Travels into the Dominions of Trumputia
Chapter I: A Sojourn to the Isle of Mar-a-Lagoput
Upon my arrival to the Isle of Mar-a-Lagoput, I was greeted by a court of courtiers clad in garments of gold thread and applied tan. The island’s ruler, Emperor Trumpilius the Magnificent, resided in a palace of mirrors, where every wall reflected his own likeness and no citizen dared speak without first praising his countenance.
The inhabitants, known as the Maralagoputians, practiced a peculiar ritual called “Fundraisius,” wherein nobles exchanged coin for proximity to the Emperor’s elbow. The currency of the realm was not gold, but applause, and the loudest clapper was made Minister of Optics.
The Emperor held court not in a hall of governance, but beside a pool of chlorinated wisdom, where policies were floated like inflatable swans and deflated by sunset.
Chapter II: The Republic of Militopolis
In my second voyage, I was transported to the Republic of Militopolis, a land where the Emperor had summoned his legions not to defend against foreign invaders, but to pacify his own subjects. The cities were adorned with banners proclaiming “Law and Orderium,” and armored chariots rolled through neighborhoods like thunderclouds on parade.
The citizens, known as Protestants (not of religion, but of resistance), were deemed “Unruly Yahoos” by the Emperor’s scribes. I observed a curious phenomenon: the louder the people cried for justice, the more the Emperor insisted they were enemies of peace.
The generals, dressed in ceremonial camouflage, were instructed to smile for the pictograph machines while standing beside the Emperor, who held aloft a sacred tome he had never read. This act was called “Photo Sanctificatus,” and was believed to cleanse all sins of governance.
Chapter III: The Floating Fortress of Tweetlaputa
From Militopolis, I ascended to Tweetlaputa, a floating dominion suspended by invisible wires of wireless signal. Here, the Emperor ruled by decree of 280 characters, each proclamation more cryptic than the last. The scholars of Tweetlaputa spent their days deciphering these utterances, which often contradicted the previous day’s gospel.
The Emperor’s advisors were known as “Retweeters,” and their loyalty was measured by how swiftly they echoed his words. Dissenters were cast into the “Shadowban Abyss,” a place from which no voice returned.
The Emperor’s thoughts were broadcast hourly, and the citizens, though weary, refreshed their scrolls in search of meaning. I found myself dizzy from the altitude and the velocity of contradiction.
Chapter IV: A Visit to the Land of Houyhnhnmedia
Having departed the floating isle of Tweetlaputa, I was conveyed by a chariot of signal waves to the Land of Houyhnhnmedia, a realm once governed by rational discourse and the pursuit of truth. But alas, the noble Houyhnhnms had been replaced by a new breed: the Neighcasters.
These creatures resembled horses in form but spoke only in soundbites, their manes coiffed by stylists of partisan flair. They galloped across screens, neighing in rhythm to the Emperor’s proclamations, each segment punctuated by hoof-stomps of outrage and commercial jingles for gold bars and immunity supplements.
The Neighcasters did not investigate; they speculated. Their scrolls were not fact-checked but echo-chambered. I inquired of one, “What news from the realm of facts?” He replied, “We do not traffic in facts, sir. We traffic in fervor.”
The Emperor appeared nightly via crystal orb, his visage framed by flags and flattery. The Neighcasters bowed with synchronized snorts, declaring him both savior and victim, hero and martyr. Dissenting voices were banished to the Outer Pasture, where they grazed on nuance and were never heard again.
I wept for the old Houyhnhnms, whose reason had been replaced by ratings.
Chapter V: A Descent into the Caverns of Indictia
From Houyhnhnmedia, I was lowered by subpoena-rope into the Caverns of Indictia, a subterranean realm where scrolls of law were stacked like stalagmites and the air reeked of procedural incense.
Here dwelled the Scribulators, robed in parchment and fluent in the dialect of delay. They chanted in Latin and cable news, their rituals designed not to resolve but to prolong. Justice, I was told, resided in a chamber sealed by precedent and guarded by the twin beasts of Partisanus and Loopholia.
The Emperor’s name echoed through the caverns—etched on scrolls, carved into tablets, whispered in corridors. Yet no judgment was ever rendered. The Scribulators debated endlessly: Was the Emperor above the law, beside the law, or merely adjacent to it?
I witnessed a trial that lasted seven moons, wherein the defendant was praised for his defiance and fined for his punctuation. The gavel was made of rubber, and the scales of justice were calibrated to favor the loudest litigant.
In the deepest chamber, I found a shrine to “Executive Privilegium,” where offerings of classified documents were made in exchange for immunity. I asked a Scribulator, “When shall justice awaken?” He replied, “When ratings fall and donors sleep.”
Chapter VI: The Ministry of Optics
My final descent brought me to the Ministry of Optics, where truth was filtered through lens flare and poll-tested lighting. Here, reality was curated by the Priests of Perception, who adjusted contrast until contradiction became clarity.
The Emperor stood upon a rotating dais, flanked by flags and fog machines. His words were rehearsed, his gestures choreographed. Behind him, a screen displayed scenes of triumph—edited to exclude protest, nuance, or consequence.
I asked a Minister, “Is this truth?” He replied, “It is truth-adjacent. We call it Optica Veritas—truth as it ought to be seen.”
And so I departed Trumputia, not enlightened, but illuminated.
Epilogue
Swift taught us that satire is a mirror, not a hammer. In Trumputia, the mirror is gilded, the reflection distorted, and the selected audience applauding. But somewhere beyond the Ministry of Optics, beyond the caverns and floating islands, lies a pasture where reason still grazes.
Let us find it.
FTS
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