Prelude: What’s Mine Is His

The enslaved animen felt rumbling approach as they dug in the mine. Parts of it were crumbling on their heads, debris loosened by the pounding hooves. They could hear singing, the words in time with the marching beat of the soldiers’ feet. A song they heard many times, so sung along in their minds. The most EXCITING part of their day.

Trumpigula, like an Emperor of Rome,

grabbed everything to fill his great home.

Ruled the whole world and did it all alone.

Everything was his. He’ll eat you to the bone.


The singing army was the blimpy kidds, fearsome Brown-Noses known for their loose stools. True Trumpigulamers. WOE be to those who crossed their path. No one withstood their diarrhea power. Not even the fart-right.

Trumpigula was rich as could be.

Horded all his wealth but flaunts it so we’ll see.

Surrounded by the finest golden luxury.

Opulent his life and that’s all right with me.


Leading the way was commander Stinggy, the ruthless honeybeewoman mesmerized by the Ruler who rode upon her back, Trumpigula. He smiled wide flying high above everyone, knowing he was exactly as the lyrics said. He wrote them, after all.

Trumpigula declared he was the best.

Killing everyone who ruffled his crest.

Spreading lots of fear from the east coast to the west.

He is in total control. Hear him thump his chest.


 In front of the soldiers were more hostages—various sheepmen, chickenmen and other animen unlucky to be captured. They had joined the rebellion against Trumpigula. Fighting his reign was the only moral option. They had their own song to inspire them, despite their current predicament. Proudly, they sang in response.

Trumpigula, you lost it again.

Mr. Sensitive, you whiney pigman. Waahh! Waahh!

Trumpigula, were your feelings hurt?

For our kids’ future we’ll fight your evil squirt.

The horde reached the mine entrance. Stinggy hovered above it. Blimpy kidds led the prisoners in, occasionally squirting disobedient captives with their noxious rectal fluid. With heads hung low and noses plugged, they passed beneath Trumpigula. He smirked as the blimpy kidds bleated.

Trumpigula’s gonna grab you anywhere.

Takes what he wants because he don’t care.

Greedy and stone-cold for NOWO was his flair.

Zeus blesses his soul and his gorgeous orange hair.


He LOVED ruling. A lot of work, but ALL worth it. Nothing like having a blimpy kidd army do whatever the snot he wanted, like sing his song. Made things easier in the long run. And let peeple know his feelings.

Trumpigula was great at causing pain.

Spreading lots of hate to those who he maimed.

Worshiped and adored by those who felt the same.

If you disagree, he’ll lock you up in chains.


Stinggy felt a long-forgotten sorrow seeing the sad hostages so defeated. Something about it gave her a bad buzz. She would’ve shed a tear as the hostages sang, but her eyes were compound and had no tear ducts. Grabby, Trumpigula’s secret hand-like appendage, let out a mist of pheromones to calm everyone the Hades down and remesmerize Stinggy.

Trumpigula, have you no remorse?

Are your sleepless nights spent in sad discourse?

Trumpigula we tremble in fear.

With your great grabber our end is near.

A turkeyman picked up a rock, gobbled, “Dump Scumpigulalala! Gobble!” and threw it at Trumpigula. It hit Stinggy instead. The prisoners chanted, “Dump Scumpigulalala!” She zeroed in on her assailant with triangulation and keen eyesight, pointed her stinger that direction and sprayed him with venom. He screamed in pain and was pushed into the mine by a blimpy kidd. The other prisoners shut the snot up.

“Whadiditelya, folks. Amaryca is FINALLY GREAT! You shouldn’t have become my menace, saying otherwise. Have fun mining crap for me! Ha!” squealed Trumpigula at his prisoners. He snort-laughed, then commanded his airborne conveyance, “Hit it Stinggy. I got Fux to watch at MY Honky House, and Dr. Blastered will be there soon. I’m feeling clogged again and need relief.”

Stinggy shot up to the flyway pronto. Grabby protruded from Trumpigula’s shirt, misting the herd below as it flapped in the wind. It waved bye-bye then petted Stinggy’s head as they headed to DC.

Buzzing along, Trumpigula smiled at the improvements he made below. Piles of spotted snailmen shells dotted the sides of the roads, their forest homes no longer standing. They were all felled, replaced by factories farting nasty fumes. Farms were filled with undocumented brown cowmen, who slaved there all day and all night all their lives—before being shipped to the factories of death. From them, lines of trucks with TrumpMeat® and TrumpDogmenChow® logos streamed in and out. He imagined the filth from the smokestacks belching Benjamins straight into his piggy banks.

He farted, causing turbulence and almost fell off. He clutched Stinggy tighter to get a better grip. He pulled out his eyePhone and twatted, “I TOLD YOU NOWO WORKS! MAKES ME THE BEST PUSA EVER!”.

Blowsy beamed to his mind, “President!? You’re Emperor now! ETPI!”

Trumpigula asked, “Eat pie? Now? … Oh! Emperor Trumpigula of Planet Irks! That’s right! Yesss!” He twatted, “LIKE I SAID, MAKES ME THE BEST ETPI EVER!”

As they neared DC, a pungent odor stronger than the stink of the factories filled their noses. Trumpigula took a big whiff and smiled. “Nothing like the smell of fresh, old swamp gas. Looking busy down there, too,” he told Stinggy, who said nothing. She preferred the smell of flowers.

