his puzzler over his investigation into the Tyrumposaurus’ dealings with the Putinodon, sworn enemy to the Milkanhoney Preservation. Apart from eating and sleeping, this was the Muellersavus’ raison d’etre since the T-Rump had taken over the Puhl-DePlugg Reservoir. Munching on the remnants of a prehistoric mulberry bush, something caught the Muellersavus’ eye.  

Fast forward an hour later. The Muellersavus tossed his discovery at the feet of the T-Rump in the oval dwelling. It was a two-foot by one-foot piece of slate with the smooth side carrying a message. The Stephenmillersaurus was also present.

“What’s that?” said the T-Rump.

“It’s a draft of an etching you were going to give to the Comeyonus before you sent him to Elba.”

Elba was short for Elba-Elbowroom, a distant desert for the exiled dinosaur.

“Never seen it.”

“Take a good look, T-Rump. You signed it with your crooked claw. That’s your trademark tremoring earthquake scrawl.”

“Okay, so that’s my signature. It’s a beautiful signature, isn’t it? But it doesn’t prove a thing.”

“Read it,” said the Muellersavus.

“Dear Comeyonus. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out. You may look like a boy scout but you couldn’t start a fire with a lake full of fossil fuel.”

“I must say, I find that very tacky for a dinosaur of your stature,” said the Muellersavus.

“I was just warming up.”

“So am I.”

The Muellersavus motioned to a long line of Langleytips, nose-to-the-ground sauropods, who came forward to lay down dozens of similar-sized slate etchings before the T-Rump, who turned angrily to the Stephenmillersaurus.

“I thought I told you to get rid of these!”

“I did! I took them all the way to the Land-Before-Time Lowlands. I almost broke my back. Oh, wow. Look at me, everyone. Now that was something to see.”

“Ahem,” said the T-Rump indignantly. “You do know the rules about oval dwelling hyperbole.”

“Sorry. Your terrain.”

“Well, well,” said the T-Rump, turning his frown to the Muellersavus. “I see a whole lot of fake news here.”

“News with your name on it.”

“I’ve got nothing to hide. I don’t know a Putinodon from a Platypus.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Here, read this one.”

“Dear Comeyonus,” said the T-Rump. “If I see your Platypus face around here again, I’m going to stuff an apple in it and serve you to the Putinodon.” The T-Rump snorted. “It’s just another coincidence inside a coincidence wrapped inside a coincidence by the lying Mediacircustops. What else you got? C’mon, I haven’t got all day.”

The Muellersavus shuffled through several slates. He paused at one etching.

“This should have you off to Elba.”

The T-Rump poured over the slate.

“Dear Comeyonus, I have asked you morning, noon and night if you’re investigating me. I lay awake every night wondering if you are. This has caused such confusion in the oval dwelling. The Huckabeecyclops is cross-eyed trying to keep our stories straight. This is all your fault. So long, loser.”

“Or this one,” said the Muellersavus.

“Dear Comeyonus, you back-stabbing, bipedal theropod. I AM obstructing justice. Because I CAN.” The T-Rump looked at the Stephenmillersaurus. “We forgot to kick him out in this one.”

“I think it was implied.”

“And finally, this one,” said the Muellersavus.

“Dear Comeyonus, I’m at the end of my claws and I’m still mad at you. My handlers tell me the Rosensteinoton is going to do the final etching with some fake story about the Crookadillary. This may be my last draft but it is my first truth. I hate you! Be gone! Elba is too good for you!”

“You kicked him out good there, boss,” said the Stephenmillersaurus.

“Why didn’t we go with that one? I’ll always wonder. Why not?”

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Satire The Trump Dig

T-Rump and the Dying Magazineplex …

The Tyrumposaurus retreated from the Biblical Flood Belt back to the dry safety of his oval dwelling. He stumbled across an old, bedraggled Magazineplex in the throes of old age. The glossy, Biweeklian herbivore was a close, working associate of the Mediacircustops.

“Help, I’ve fallen and I can’t get up” came his weakened cry.

The T-Rump leaned over for a closer look.

“Why, you’re a dying Magazineplex. That’s who you are!”

“You wouldn’t understand a deadline if it bit you,” the herbivore said in a dry raspy voice.

“So that’s what happened. Wait a minute. I know you. You’re the one who’s been false reporting. You’re fake news, pal.” He poked him repeatedly in the stomach. “Fake. Fake. Fake.”

