Donald Trump Again!

In a world not unlike our own, where the sky was a peculiar shade of
orange and the air smelled faintly of burnt popcorn, there existed a
man named Donald Trump. He was a figure whose hair defied gravity and
logic, a golden monument to the art of the deal, and a walking
billboard for the American dream—if that dream included a lot of
shouting and a deep-seated obsession with ratings.

One day, Donald woke up to find that he had been elected President of
the United States. This was a curious twist of fate, considering he
had only intended to sell a few more ties and perhaps build a golf
course on the moon. But there he was, sitting in a big chair in a big
room with very important people bustling about, all of whom seemed to
be either terrified or utterly bewildered by his presence.

“Make America Great Again,” he would proclaim, though no one could
quite pinpoint when America had stopped being great. Perhaps it had
been during the time when people wore bell-bottoms and listened to
music that sounded like a cat in a blender. Regardless, Donald was
determined to find out, armed with an arsenal of tweets and a
collection of well-groomed golf clubs.

As the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, the nation
watched in a mix of horror and amusement. Donald, with his penchant
for hyperbole, declared wars on everything from “fake news” to the
very concept of gravity itself. “Gravity is a hoax!” he would shout,
floating momentarily before being brought back down to reality by the
pesky force that kept him tethered to the ground.

One fateful evening, during a particularly raucous rally, he
proclaimed that he would build a wall—a magnificent wall—around the
entire country. “It will be the biggest wall the world has ever seen!”
he exclaimed, as if he were describing a new amusement park ride
rather than a geopolitical strategy. The crowd cheered, not entirely
sure why they were cheering, but caught up in the electric atmosphere
of absurdity that had become the norm.

Yet, amid the chaos, there was a strange sort of poetry in his
presidency. The absurdity of it all mirrored the grand narratives of
yesteryear. The media, a swirling vortex of soundbites and outrage,
became the modern-day chorus, echoing the highs and lows of a
civilization on the brink of unraveling.

So it goes.

Socialism 2025 Edition

Socialism in 2024? Well, that’s a funny thing to talk about, because if there’s anything we’ve learned from the last hundred or so years, it’s that socialism is a bit like trying to build a house out of wet spaghetti. It’s sticky, it’s messy, and for all the good intentions, it has a tendency to fall apart in the rain.

In the year 2024, socialism still has the same confused and contradictory reputation it’s had since the first time someone tried to redistribute wealth in the name of justice. But, here we are, in the post-modern age of late-stage capitalism and social media, and socialism has found its way back into the conversation, like a long-lost relative who you’d rather not deal with but can’t ignore because they keep showing up at Thanksgiving dinner.

The rich are still getting richer, of course. They always do. But now they have drones and AI to make their money work for them. They don’t even have to sweat it out in the boardrooms anymore—just let the algorithms do the dirty work while they sip artisanal coffee made by robots. Meanwhile, regular folks are walking around with too many student loans, too little healthcare, and too much TikTok. And they’re getting angry. So, naturally, they turn to socialism as the answer.

But here’s the rub: the socialism they’re talking about in 2024 doesn’t quite look like what old Karl Marx had in mind. This isn’t the gritty, fire-and-brimstone revolution of the proletariat overthrowing the bourgeoisie. No, this is more like “democratic socialism,” which is basically like calling yourself a vegetarian while eating bacon on the side. People want universal healthcare and free college, but they’re also still buying the latest iPhones and driving gas-guzzling SUVs. They want fairness, but they want it on their own terms. They want free stuff—but they want it without the scary talk of the working class rising up and breaking stuff.

Oh, and then there are the politicians. They’re all jumping on the socialist bandwagon like it's the newest trendy accessory. They talk about Medicare for All like it’s going to fix the world, but they can’t even agree on whether or not to fix the potholes on the road leading to their own campaign offices. Meanwhile, the rich, still laughing, are going to the moon for weekend getaways, just to remind everyone that the game is rigged.

You see, socialism in 2024 is kind of like a patchwork quilt made of contradictions. It’s part idealistic dream, part pragmatic compromise, part desperate plea for a system that’s actually fair for once. It’s like everyone’s trying to get into the same utopian nightclub, but the bouncers are letting in all the wrong people, and the drinks are watered down. It’s almost as if everyone has forgotten that the point of socialism wasn’t just to make things a little more comfortable for the poor, but to dismantle the systems that make inequality the default setting.

In the end, socialism in 2024 will either explode in a glittering display of idealistic fireworks or it’ll fizzle out like a damp firecracker. But that doesn’t stop people from talking about it. In fact, it might just be the greatest sport in town: everyone’s got an opinion, everyone’s got a cause, and everyone’s yelling at each other while the planet burns.

