Like a cow, humor must be milked daily.
“Hope! Hope! Where are you, my lovely Hope?”
The Tyrumposaurus was on his knees, clutching his short arms together in prayer. Three shutdowns. Oval Dwelling ineptitude not seen since the Fubar-Filibuster Period.
“Excuse me,” said the Mickmulvaney, poking his head into the Oval Dwelling. …
Dino court was in session. The presiding judge was the Emmetsullivan, a no-guff dino whose stinging rebukes left deeper marks than a T-Rump tail swipe on a good day. The judge stared down the latest ne’er-do-well in the sin bin,
The Tyrumposaurus eased back into his standard Oval Dwelling squat. Prime “executive time” for some serious navel gazing. He scratched for a moment and nibbled
“You said it would go away. That’s what you said.”
The T-Rump frowned at the Ronnyjackson, practically blaming him. The T-Rump’s former dino doc put on a brave face. He hadn’t said that at all. He sighed and pawed at his face. The T-Rump’s lies gave him a freaking migraine. …
The Tyrumposaurus looked at the cool, confident Nickayers squatting across from him and grinned. Fresh meat in the swamp soup. There were glaring holes to fill in T-Rump’s Oval Dwelling staff but he’d never let that bother him. …
“I’m next,” moaned the Tyrumposaurus Jr. “I just know it. The Muellersavus is going to indict me. I can feel it.”
“Take a number, squirt,” said the Rogerstone. “It’s gonna be me. Most definitely. I’ve been much more vocal than you. I go out of my way to talk to the Mediacircustops. …