He looked below at the bubbling swamp they passed over. Swampmen sprayed swamp juice at the malcontents trying to drain it. Rudeguy Ghouliani, the commander Tasmanian devilman in charge of the swamp, waved to his master as they flew over. “Everything’s under control, ETPI!” he yelled, unheard above the buzz of Stingy’s wings and chaos all around.

Out of the swamp emerged more swampmen, creatures generated in the swamp. Ghouliani commanded them, “Go! Destroy the Establishment that makes Amaryca so ungreat. Unravel the rules, one by one. Replace them with Trumpigulations.”

Everywhere Trumpigula looked was turmoil. Rebels were all around, chanting, holding signs and fighting the Trumpigulamers as best they could. Trumpigula beamed. “Keep fighting over me. I’m TOTALLY worth it!” he wheezed in glee.

The Honky House came into view. Outside the fence, dissidents swarmed. They chanted, “Dump Scumpigulalala!” when they saw him flying above. They didn’t see his smirk, but they felt it.

Stinggy landed on the Honky House lawn. Trumpigula jumped off her back, very annoyed by the commotion. “How am I gonna relax with all that RUCKUS! Stinggy, GO! Grab some blimpy kidds and spray those troublemakers!” he commanded.

She took off with a pack of Brown-Noses, flew towards the sea of protesters and shot loads of her venom over the crowd. Blimpy kidds joined the fray and sprayed diarrhea everywhere the agitators gathered. They knew what was coming, so closed their eyes, but that only protected them a little. They screamed as the acrid poisons burned their skin. Panicking, they stampeded each other to escape.

Trumpigula laughed, sneered and headed into the Oval Orifice. He laid on his couch and turned on Fux with Insanity and See An Enemy News (SAEN). Grabby snatched him a snack.

“Another great day in Amaryca ruled by Emperor Trumpigula,” Shong Insanity, the skunkman Fux News host, exclaimed. “And it just keeps getting better! Gotta love the stink!”

A knock knock on his door perked Trumpigula up. “Blastered, that you?” he excitedly asked. Dr. Blastered, a porcupineman and Trumpigula’s proctologist, strolled in. Out of Trumpigula’s pants emerged his grabber. It snaked up, waved to Blastered and blasted its own medicine. Grabby did the Mesmerization Dance (MD); its fingers moved hypnotically, releasing a mist while the grabber swayed, flashing different colors. The doctor’s eyes glazed over.

“Blast away,” Trumpigula commanded and turned up the volume on his TVs so they wouldn’t be drowned out by his grunting. He pulled down his pants, bent over his desk, and Dr. Blastered gave him his weekly enema. Trumpigula snorted as he received the procedure.

“Today, Congress passed the Registry of Enemas for Amarycans Mandate, finally!” Insanity gloated on the right TV. “REAM replaces Yomamacare with Analtractcare, and everyone’s covered! The best part of REAM? It PAYS pigdustries to do whatever’s needed to create jobs and make lots of bacon. No business has no excuse to not take advantage of government now. The enemazation of the nation is medicine we swallow with pride. All thanks to ETPI. He’s truly a pigman blessed by Zeus.”

“And a firm be…liever,” Trumpigula gasped out. “You’ll thank me, peeple, one day. You’ll be sorry you were so me…an to me. Blastered! Go easy!”

On the left TV, SAEN broadcasted. The host, a headlouseman, chirped, “REAM supersizes the pigmen running federal agencies that regulate their pigdustries. It’s bad enough that Trumpigulations have gutted regulations that protect workers, communities, the environment and most crucially, the future generations of animen. That deception benefits the millionaire pigmen exploiting peeple and resources to get rich. Now taxpayers gotta pay them to do their job of ripping us all off!?”

“Richman wel…fare is great! There’s less of us, so more efficient than giving hand…outs to the millions of worthless poor,” Trumpigula grunted.

Blastered finished and gathered his things. Trumpigula took a deep breath and exhaled, pulled up his pants and looked out the window. The commotion was dead. Brown cowmen were cleaning up the disgusting mess.

“Trumpy, you sure are nasty!” Blowsy transmitted to his brain. “Just rememba, there’s aliens comin. You’ll all be DOOMED les ya get these peeple ta love each otha. Don’t get cocky about what ya doin. Ya aren’t a godman like ya think.”

“Shut your trap, crazy guy in my brain. I’m ETPI and don’t listen to no one. Especially someone who doesn’t show me his yaphole. Come out already!”

“Youuu just don’t learn, do ya pigpen? Youuu ain’t nothin without me blowin. With just one song, Grabby’s done. Then what you think you’ll become?” Blowsy rhetorically rapped.

“Keep your hands off MY grabber. I am ETPI and Grabby’s master. It does all I command. So, hose off, wuss, I’m the boss hogman!” Trumpigula clapped back.

Blowsy played his trumpet. Grabby danced out of Trumpigula’s pants, shook its hand saying, “Uh uhhh!”, gave him the finger and zipped into nothingness.

Trumpigula fell to the floor in a crumpled mess. “Not again! Waahhhh!” he cried.

“Pooor fooo. You really messed up THIS time. Ya don’t give it any respect. Grabby is DONE!” Blowsy bellowed. His laughing faded out of hearing.

Trumpigula turned off the TVs, laid on his couch and fell asleep in despair.

I. A Pigman Star Is Born