Once upon a time, in an act of sheer generosity, the British extended a courtesy to their unruly American cousins: the right to speak English. It was a noble gesture, rooted in the hope that these former colonists might one day aspire to sophistication, wit, and at least a basic grasp of grammar.

At first, things seemed to be going well. The Americans took the language and used it with enthusiasm, though occasionally mispronouncing words and replacing the odd ‘s’ with a ‘z.’ The British were forgiving—after all, it was a young country, and allowances had to be made.

But then, something went terribly wrong.

The Americans began simplifying, cutting corners, and discarding perfectly good words in favor of incoherent slang. They mutilated the language beyond recognition, dropping vowels like loose change, inventing bizarre phrases that meant nothing, and filling every sentence with unnecessary exclamations.

At first, the British laughed it off. “Let them have their fun,” they said. But as time went on, the problem worsened. The Americans were no longer just butchering the language—they were completely abandoning it.

Words became mere suggestions. Sentences turned into indecipherable strings of buzzwords, grunts, and strange noises. The grammar police in Oxford and Cambridge watched in horror as dictionaries became obsolete, punctuation was cast aside, and the very foundations of language crumbled.

Then, as if matters couldn’t get any worse, the Americans elected a leader who took the problem to new heights. A man who didn’t just struggle with English—he actively sought to destroy it. His speeches became legendary, a form of performance art that defied logic, structure, or meaning. It was as if someone had stuffed a thesaurus into a blender and poured the results into a teleprompter.

The British could take no more.

In an unprecedented move, the UK government drafted a formal request to the American administration: Would President Trump be so kind as to assist Britain in creating a new, completely separate language—one that would allow the Americans to continue their descent into linguistic oblivion without further damaging English?

Surprisingly, the request was met with enthusiasm. Trump, mistaking it for a trade deal, announced a new initiative: “We’re making language great again! Tremendous language. The best words. Some people are saying it’s the best language. Very powerful, very beautiful. Nobody knows words better than me!”

And so, the Americans finally got their wish. A new language was born—one composed entirely of half-finished sentences, wild hand gestures, and the occasional use of covfefe. The British sighed with relief. English, battered but unbroken, could finally move on.

As for the Americans, they embraced their new linguistic frontier with gusto. They had never really wanted English anyway. It had too many rules, too much structure.

Now, they could speak freely—loudly, incoherently, and with absolute confidence that no one, not even themselves, had the faintest idea what they were saying.