“I beg your pardon.” The Magazineplex coughed into his paw. “I’m the Fifth Estate.”

“Oh, yeah?” The T-Rump looked around. “Looks like your four buddies have left. Where’s your ferocious anger now? I’ll tell you where. Dying. D-uh-Y-I-N-G.”

The Magazineplex motioned for the T-Rump to come closer. The T-Rump kneeled over him.

“What is it? This volcanic sand doesn’t agree with my knees.”

The herbivore motioned for the T-Rump to come closer still. The T-Rump put his ear close to the Magazineplex’ mouth.

“DACA–” whispered the herbivore, barely audible.

“The Dacadreamers?” said the T-Rump. The Magazineplex slowly nodded. The Dacadreamer was a Sub Family of the Latinonachos dinosaur encroaching on the Milkanhoney Preservation.

“Oh, they’re dreamers all right. How am I ever going to get the Great Tex-Mex Divide done if I have to worry about the Dacadreamers? All I’m trying to do here is make the Milkanhoney Preservation great again.”

“Eight hundred thousand.” The herbivore struggled to get the words out.

“Don’t remind me. This looks like a job for the Sheriffjovenator.” The T-Rump rose to his feet. He stamped his right foot impatiently, kicking dust in the face of the dying Magazineplex. The T-Rump slapped his two-fingered hands together.

“That’s it! I will get the Dacadreamers to build the Great Tex-Mex Divide. If they do a good job I may — I said MAY — let them stay.”

The Magazineplex slowly blinked his eyes, unbelieving of the T-Rump’s words.

The T-Rump looked down at him.

“Aren’t you dead yet?”

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Satire The Trump Dig

T-Rump’s Natural Disaster …

Having quickly passed the Phrydaynoos Dump, the Tyrumposaurus was briefly touring the Biblical Flood Belt with the Femasaurus and Montenegrossus. The Femasaurus was a well-meaning stegosaur with four posterior dorsal vertebrae — great for pushing mud around. The Montenegrossus was a small, sharp-beaked Zonaguvrep herbivore by way of sunny Salvador-Junta.

“Wow,” said the T-Rump. “Now that’s a flood. We just arrived but I think it’s bigger since I got here.”

“In the past hour,” said the grim-faced Femasaurus, “it has displaced a giant herd of Hesperosaurus.” 

“Santa Ana!” exclaimed the Montenegrossus.

“You know,” said the T-Rump, “this is pretty close, yes, we’re almost on top of the site for the Great Tex-Mex Divide.”

The Femasaurus pointed off in the distance.

“Looks like another gang of Gigantosaurus floating away.”

“Great swimmers,” said the T-Rump. “Great swimmers.”

“San Miguel!” exclaimed the Montenegrossus.

“Incredible, isn’t it?” said the Femasaurus.

“Oh, sure,” said the Montenegrossus. “But I was just homesick for my old home, sunny Salvador-Junta.”

“Don’t get too sunny,” said the T-Rump. “We still have to build the Great Tex-Mex Divide.”

“There goes a pack of Pamparaptors,” said the Femasaurus.

“You do realize,” the T-Rump said to the Montenegrossus, “that you’ll have to leave your Salvador-Junta behind.”

“Oh, well. What’s another coup?”

“You’re a good dinosaur. Don’t worry, I’m going to build the Great Tex-Mex Divide if I have to stop the Nafta Trade Winds!”

“You can do that? … I mean, of course you can.”

The Femasaurus pointed out a flailing Fendusaurus in the raging floodwaters.

“I think that’s the last of their species.”

“Tell me about the Leftwing Narrativedactyl,” said the T-Rump.

“I – I haven’t seen any yet,” said the Femasaurus.

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

The Montenegrossus brightened.

“Yes, of course. The Leftwing Narrativedactyl. It flies in circles for the Donkeykongrus. It would like to make a case for the meaningless Thuggasaurus when the larger, more important Sheriffjovenators of our period — and all their sweeping powers — need all our attention to keep them active.  That is Trumpassic justice.”

“Indeed it is,” said the T-Rump. “You’re going to go far in my Milkanhoney Preservation. Where’d you say you were from again?

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Satire The Trump Dig

The T-Rump’s Beautiful Letter …

The Marinegunkelly, the T-Rump’s right-hand dino, hurried into the oval dwelling. He found the Tyrumposaurus peeking around a corner at a nearby scrum of Mediacircustops. The Marinegunkelly wasn’t suprised. The T-Rump’s obsession with the Mediacircustops bordered on delusional.

