Written by Jill Gallagher
Photo: © Depositphotos.com/bst2012
New Trump City is a city of millionaires. Quite literally: one needs to demonstrate an annual income or net worth of at least one million dollars to qualify for residency.
Of course, there are other criteria as well: ancestry, American citizenship (or at least Western European), network (both personal and professional references are necessary to apply for residency), criminal record (though certain “white-collar” crimes are mostly dismissed), medical history, and of course, appearance, are all considered with the application.
Initially, it was just another “vanity project” for Donald Trump, after he lost the Republican party nomination to that zombie doctor Ben Carson back in ‘16. He told the media (and anyone else who’d listen) that if America didn’t want him, he’d find somewhere he was welcome. So he bought an archipelago in the Caribbean and declared it a sovereign nation, defending it with as much weapons-grade plutonium and uranium as it took (or so he said—these “weapons of mass destruction” have never been verified) for folks to leave it, and him, alone.
The developments started immediately, of course–this was Donald Trump, after all. Opulent beach clubs, golf courses, and hotels first; then came the skyscrapers and shopping centers. And the tourists. Except–the tourists didn’t leave. Most of them just stayed—relinquished life in the good ol’ US of A to pioneer this new world of opportunity. During the first year, they established a government (with Trump at the helm, obviously) and then steadily implemented the immigration laws so famous today. Trumplandia, as the archipelago as a whole is known, is not wildly popular among the United Nations set, but, like so many reality television stars of yore, Trumplandians “aren’t here to make friends.”
In New Trump City, the cathedrals are dedicated not to some ethereal ancient entity, but to captains of commerce—Carnegie, Rand, Buffet, Oprah. At Trump University, Mark Zuckerberg teaches a course on tech innovation (though, honestly, most of us believe he lost his grasp on innovation long before Facebook was absorbed by AppleCokeGoogle Corp.), and Martin Shkreli offers a course on wealth opportunities in pharmaceuticals. (He also teaches a wildly popular Ethics seminar).
Instead of airports, each building is equipped with a helipad and helicopter. All residents of New Trump City live in penthouse apartments boasting floor-to-ceiling windows, full climate control, and gold-plated appliances.
The most popular sport in New Trump City is power yoga. Unlike the kind of “power yoga” you might be familiar with, the kind with new agey bullshit like chakras and zen chanting, Trump-style power yoga combines balance with money—literally. Instead of mats, participants perform the movements on mounds of hundred-dollar bills. In one pose, they sit back on their haunches and dig their arms into the mounds, repeatedly scooping bills into their outstretched palms (“the power grab” pose); in another, they stand on one leg, with their arms stretched overhead in a facsimile of tree pose—but their version is called “balancing the budget.” Instead of downward facing dog, there’s “the Dow is down;” “throne pose” replaces “chair pose.” Trust me—it’s quite a workout.
You may be asking, perhaps rightly so—who’s cleaning the toilets? Who’s serving the food, mopping the floors? Sadly, the US’s commitment to clean energy acts and fuel emission standards have prevented them from benefitting from the same technological advancements Trumplandia enjoys. Perhaps you remember a time when Rosie, the robot maid from the antique cartoon The Jetsons, seemed utterly fantastic. Well, I’m here to tell you—the real Rosie can do more than clean. And she’s damn good at power yoga.
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Jill Gallagher is an editor and writer in Boston. She blogs at www.looksandbooks.com and enjoys 90s pop culture, puppies, and cheese.