A dark deluge of dyspepsia vexed the visage of the Great Trumpkin.
Something was rotten in the state of Denmark, because something couldn’t be gotten from the state of Denmark.
Greenland, to be specific.
How the Great Trumpkin wanted it! Lusted after it, even, so much so that he wished he could just go up and grab it by the physiography, the way rulers had in times of old.
Truth be told, no one knew quite why.
As was often the case, Stephen Miller, special assistant for white supremacy, had leapt to some conclusions. Miller had been in his office, practicing bayonet lunges, when the Great Trumpkin had popped in to float the idea.
Dropping his Mauser rifle, Miller had wiped tears of joy from his eyes.
“A place just for us caucasians. Some . . . Lebensraum.”
“Some what?” The last thing the Great Trumpkin wanted was his advisers getting all fancy on him.
“Some living space. Just using the, um, German term.”
Whereupon the Trumpkin had read him the riot act.
“No foreign languages in my White House, you understand?”
Miller nodded, appearing sullen, or so the Great Trumpkin thought, though truth be told, his cherished aide always looked like Torquemada halfway through a long, unproductive torture session. Then excitement overtook Miller again.
“We’ll call it Whitelandia,” Miller said. “Our motto will be: ‘The Land of White (K)nights.’ You’ll only be able to book flights there through a secret portal on Breitbart, and only with bitcoin. If anyone with an ethnic-sounding name tries, their computer will crash. And if we get asked about it, we’ll say: ‘I know nothing.’ ”
It was a beguiling vision, certainly. The real reason the Great Trumpkin wanted Greenland was far simpler, however. Deep down, he knew something the dear sweet gullible Little Trumpkins hadn’t yet realized: Notwithstanding his perpetual boasting, he really hadn’t gotten much done.
But presidents who expanded the nation’s boundaries always went down in history — and had cities named after them. Like President Houston had by adding Texas. And President Fairbanks by buying Alaska.
“Don’t worry, Dad, you’re already going down in history,” Trumprincess Tiffany had cracked.
“Act like Lindsey Graham, not John McCain, or you’re out of my will,” the Great Trumpkin had warned.
Tiffany’s tongue might be sharper than a serpent’s tooth, but Eric had tried to offer some comfort. “I know it’s not Greenland, Dad, but Atlanta’s for sale.” He read from his iPhone: “Find yourself in the lovely Lost City, where each house has ocean views. Own it all at rock-bottom prices; every mortgage is under water.”
Trumprincess Ivanka snatched his phone.
“Atlantis, Eric, not Atlanta.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Atlantis is a mythical city that supposedly sank. That’s a real estate scam.”
A contraction that mimicked thought furrowed Eric’s brow.
“Well, maybe we could get in on the scam.”
It had been that kind of day. Wags phoning or e-mailing to say: “President Trump, we in Absurdistan need you to lead us.” Or, “Yursodum calling; please buy us.” Or: “Gilligan here: My island’s for sale.” Newt Gingrich had even texted to say the moon could be colonized for $2 billion, though the Great Trumpkin thought maybe he was serious.
Then, after Newtie, Puti.
“Hi Trumpski. A big thank you for trying to get me back in the G7. In return, I have some territory available, and on the lovely White Sea! You’d love it, Donald Frederickovich! It’s yours at bomb-sale prices.”
The Great Trumpkin had read the daily intelligence reports, or rather, had summaries of them presented to him. Something had exploded up there; the radiation meters had been chirping like crickets. But maybe, like General Potemkin, he could throw up some pretend towns and take credit for establishing a new state.
Yes, he’d be found out in the long run, and when he was, he knew what they’d call the phony settlements: Faux Trumpkin Villages.
But it might just get him through the election. And as someone or other had said, in the long run, we’re all dead.