“Ahem,” said the Marinegunkelly.

“Yes, what is it?”

“The impending doom of the Harveyhurricanus overrunning the Chrispycorps Coastlands is upon us. Your guidance is needed.”

“That’s nice. Which reminds me, the night we overran the Crookadillary, it seems like only yesterday.”

“The beautiful letter?” said the Marinegunkelly.

“You know me too well.”

The beautiful letter was a dino-hieroglyph of sorts. It was a single symbol that the Clapperaptor had left in the sand the day the T-Rump came to power.  The Clapperaptor was a genus of the Sobersecondnoggin dinosaur. His skull had mostly hollow bones, providing solid resonance chambers and improved hearing. Translation? The Clapperaptor didn’t miss much.

“I wanted that symbol,” said the T-Rump, “whatever it was, to mean something. So I had you put everything aside and make up a story about it.”

“You said poem.”

“Whatever. What did I tell you about details?”

“This week or last?”

“Never mind. The poem. Tell me the poem.”

“I’m paraphrasing now.”

“Go on.”

“Intelligence, a scary thing
When given flight with nary wing.
Motivate, T-Rump, thine ability,
Lest bury self on fossil knee.
Yet calm Comeyonus, not Psychonazisaur
Grants truth and justice to very oath you swore.
The Putinodon con, succinctly distinct,
Mock Kimjongadon to lock the extinct.
Intelligence gives truth to power.
Long stand this hope upon this hour.”

The T-Rump’s eyes glazed over.

“Beautiful. Just bee-you-tee-ful. I’m not sure what it means but it sounds very powerful. I especially like the part where I’m mentioned.”

“I had to put that in.”

“I know.”

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Satire The Trump Dig

57 Lies and Nothing Wrong …

The Tyrumposaurus and Sheriffjovenator were drinking from the dirty end of the Puhl-DePlugg Reservoir. The Sheriffjovenator paused between loud slurps, belching out a bull frog.

“T-Rump, you’re sure you’re going to get me off? Is that the straight-shootin’ truth?”

The Sheriffjovenator had been in trouble with the other dinosaurs for attacking more than his quota of slow-running Latinonachos.

“Sheriff Joe. Would I lie to you?”

“Well, the Mediacircustops said you lied 57 times in 77 minutes last night at the Phoenix Drop-Off.”

“You had to bring that up,” said the T-Rump, noticeably rumpled.

“I’m sorry.”

“I was trying to break my record of one lie per minute.”

“That’s, uh … nice,” stammered the Sheriffjovenator.

“Do you have any ideas how many times I’ve lied since I’ve taken control around here?”

“Well, I’m gonna go with … a lot.”

“One thousand. Say it with me.”

“One thousand,” they said in unison, the Sheriffjovenator with somewhat less conviction.

“Yes, I forgot to bring it up last night.  I’ll have to cull someone from the herd for not reminding me. But tell me, be honest now, which do you think was my best lie? No, my greatest lie.”

The Sheriffjovenator was in an awkward position. He didn’t want to pick a lie from the T-Rump’s repetoire that was less than his best for fear of upsetting him.

“Uh … when you never mentioned ‘many sides’ when referring to the Charlottesville Divide?”

“Nope.”

“When you claimed to have invented ‘extreme vetting’?”

“Nope. Wrong again. C’mon, Sheriff Joe.”

“Well, there were so many.”

“That’s no excuse.”

“Um … you said the Mediacircustops does not care about the Milkanhoney Preservation. That was pretty low.”

“Yes and no,” said the T-Rump. “It was low but it wasn’t the lowest. The best lie was the totality of it. Think of it, Sheriff Joe. I can rewrite history.”

The Sheriffjovenator scratched his nether regions.

“Now why would you want to go and do that?”

“I will go down as the leader that told the most lies — the Stalinator still has a huge lead — AND I will be able to mold my legacy as I see fit. That, Sheriff Joe, is the art of the deal.”

“You mentioned legacy? Don’t you have to do something first?”

“Pardon!”

“I was just asking…”

“And I’m telling you. Your pardon IS the first step of my legacy.”

“I don’t know what to say, T-Rump. I’m humbled, but, uh  …”

“Speak up, Sheriff Joe.”

“I don’t mean to pester you with this but … are you lying again?