In a breathtaking display of fiscal restraint, Donald Trump has announced that his proposed White House ballroom will now be twice as large and twice as expensive as originally planned. The news came, as all momentous declarations do, via a late-night tweetstorm that read less like a policy announcement and more like a fever dream dictated by a golden toilet. “The Ballroom will be HUGE, the biggest ever. Everyone says it. Bigger than Mar-a-Lago, bigger than your wildest dreams. And it will cost a fraction of what they say. Fake News!” he wrote, before presumably retiring to a bed made of hundred-dollar bills and self-adulation.
This ballroom, which once promised to be merely an orgy of ostentation, now threatens to become a full-blown pandemic of opulence. According to leaked projections, the cost has ballooned from a modest $40 million to a staggering $80 million, with the square footage increasing from 5,000 to 10,000. This is, of course, in addition to the $175 million already being spent on the White House itself. One can only imagine the cost overrun metaphors: each chandelier will hang like a teardrop of taxpayer despair, every marble tile a monument to the triumph of bling over bland.
The rationale, as explained by a White House spokesperson who clearly had been gargling with bleach before the press conference, is that “the President believes in doing things bigger and better than anyone else. This ballroom will be a symbol of American greatness, not penny-pinching mediocrity.” It is worth noting that the same spokesperson then excused themselves to go count the number of forks in the cutlery drawer, muttering something about “national security.”
Critics have been swift to point out that the current White House already has several perfectly functional rooms for entertaining dignitaries and oil barons. But Trump’s vision has never been shackled by practicality or sanity. He wants a ballroom that can host 2,000 guests, each of whom will be required to bring a gift of at least $10,000 in cash, or the Secret Service will escort them to a gulag. The ballroom will feature a 50-foot crystal chandelier shaped like a Q, a gold-plated dance floor that rotates at the speed of a slow waltz, and a bar stocked exclusively with Trump Vodka and Diet Coke.
One imagines the planning meetings: “We need more elevators. And more escalators. And a moat filled with Diet Coke.” The architects, no doubt drinking heavily, have produced a design that resembles a wedding cake designed by a mad pornographer. It is a testament to the president’s deep understanding of luxury: if something is worth doing, it is worth doing in a way that makes everyone else feel poor.
Meanwhile, the White House budget, already groaning under the weight of endless golf weekends and hair product, has begun to emit a low-level hum of distress. The Government Accountability Office has issued a statement dripping with bureaucratic horror: “The proposed expansion raises significant concerns about cost overruns, waste, and the possibility that the entire west wing will collapse under the weight of an enormous disco ball.” But Trump has waved aside these concerns with a flourish of his tiny hands. “A ballroom is not a luxury. It is a negotiating tool. When I host Kim Jong Un in a room that is bigger than his entire country, he will know who is boss.”
Democratic leaders have, predictably, launched a series of investigations, which are about as effective as a wet napkin in a hurricane. “This is an outrageous misuse of taxpayer money,” cried Senator Schumer, before being quietly escorted from the room by a man in a dark suit who whispered, “Have you considered the benefits of a cruise ship retirement package?”
The most tragic part of this farce is that no one is surprised. We have become a nation so inured to absurdity that we simply shrug and reach for another glass of gin. The ballroom will be built, the costs will double, and Trump will stand in its center, bathed in the light of a thousand fake suns, and declare himself the greatest builder in history. And the rest of us will be left sweeping up the confetti of a shattered republic.
But I have a solution. Instead of funding this monstrosity, why not replace the ballroom with a giant mirror? That way, Trump can spend his final years staring at his own reflection, which is clearly the only audience he has ever wanted. And the budget would be zero. Now that is a deal.
