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
No comments:
Post a Comment