Tag: Trump

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Satire The Trump Dig

T-Rump’s Weekly Address …

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!

Categories
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!”

Categories
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.”

Categories
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?”

Categories
Satire The Trump Dig

Follow the Marrow! …

More news on the heels of the osteocollusionitis outbreak here at Puhl-DePlugg. It came to me last night as I was nodding off, dreaming of Dino in the Flintstones. I remembered a 2-day workshop I took in dinosaur forensics. It was called “Follow the Marrow.” This morning that strategy led me to a nearby dinosaur, the Browdersaurus, a huge, 15-ton foreign investaurus.

In my last report, we learned the Putinodon, Akhmetshinesia, Veselnitschemus and other Kayjeebeeops all had osteocollusionitis raging through their bones. But not the Browdersaurus. Let’s recap an epoch or two and line up the three P’s —  politico-paleo-psychoanalysis — to bring everyone up to speed.

It’s clear the Magnitskiactosaur had come between the Putinodon and greener pastures, namely Nest Egg Mountain in the distance. The Kayjeebeeops couldn’t travel freely. The Browdersaurus had close, personal ties to the Magnitskiactosaur in life and death, having shared the neighboring region of Leegull Grounds. The Browdersaurus thus put the other dinosaurs on red notice. That’s def-con 4 in dinosaur-speak. Combine this palpable pressure with the multiple bone stress fractures from his osteocollusionitis and one can imagine what a basket case the Putinodon must have been.

And what about the T-Rump? Will he intervene and provide the Putinodon safe passage to Nest Egg Mountain? Stay tuned. I have Disney on the phone. There’s money in this mud.

Categories
Satire The Trump Dig

The Smoking Bone …

 

LarsonFarSide_DinosaursSurely this couldn’t be. It made me recall the classic Gary Larson Far Side cartoon included here. No, the dinosaurs didn’t smoke cigarettes, so how did I come across the smoking bone? Allow me to recap this landmark day, a turning point in the Trumpassic Period. I’ve of course had no time to continue work on the Obamacarus and Economonyx, two duty-bound Dryosauridae that remain stuck in the mud.

No, there were bigger Pholidophorus* to fry.  Like the forensic unit of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, I always get my bone. And we have a whopper for today. Little T-Rump Jr. gave up a big one. In his “skeleton closet” or backbone, I found a rather long goldstona emailia —  a gold-like chain of linked little bones that when combined made a great tail.

Inside these bones, I found the rampant signs of osteocollusionitis, a rare dinosaur bone disorder only found in the Trumpassic Period. These findings were confirmed by my Russian ex-pat colleague, Fedya Fibsulov.

To what extent the Puhl-DePlugg Reservoir is infected remains to be seen, but after discovering and having the privilege of naming 23 new dinosaur species, this major dig is finally coming together.

 * The Pholidophorus was a teleost fish from the Triassic and Jurassic periods.

Categories
Satire The Trump Dig

GREED Links T-Rump & T-Rump Jr. …

It was another big day at the ol’ bone garden. I found five new, inexorably-linked bones. It took me all day to pull them apart. The first one was a very significant find. Hard to believe, but the Tyrumposaurus had a son. I have the honor of naming him T-Rump Jr. It was GREED that confirmed their close relation. Graduated Radiometric Extra-Epoch Dating, that is. Like his father, T-Rump Jr. was a bipedal carnivore with a massive skull balanced by a long, heavy tail. His two-clawed digits were able to get into all things DNC (Dirt Not Classified).

The four other bones were from a Kushneratops, a Manaforta, a Veselnitschemus and a Magnitskiactosaur.

The Kushneratops was a horned face herbivore originally from Maryland’s Middle River Double Bone Beds. He obviously covered a lot of real estate to arrive at this close, social position with the T-Rumps.

The Manaforta was a thick-nosed hadrosaurid from Nest Egg Mountain. He had a small, spiky crest in front of his eyes, mainly used in headbutting contests. The Manaforta was the first to feed their young while they were in the nest. It will be interesting to see if this nurturing communication kept them on the same page, er … nest.

The Veselnitschemus was a Kayjeebeeopsaean theropod from the well-preserved Siberian Salt Flats. To balance the gender of my report, I will refer to this attractive fossil as female. She was a lizard with swift hind legs, apparently capable of dumping dirt on the Crookadillary.

The Magnitskiactosaur was a three-ton, whistle-blowing penalcellpod imprisoned in Moscovian mud. Believe it or not — I call it dig-site destiny — but he appeared to be flipping his fifth finger at the other Kayjeebeeops.

How did all this find the light of day? My nagging hunch about the above was confirmed when I discovered the T-Rump Jr.’s SF86 bone had failed to form properly. It stuck out like a sore thumb in this Mesotheliomaean menagerie.

Categories
Satire The Trump Dig

No T-Rump Blast for Putinodon …

At times the bones beneath me read like a soap opera. The Putinodon was obviously meddling in the Milcanhoney Preservation. The T-Rump paid no mind to this however, determined instead to prey on the Obamarus, a lame, duck-billed dinosaur from Hawaii, not Kenya. In a symbolic and democratic move, the Obamarus was protecting the Donkeykongrus, ancestor to the donkey and African wild ass, hence the above confusion.

It may well be that the Obamarus, on behalf of the Donkeykongrus, was shielding the Crookadillary, a well-bred ankylosaurid dinosaur first found behind a little rock in the Arkansas Whitewater Development. A side note, ankylosaurid translates to “ankle biter.” The T-Rump had obviously had enough of that and upon narrowly defeating the Crookadillary, inexplicably did not engage with the Putinodon.

Why the T-Rump didn’t charge or at least bear its teeth — I’m still looking for those — at the Putinodon for its savage actions? It’s as if the T-Rump’s telling us, “Putinodon? Maybe, but nobody really knows for sure.” More bones to come. Bones that will tell the truth.

In closing today’s post, I wanted to note that, while these past 167 days have been a long, arduous, painstaking journey, my colleagues and I remain hopeful in finding the T-Rump whole.