Dwain Northey (Gen X)

In a nation teetering on the edge of a government shutdown — where paychecks are paused, national parks are closed, and congressional negotiations are as frozen as Trump’s old steak brand — one man stands bravely against the chaos, shovel in hand, ready to build something truly tremendous. Not infrastructure, not relief programs, not schools — no, no, no. President Donald J. Trump (self-appointed “architect of greatness”) has broken ground on his newest, most luxurious, most unnecessary project yet: a grand ballroom.

The destruction of the White House’s dignity began modestly, as all great tragedies do — with Melania’s “beautification” project. The beloved Rose Garden, once a living tribute to American history, was replaced with a tasteful assortment of beige tiles and emotional emptiness. Now, in this post-botanical apocalypse, construction crews are reportedly moving in to make way for the pièce de résistance: Trump’s Ballroom of Greatness.

“It’s going to be beautiful,” he’s imagined to have said, probably to himself in a mirror. “People are saying it’s the most beautiful ballroom ever built, maybe even bigger than Versailles, which by the way, wasn’t that great, okay? I’ve been to Versailles, and frankly, I’ve seen better marble at Mar-a-Lago.”

Naturally, the project has already outgrown its humble beginnings. “Ballroom” sounds too common, too… democratic. So, Trump is workshopping names. “The Octagon,” he reportedly mused, “because eight is bigger than five. People don’t know that. Nobody knew that before me. I figured it out. Genius stuff. The best shapes, really.”

But then inspiration struck like a golden lightning bolt of pure ego: “The Trumpagon. That’s it! Much classier. Much better than the Octagon. Everyone’s doing octagons, you know, but nobody’s doing Trumpagons. It’s totally original — like me.”

The nation, meanwhile, can’t afford to pay its federal employees. But why should that stop progress? Trump has always believed that while America can’t always have functioning governance, it can have a chandelier the size of a minivan. “We need elegance,” he might say. “When people visit the White House — excuse me, Trump Palace — they shouldn’t be looking at boring old history. They should be looking at gold. Real gold. Maybe gold-plated walls. Gold drapes. Gold spoons. It’s classy. It’s presidential. It’s Trump.”

And so, the White House, that iconic seat of democracy, is to be reborn — not as a symbol of the people, but as a monument to one man’s delusion of royalty. The People’s House no longer; soon it will gleam like a casino off the Vegas strip, complete with embossed T’s on every surface and a marble bust of Donald himself, probably winking.

One can only imagine Thomas Jefferson’s ghost wandering the halls, muttering, “We overthrew a king for this?”

Yet Trump persists, blissfully unfazed. “The name ‘White House,’” he might declare, “is so pedestrian. So basic. We’re gonna rename it ‘Trump Palace.’ It’s got a better ring. I think George Washington would love it — he was a great builder, by the way, lots of people don’t know that.”

So as the country stalls, as workers worry, and as the machinery of democracy grinds to a halt, rest assured that somewhere in D.C., amid scaffolding and gold leaf, one man’s vanity project continues undisturbed. Because if America can’t afford to pay for democracy, at least it can pay for Trump’s dance floor.

After all, in his mind, every crisis deserves a gala.