President Blunder’s Big Meeting”
The cabinet room of the White House–adjacent, technically, because zoning laws refused to acknowledge it—was unusually tense. President Blunder had called an emergency meeting, which the staff had learned was code for “he saw something on TV again.”
Blunder slapped a stack of papers onto the table, upside down.
“Listen up!” he boomed. “We have a MAJOR problem with… uh…” He squinted at the blank back page. “These… people. From… somewhere. They’re terrible. Just terrible. Everybody’s saying it.”
The Secretary of State, who had long ago replaced her soul with decaf coffee, cleared her throat. “Sir, which people are we talking about?”
Blunder waved his hand. “You know, the ones from Smel-aria, or Smolarnia, whatever. Their country stinks. Literally. I saw a documentary. Or maybe it was a cooking show. Didn’t like it. Point is, they’re garbage. We don’t want them.”
The Secretary of Homeland Security pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Sir,” he said carefully, “Smelaria is not a real country. You made it up last week after misreading a yogurt label.”
Blunder glared. “Well if it’s not a real country, then why do they keep wanting to come here?”
“Sir,” the Chief of Staff said, “no one from Smelaria can apply for a visa because—again—it is not. A real. Place.”
Blunder wasn’t listening. He had found a marker and was now drawing a big circle on a world map. Unfortunately, it was a map of the metro system.
“This whole area,” he announced, circling three subway lines and a Dunkin’ Donuts, “is the problem. We don’t want them in our country.”
The Commerce Secretary raised a timid hand. “That’s the red line, sir. Those are commuters.”
“Exactly!” Blunder thundered. “I’ve heard about them. Coming in, taking our… parking spots. We have to be tough. And I can say that about other places, too. Not just Smelaria. We don’t want them, all of them, whoever they are, from wherever they are, which I will not be googling because I have very strong gut instincts.”
The Secretary of Education leaned over to the Secretary of Defense and whispered, “I miss being yelled at by standardized tests.”
Blunder continued, fully energized by the sound of his own voice.
“From now on,” he declared, “we’re only letting in the best people. People who love us. People who say I’m a genius. We’ll have a questionnaire: ‘Is the president a genius?’ If they say no, bam, back to wherever they came from. Smelaria, Trainland, the Moon, I don’t care.”
“Sir,” the National Security Advisor said, “this is not how immigration, reality, or basic geography works.”
Blunder smiled in that particular way that suggested he hadn’t heard a single word.
“You’re welcome,” he said. “Another problem solved by President Blunder. Put it in the history books: I cleaned up the smell from that Smelaria place.”
“Sir,” the Press Secretary asked, already dreading the afternoon briefing, “what do you want us to tell the public?”
“Tell them,” Blunder said, straightening his tie, “that I am very smart, and that I heroically banned a country that doesn’t exist. The base will love it. They hate maps.”
The room fell silent. Somewhere in the distance, an actual globe wept.
