You know what does make sense? Trump Oceans. Plural. It simplifies geography while amplifying your name.
And we cannot stop there.
You mustn’t be shy about putting your name to the new White House ballroom. And though we understand that adding your face to Mount Rushmore (for which there’s already a bill in Congress) may, alas, be a geological impossibility, why not, while it’s being repaired and redone, add the name TRUMP in huge gold-tiled letters to the floor of the Reflecting Pool in the National Mall? Ideally, these should be lit up at night in a way that can be visible from 30,000 feet, if not from space.
Speaking of space, aren’t we going back to the moon under your presidency? That’s got to mean naming rights in addition to bragging rights. At a minimum, our first lunar base must be named for you. (The second one can be named for Elon, or maybe Jeff, whoever is first, provided you’re still on good terms with either of them.) But why do we even call our planet’s moon “the Moon,” as if a generic noun should be a proper noun, too? That needs to change.
Get ready for it: Trump Moon.
Mr. President, there are so many ways to honor your priceless achievements and legacy, but we’ve already taken too much of your time. And time being the most valuable thing of all, it reminds us, finally, of a poem:
I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
Yours sincerely,
Percy, Bysshe and Shelley