So It Goes

The Grand Acquisition of Greenland

It was the year 2025, a year when the entire world was drowning in its own disregard for anything resembling sense. The oceans had risen, the trees had fallen, and the polar bears were marching south, looking for food, dignity, and whatever scraps of sanity could be scavenged. But on one tiny corner of the map, something strange was happening.

Donald J. Trump, the once and future ex-President of the United States, had decided—on a whim, naturally—that Greenland was his. Or, more accurately, he had decided that it would be. This was not a conquest of the mind or the spirit. No, it was a conquest of the real estate. The man had an eye for property, after all, even when the world was falling apart. And Greenland, with its ice and snow and occasional winds, was about to become the latest trophy in his collection of poorly planned ventures.

How did he come to this decision? The usual, I suppose: it came after a particularly hard day of yelling at people on social media and watching reruns of his own speeches. His children had gotten older, and there was nothing left for him to do except think about the legacy he would leave behind. In a particularly tired moment, he muttered aloud, "Why not? Why not Greenland? It’s big, it’s cold, and it’s huge in the most tremendous way. And they’re not using it."

What followed was something not entirely unprecedented, but certainly absurd in its audacity. His first move was to call up a handful of his most loyal, least competent advisors—people who could talk a good game and make a mockery of diplomacy without ever having to leave their desks. "You know, I’m thinking Greenland," he told them, his voice oozing with that trademark blend of certainty and delusion.

And so, they made it happen.

At first, it was all very civilized. A tweet here, a vague statement there. Greenland, for its part, had no real interest in entertaining such an outlandish proposal. They had their own issues—political corruption, climate change, a health care system that was mostly based on drinking mineral water and rubbing crystals on your forehead. But they couldn’t just ignore the bluster of a world leader who had made a habit of buying things for fun, even if he didn’t know what to do with them once he got them.

So, the negotiations began. In a Zoom meeting so glitchy that it almost seemed like a parody of itself, Trump laid out his vision for Greenland. "I’ll make it the best country. Believe me. Greenland’s got potential. Big potential. The best resources, the best infrastructure, and the best deals. We’re going to make Greenland great again, folks."

The leaders of Greenland, who were mostly concerned with icebergs and the future of their fishing industry, nodded politely. They had learned long ago that when dealing with men like Trump, one had to nod politely, keep one's hands folded, and wait for the storm to pass. But this wasn’t a storm—it was a hurricane made of egos, deals, and corporate sponsorships.

The first sign that this wasn’t just a passing fancy came when Trump sent a private jet to Nuuk, the capital of Greenland. He arrived in a custom-tailored parka with a fur collar that looked like it had been pulled from the finest Siberian mink, and stood in front of a crowd of 17 bewildered citizens. "You’re going to love it here," he said, his hands making grand gestures toward the wind-swept expanse. "I have so many great ideas for Greenland. You won’t even believe it."

In the months that followed, Trump began to implement his plans with the efficiency of a half-witted businessman trying to open a casino on the moon. He proposed that the melting glaciers be turned into luxury water parks, with exclusive membership available only to those who could afford the $10,000 annual fee. He offered tax incentives to any corporations willing to mine the remaining ice for precious materials that didn’t even exist yet. He promised to turn the northern lights into a nightly spectacle, with VIP seating available for anyone who paid a small fortune.

Most of the world watched with a mixture of disbelief and exhaustion. It wasn’t so much the absurdity of the idea that bothered anyone—it was the fact that, somehow, it seemed entirely plausible. As ridiculous as it was, there was a logic to it. Greenland was huge. It was empty. And it had resources—albeit resources that were rapidly disappearing into the atmosphere, but resources nonetheless.

And so, the world began to shift around Trump’s little acquisition. He installed a few of his loyalists in key positions: an ex-CEO of a chain of bankrupt theme parks was made the Minister of Ice; a reality television producer was appointed the Secretary of Northern Lights Affairs. They began to cut deals with multinational conglomerates, promising to turn the barren land into a sprawling complex of gated communities, luxury resorts, and a golf course that would span from one end of the island to the other.

But it wasn’t just about the real estate. Trump had grander plans, of course. He intended to change the very fabric of Greenland’s existence. "We’re going to make them great again," he said to no one in particular, staring out across the white horizon. "We’re going to turn this place into a paradise. It’ll be yuge. You won’t even believe it."

And so, under his stewardship, the formerly untouched wilderness was transformed into something else entirely. What that something was, exactly, nobody could ever say. But it was big. It was cold. And in a way, it was Trump’s.

And, somewhere deep beneath the ice, the polar bears began to wonder if they were next.

So It Goes