Greetings From Whiteland!

 

During one of my frequent satellite phone calls with President Trump, my old friend made a shockingly brilliant observation. 

     "Cyril, did you ever notice that Greenland is white and Iceland is green? That's why I'm signing an Executive Order renaming Greenland Whiteland. My base will love it. The polar bears will love it. If Denmark doesn't like it, fuck 'em. That's false advertising!"

     My mouth gaped open and shut several times and thought of Trump University but chose not to say anything. Otherwise, the president's plan to rename the world's largest island sounded somewhat sane if you looked at it from a tortured but friendly perspective. After all, he renamed the Kennedy Center after himself and the Gulf of America has taken the world by storm. 

     Of course, my job here as S.C.A.M., or Secretary of Coercive Acquisition of Minerals, is my remit and I'm happy to help the president suck every last molecule of rare earth minerals from this beautiful land and to hell with what the liberal pinheads of the EU say!

      

     Of course, a nice surprise was when my baby girl, Bertha, showed up on a cargo plane here at Nuuk. Needless to say, the men on the airstrip were somewhat taken aback when Bertha began taking the cargo off the plane without the aid of a forklift. Bertha said she decided to join me and her uncle Cecil here because she heard a rumor on a women's weightlifting dating site that AMC, acting on the president's rather obsessive initiatives, may greenlight a delayed second season of Lady Ice Road Truckers of Alaska, only set in Greenland.

     Of course, there aren't any Peterbilt or Mack trucks here hauling freight, much less by lady ice road truckers, but my baby girl has always been an optimistic sort. So Bertha has been poking around Nuuk, looking for other female enthusiasts of the show, even though she's been frustrated in distinguishing the men from the women since everyone here looks like the Michelin Man.

 

    Meanwhile, Cecil has been busy learning Danish and teaching himself choice phrases learned by every tourist, such as, "Do you have a boyfriend, son?" and "Don't tell your parents."

     The main stumbling block to doing my job is the Danish government's inability to find a counterpart for me to work with. The closest thing they could find was a Three Card Monte dealer from Arhus they had to spring from prison. His name is Lars and I've already lost $500 to him.

     Still, even though the challenge of extracting the minerals from this unforgiving climate is daunting, our father Ambrose would be so proud of me. I remember after his glorious quarter term in Congress, Dad had bought a controlling interest in a uranium mine in Alaska in 1961. Back then, our nuclear arsenal was powered by uranium and America was desperate to find fresh sources of it.

    Things were going swimmingly until the Eskimo miners started glowing green in the dark. There were the usual liberal lawsuits and Dad's consortium had to settle out of court so that was the end of his foray into uranium mining. 

     So, while the work is challenging, at least my whole family is here and we're already personalizing the Ambassador's residence/weather shack. Bertha's already been putting up posters of Melissa Etheridge and kd lang and Cecil has been putting up posters of Hanson (before most of them were of the age of consent).

     And, to show his support for my remit, President Trump has already sent me a golden shovel to use for the inevitable ground-breaking ceremony. The problem is, at this time of year, the ground here in Greenland is like an iron plate so I may have to get Bertha involved. Or maybe the military troops that are streaming here in increasing numbers from all over Europe can pitch in.