It was a serene day in Westminster, where the hum of tradition masked the possibility of disruption—until Donald J. Trump entered. Mane golden and confidence unmatched, he strode into the chamber waving a diminutive Union Jack. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, his voice resonating like a carnival barker’s, “we’re going to Make the Commonwealth Great Again—believe me, it’s going to be tremendous!”

Yes, you read that right. Whispers in political circles suggest that the United States could apply to rejoin the British Commonwealth, a notion as preposterous as it is curiously on-brand for Trump. And who better to helm this mission than a man whose grasp of British history likely begins and ends with Meghan Markle’s Netflix docuseries?

The logic, Trump’s loyalists argue, is indisputable. Why wouldn’t Americans want a touch of royal pageantry? Picture Fourth of July parades with a Buckingham Palace float. Fireworks in red, white, and blue—with a tasteful hint of regal gold. Even the infamous Tea Party protests could be recast as a cultural misunderstanding: “We weren’t rebelling,” Trump might explain. “We were just saving the tea—great tea, beautiful tea. The best tea.”

In Trump’s mind, this isn’t surrender; it’s a coup of historical proportions. “Some people are calling it a capitulation,” he’d scoff. “Fake news! This is the ultimate deal. We’re not coming back as a colony; we’re coming back as the colony. No one’s ever done that before.”

But what’s in it for the British Commonwealth? Surely, the UK isn’t clamoring to reunite with its most rebellious former territory. And yet, the possibilities intrigue me. A trade deal exchanging Marmite for freedom fries. A cultural handshake swapping cricket for baseball—though the intricacies of scoring could provoke another war. Above all, it was an opportunity for King Charles to reclaim symbolic authority over “the colonies,” if only for optics.

Brexit hardliners might grumble, but Westminster could reframe it as a triumph. “We left Europe to retake America,” they’d proclaim while quietly tallying the economic costs of importing Bud Light.

Naturally, Trump would insist on rebranding. “We’re not calling it the Commonwealth anymore—it’s the Trumpwealth. Platinum-tier Commonwealth, folks. The Brits had a great run, but it’s time for an upgrade.”

Royal protocol might pose challenges. Would Trump bow to King Charles? “I don’t bow,” he’d declare. “The King bows to me. Great guy. He said, ‘Donald, you’re the best Duke we never had.’ Tremendous compliment.”

Of course, this reimagining of history would require a creative spin. Imagine briefing the ghosts of Washington, Jefferson, and Adams that their revolution was merely a “soft launch.” “They’re probably pouring spectral tea into an otherworldly Boston Harbor,” quipped one historian, “while Jefferson drafts the Declaration of Re-Independence on ethereal parchment.”

But Trump wouldn’t worry. “George III and I,” he’d muse, “amazing guy—we would’ve been great friends. If he’d had my Art of the Deal, the whole revolution thing? Never would’ve happened.”

And then there’s cricket—a sport as mystifying to Americans as British humor. Trump would simplify it. “Too many wickets, too many runs—SAD! We’re adding cheerleaders and a halftime show. Bigger than the Super Bowl.”

The Commonwealth Games might also undergo a Trump makeover. “They’re losers right now,” he’d proclaim. “We’ll make them winners. I’ll call my friends at the IOC—huge friends—and merge them with the Olympics. One big event. The best event.”

Golf, naturally, would reign supreme. “Golf is the best,” Trump might say, “nobody golfs better than me. Tremendous swings, incredible putts.” His dream? A “Covfefe Cup” pitting Britain against America, with King Charles awkwardly lifting the trophy after a sudden-death loss to Trump. Any discrepancies in scoring? “Fake scorecards,” Trump would insist. “The wind was rigged. Unbelievable conditions.”

If the union happens, American holidays will never be the same. Independence Day becomes “Reunion Day.” Thanksgiving morphs into a royal-themed potluck. Imagine Trump lighting Christmas pudding in the Tower of London, claiming he’s the first to do so.

Will it happen? Probably not. But in a world where Brexit was a thing, Trump’s presidency was a thing, and Harry and Meghan’s Netflix deal was definitely a thing—well, anything’s possible.

And if it doesn’t? No problem. Trump can always pitch a reality show: The Commonwealth Apprentice. Now, that might be worth watching.