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.

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